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The rain had not stopped for three days.
It clung to the air like a curse, slicking down the crooked branches of the cemetery's willow trees, seeping into the soil until every step sank with a wet gasp. Beneath one such willow, Elara Morgan stood in silence, her black dress plastered to her skin, her shoes ruined with mud. She barely noticed the chill biting at her ankles.
Her father's coffin rested at the edge of the open grave, the polished wood gleaming dark under the downpour. Drops ran along its surface like tiny rivers, carving trails down the varnished lid. The priest's voice droned on, deep and sonorous, but Elara only caught fragments: beloved father… respected scholar… tragic accident.
That word—accident—stabbed sharper than the cold.
Everyone said the same thing, repeating it as if saying it often enough might make it true. But Elara couldn't believe it. Her father had been many things—reckless in his pursuits, yes, driven to obsession with his research—but careless? Never. The image of him, broken and lifeless in the ruins of his study after the fire, would not leave her.
Beside her, Cassian shifted restlessly. His tall frame strained against the suit he had borrowed, his fists buried in his pockets. The wind plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and though his expression was carved in stone, Elara knew that look well. He didn't buy the accident either.
When the priest snapped his book shut, the crowd broke apart like mist on the wind. Umbrellas tilted. Murmured condolences slipped by, heavy with pity but empty of sincerity. Former colleagues from the university averted their eyes, as if ashamed to be linked to a man whose theories had always strayed too far into legend.
"Come on," Cass muttered. His voice was a rasp, raw from holding back too much. "Let's get out of here before someone else tells us how sorry they are."
Elara nodded, though her gaze lingered on the coffin as it began its slow descent. The straps groaned; the sound lodged in her ribs. With a sharp breath, she turned and followed Cass down the narrow gravel path.
That was when the man appeared.
He stepped out from between two crooked gravestones as though he had been waiting. Tall, thin, cloaked in a long dark trench coat that moved like wings in the rain. His face was gaunt, sharpened by shadows, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the faintest glint of light. For a breath, he simply stood there, unmoving, and Elara felt the back of her neck prickle.
"You are Elara and Cassian Morgan?" His voice was low, deliberate, as if each word had been measured before leaving his mouth.
Cass bristled, angling himself slightly in front of Elara. "Who's asking?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat. Elara's chest tightened; her mind leapt to the worst—metal flashing, a weapon in the rain. Her breath caught.
But the object he drew out was not a gun. It was a box.
Narrow, wooden, bound with tarnished brass hinges. The rain seemed to slide off its surface, almost unnaturally. He held it with both hands, reverently, like something sacred.
"This was entrusted to me by your father," he said. "For you. He left instructions: it is to be delivered only in the event of his death."
Elara's breath trembled. She reached out, hesitant, and when her fingers brushed the wood, it felt colder than the air, heavier than it should be. The weight of it pressed against her palms like a secret begging to be revealed.
"What's inside?" she whispered.
The man tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Be careful, Miss Morgan. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed."
Before she could ask another word, he pressed the box firmly into her arms, turned, and vanished back among the graves. One moment he was there, the next the mist had swallowed him whole.
Cass swore under his breath. "What the hell was that?" His eyes locked on the box, suspicion hard in his gaze. "Creepy doesn't even cover it. You think Dad planned this? Or is this some freak playing games with us?"
Elara clutched the box tighter. The brass hinges bit into her fingers, the rain striking its polished lid. In her mind, she saw her father hunched over his desk, ink staining his hands, muttering to himself about maps and legends no one else believed in. She could almost hear his voice: Elara, sometimes history hides what it cannot destroy.
"Cass," she said softly, her voice trembling, "Dad knew something. He knew this was coming."
They stood in silence, the rain hissing around them, the coffin disappearing into the earth behind. A gust of wind rattled the willow branches overhead, scattering cold droplets onto their shoulders.
Cass's jaw worked. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something sharper, dangerous. The look he always wore before dragging her into trouble she couldn't avoid.
"Guess we're not going home just yet."
Elara glanced down at the box in her arms. For the first time, she realized she was afraid to open it.
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