Page 317 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Fifty yards long, half as wide. Towering shelves. Relics and riches tucked into every crevice.

“Holy shit,” Cyrus breathed, eyes wide with reverence.

For a Bellpost descendant and history scholar, this had to feel like finding a vein of gold running beneath his childhood home.

“Focus,” I whispered, gesturing for him to split up. We prowled in opposite directions. Each row bled opulence. Ancient portraits. Spell-bound treasures. My fingers itched to swipe the more valuable pieces. But we were here to steal one thing, not add to my collection.

A bronze music box caught my eye. Ballerina mid-spin, vines coiled around her waist. My fingers hovered, then⁠—

“Freya,” Cyrus hissed.

I was at his side in seconds.

There, nestled among velvet and wards, sat a circlet of woven gold vines. A crescent moon flanked by angel wings. A teardrop ruby that gleamed like fresh blood.

Target located, I sent.

Lock it in and get the hell out, Aren replied.

Movement on the perimeter, Lana added. Should I engage?

I glanced at Cyrus, who was pulling gloves from his pack.

No. Give us a minute to reach extraction. Don’t blow the cover yet.

Roger that. Move your asses.

Ten-four.

I pulled out a metal safe, bracing it under the shelf. Cyrus conjured shadows to shroud the diadem as he levitated it, careful, steady, cautious—like it might bite. Because it might. Rhiannon’s curse wasn’t some bedtime story. It would kill anyone unworthy who touched it.

The moment it was secured, Lana’s voice came down the line like a blade.

Guards inbound. Get out. Now.

My eyes snapped to Cyrus’ and I signed the warning.

“It must’ve triggered a silent alarm.”

“Fuck me.”

“Maybe if you’re good. Let’s go.”

Freya, do you want us to implement Plan B? Aren’s voice was calm. Controlled. Letting me call the shot.

God, I wanted him to take over. Wanted someone to decide for me.

I closed my eyes, sealing the box with a locking rune and shoving it into my pack.

Ansel, how’s the exit?

Clear. Busier than I’d like, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Can Cyrus ride a snowski?

The swamp gremlin? Probably not.

Before I could ask, a mechanical gear clicked, and we both jerked our gazes back to the front. Without hesitating, I grabbed the bag and bolted toward the archway, horror curdling my stomach as a glass plate descended.

No. No, no, no.