Chapter 89
Chapter 89:
“Come with me, Ms. Everett,” she commanded, turning toward the private elevator. “If you are to be a fixture in our world, I need to see exactly what kind of liability you are p>
My legs felt like jelly, but I forced them to move. I walked past a trembling Gavin, clutching my portfolio like a lifeline, and followed the Elder into the mirrored car.
The doors slid shut, sealing out the lobby, the staring eyes, and Gavin’s cheap cologne. The silence in the elevator was heavy, filled with the scent of old parchment and ozone.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. “Thank you, Elder Marshall. I… I don’t know what to say p>
Augusta pressed the button for the top floor. As the elevator began its smooth ascent, she glanced at me — no grandmotherly smile, only a hard, assessing look.
“Save your gratitude, child,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper. “I didn’t intervene to save you. I intervened to remind the Hydes who truly rules this city. As for you p>
Her steel-grey eyes bored into mine.
“Dallas has placed a very fragile piece on my chessboard. I prefer to keep my anomalies close, where I can watch them break p>
My heart skipped a beat. The red lipstick. The confidence. The armor.
Dallas hadn’t just given me a pep talk. He had called in the cavalry. But he had sent a dragon to chase away a rat — and standing in this elevator, I understood that the dragon was far more dangerous.
I watched the floor numbers climb, carrying me further from the ground and closer to a destiny I was only just beginning to understand.
у𝗈𝘂r 𝖽a𝗶𝗅𝘺 𝖽о𝗌𝘦 𝗈𝘧 𝘯𝗼𝗏еl𝗌 𝗼ո
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a space that felt less like an office and more like a sanctuary of ancient power. The walls were lined with glass cases housing artifacts that hummed with history, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a god’s-eye view of the city sprawling below.
Elder Augusta Marshall didn’t sit behind a mahogany desk. Instead, she stood behind a massive slab of polished obsidian, her fingers tracing the edges of a crumbling parchment.
“Sit,” she commanded, not looking up.
I sat. The chair was stiff, demanding good posture.
“This is the Treaty of the Silver Moon, drafted in 1842,” Augusta said, her voice dry as old leaves. “It was damaged during the Rogue Uprisings. A silver blade sliced through the third clause. How would you restore it p>
I didn’t hesitate. My hands, usually trembling in social situations, were steady when it came to my craft. “Silver leaves a corrosive residue that eats into organic vellum over time. I wouldn’t simply patch it — I would use a neutralizing solution of crushed juniper and distilled water to halt the oxidation first, then graft new vellum using a starch-based adhesive, not synthetic glue p>
Augusta finally looked at me. Her steel-grey eyes sharpened. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a heavy iron medallion, sliding it across the black stone.