Chapter Twenty Two: Order of the Key

The road stretched long before me, the town still a distant smudge on the horizon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of my boots against the dirt and the whisper of the wind through the dying trees.

Then—silence.

Not the natural kind. The kind that comes before a storm, when even the wind dares not breathe.

I stopped.

From the shadows of the trees, they emerged. Masked figures, cloaked in deep black, their faces hidden behind silver-plated masks etched with an unfamiliar sigil. Their stance was disciplined, their movements calculated. Not simple bandits.

One of them, taller than the rest, stepped forward.

"Hand over the book."

My grip tightened. The Mongrath. So that's what they were after. I had expected people to come for it eventually, but I thought I had more time.

I exhaled, slow and steady.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

They did not waver.

"We do. The Mongrath does not belong to you. Relinquish it, and you may yet walk away."

Fools.

"And who exactly are you to make such demands?" I asked, tilting my head.

The tall figure hesitated for a moment, then answered, his voice steady and cold.

"We are the Order of the Key."

The name meant nothing to me. But the way they said it, like it should have struck fear into my bones, was almost amusing.

I ran my fingers over the worn leather cover, feeling the pulse beneath it—a heartbeat, slow and patient. The book was more than a collection of pages. It was alive.

My father gave it to me when I was just a child. A one-of-a-kind relic, ancient beyond measure. No one knew its true origins, only its rules.

The Mongarath did not simply contain knowledge—it understood it. If I needed to find something, all I had to do was ask. The pages would shift, turn on their own, revealing exactly what I sought.

But it was bound to me. Blood-bound.

To anyone else, it was a blank tome, useless and empty. But if another wanted its secrets, there was a way—a price to be paid in blood. A single drop, a cut on the palm, a smear across its pages, and the book would reveal only what it allowed.

And when its owner died?

Everything inside it vanished. The Mongarath would be wiped clean, its pages turned to blank parchment. It would wait, empty, until it found its next master.

The Order of the Key—whoever they were—had no idea what they were dealing with.

I smiled, slow and sharp. "Come and take it, then."

The tallest figure let out a sharp breath, a single nod to his men.

Then, they lunged.

Demanding this book from me was like signing your own death warrant.