The outhouse was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and the faint, lingering aroma of Ismail’s last cup of chai. Stacks of newspapers lay sprawled across the wooden table, their yellowed pages curling at the edges, brittle under the weight of time. An old lantern flickered beside them, casting long shadows that danced against the cluttered walls.

  They’d been at it for hours. Sleep had overtaken them at some point—heads resting on folded arms, bodies slumped in their chairs—but as the first light of morning crept through the cracks in the shutters, they picked up where they'd left off, the search consuming them.

  Julia sat on the rug, highlighter in hand, fingers smeared with ink as she sifted through brittle pages, piecing together fragments of reports. Each new detail felt like a missing piece of a puzzle, just out of reach.

  Across from her, Arion leaned back in his chair, rubbing the exhaustion from his face before tossing another paper onto the growing pile. His boots rested on an overturned crate, and his movements were slow, as if the long hours had drained his usual sharpness. Near him, the crystal sat on the desk, its faint glow barely noticeable in the dim room. Ismail, in the chair beside her, flipped through pages methodically, though his furrowed brow showed the same growing frustration.

  It was grueling work sifting through mundane reports on local matters, government disputes, and archaeological records. But Julia knew from experience: the truth often hid in plain sight.

  Then, her eyes caught on something small, nearly buried between two torn pages. A whisper of ink against paper. She straightened, fingers tightening around the brittle edges as she read aloud:

  “Rumors of a hidden gold hoard discovered in Mohenjo Daro—unverified sources claim workers stumbled upon an ancient treasure trove during an excavation in 1965…”

  Silence filled the room.

  Arion barely glanced up. “Sounds like something a drunkard would scribble down after a night at the tavern,” he muttered, flipping another page. “People love their fantasy stories.”

  Julia frowned, tapping the paper against the table as her mind worked through the details. The dates.

  “It’s the same year Dale was excavating,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

  That made Arion pause, his foot slipping off the crate. His gaze lifted to hers, unreadable, but she saw the flicker of thought in his eyes.

  Before he could dismiss it again, she pressed on. “Thomas Curl told me at the party that he inherited a goldsmithing business in the UK. A family legacy. But he wasn’t interested, so he dissolved the company and used the money to establish himself here around 30 years ago.”

  “Haanh? Left his country and sold his established business to start fresh here? That’s a first,” Ismail scoffed, shaking his head.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Not entirely unheard of, Ismail,” Julia countered, but there was something else nagging at her. She leaned back, arms crossed, searching for the right words. “When I attended his party… his mansion it—it just didn’t look like the place was built in the last thirty years. The stonework, the detailing is old English architecture. At least fifty, maybe sixty years old.”

  Ismail rubbed his chin, considering that. “Hmm… his story’s starting to smell rotten.” He pushed himself up from his chair, rifling through another stack of newspapers.

  “What’s the exact date on that article about the gold?” Arion asked, his voice low.

  Julia scanned the brittle page again. “February 10th, 1965.”

  Arion’s gaze sharpened. “Dale left Mohenjo Daro around March ’65, didn’t he?” He said it more to himself than anyone else, but the weight of the connection settled over the room.

  Then, from across the table, Ismail let out a sudden exclamation. “Check this out!” He held up a different clipping, his eyes darting across the print:

  “Thomas Curl, a British entrepreneur, finalizes the acquisition of vast agricultural lands in Sindh, spanning thousands of acres. Sources suggest the purchase, valued in the millions, was completed in record time, though Curl has declined to comment on his long-term plans for the estate.”

  Ismail’s gaze flicked between Julia and Arion, a triumphant glint in his eye. “January 11th, 1966.”

  All three remained silent for a few moments until Arion's voice broke through it.

  “The royal treasury…” Arion exhaled sharply, "Ofcourse!" the pieces clicking together in his mind.

  Ismail frowned. “What?”

  Arion looked up; his expression dark with certainty. “Curl wasn’t looking for the Aether. He used Dale to dig up the royal treasury of Aetheria. That explains why the excavation was focused near the palace ruins. He already knew where the treasure was.”

  Ismail blinked. “You’re telling me the gold survived the Aether energy blast that wiped out an entire kingdom?”

  “Gold doesn’t just disappear, Ismail.” Julia leaned forward, tapping the newspaper with her finger. “It has a very high melting point—over a thousand degrees Celsius. Even with a blast as powerful as the Aether explosion, it wouldn’t have evaporated. It would have liquefied, pooled into the earth, and once the temperature dropped, it would’ve solidified again.” She paused, letting it sink in. “The kingdom turned to dust. The gold didn’t. It was buried, waiting for someone to dig it out.”

  Arion’s voice was quiet but firm. “And someone did.”

  Ismail let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “Well… that explains his sudden fortune and his powerful ties.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of revelation pressed down on them like a closing vault.

  Then Arion straightened, his voice cutting through the quiet. “It’s time.”

  Ismail, slumped in his chair, groaned. “I know, right? I could use some tea too.”

  Arion’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “Not that. Do you remember your promise?”

  Ismail’s smirk faded as he recognized what Arion asked of him, “You sure took your sweet time calling it in.” he met Arion’s eyes, the usual lightness in his tone gone. “Some of us do age, you know.” He exhaled, cracking his knuckles. “But a promise is a promise. And I keep my word, old friend.”

  Julia shot a subtle glance between them, a sense of understanding dawning. Their conversation was clearly tied to the favor Arion had mentioned before; a debt Ismail was bound to repay.

  It reminded her of Sam. Of the camaraderie they once shared. Wherever he was now, she hoped he was still holding on. The thought tightened her chest. Knowing the enemy was the smart choice but with every passing minute, the weight of leaving him behind grew heavier.

  She drifted toward the shed’s exit and pulled her phone from her pocket. It was still turned off. Her thumb hovered over the power button before she slipped it away again.

  Can’t risk it.

  She sighed, casting one last glance at Arion and Ismail before her gaze settled on the table. The Aether crystal pulsed softly, the two fragments inching closer as if drawn by a will of their own, stitching together something long broken.

  ***