Page 47 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“And now these men who have taken control of the country have access to this material,” Dalla said grimly.
Nasser shook his head. “General Hellman underestimated his power. The moment he and Crosse attacked the royal family, safety protocols went into effect. The refinement center is deep underground, and the entire facility was sealed by people loyal to the royal family.”
“Crosse and Hellman have been unsuccessful at accessing the underground structures due in part because they are made of Vasbin,” Musad said with a grin.
“We suspect that Hellman wanted to capture Cianna to force Mario to override the access codes,” Nasser quietly added.
Horror flashed across Dalla’s face. Nasser could see that she understood the tactic intimately. After all, hadn’t that been the same tactic used by the Jarl who wanted to marry into her family and instead murdered them all? His gut twisted when he thought of how close he and Musad had come to losing Lissa, Mario, and Cianna. The thought that what they had experienced was only a small sample of what Dalla had endured made him wince with sympathy.
“They would have succeeded if not for you,” Musad finally said, his eyes locked on her face.
“Humans don’t change,” she said quietly before looking down at the chest next to her.
Dalla caressed the top of the wooden chest with the tips of her fingers before she looked back at Nasser. She tossed the remainsof her pouch into the fire before twisting around to face the chest. The lock was ornate—deceptively aged. She recognized it as something newer than the chest itself. That meant Hakeem—no,Harlem Jones—had been here. He had kept his promise.
Musad stepped around the fire and squatted next to the chest, his expression thoughtful. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a multipurpose tool. Dalla shifted to give him space. The metal clicked softly as he examined the lock. With a few practiced twists, Musad popped it open.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Her voice trembled despite her attempt to keep it steady. She drew in a deep breath, steeling herself for the memories—and the truth—she might discover inside.
As she opened the chest, the world fell away—wind, fire, water—silenced by memory.
It was as if the world shifted as the refrain of a long-forgotten time, another world, cast a shadow over the present.
Flashback: 1918 – Liberated French Village
Rain slicked the cobbled streets into ribbons of mud and shattered stone. Dalla stepped off the curb, water squelching in her boots. She wore a wool coat over men’s trousers that tucked into scuffed leather boots. Her loose tunic was belted high, cinching her narrow waist, and her cap cast a shadow over her eyes. It was the garb of a rebel, a freedom fighter.
She passed a small boy waving a stick like a rifle, two women singing and clapping in a doorway, and a trio of drunken soldiers attempting to harmonizeLa Marseillaise.
Her gaze locked on a narrow, blackened structure across the street—a bombed-out café with one jagged window missing and half the roof gone. She paused in the doorway, hidden in shadow, watching.
There he was.
The man she hadn’t seen since…
Pain splintered through her at the memory. Not of meeting him, but what happened after he left. Taking a deep breath, she stiffened her shoulders.
He was inside, upright, strong, broad-shouldered and poised, as if the crumbling world around them didn’t touch him. He moved with quiet purpose, setting a second chair beside the first. A bottle of red wine, two glasses, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese sat on the half-burnt table. Her stomach tightened with emotion.
As if sensing her, he turned toward the door.
She didn’t move.
He tilted his head and gave her the smallest of nods, then motioned with a wave to the chair opposite him.
Dalla hesitated, then crossed the threshold.
The room smelled of rain, ash, and fading war. She stepped around a pile of shattered beams and sank into the chair. Her gloved hands gripped her knees. A drunken soldier outside bellowed the chorus to an off-key victory song. She flinched.
“To victory,” he said softly, pouring the wine into both glasses. “I’m called Harlem Jones now.”
Dalla blinked at him, heart thundering. “You changed your name.”
“We all do, in time.” He handed her the glass.
She took it, her fingers trembling. The ruby liquid swirled. “I haven’t. I don’t want to.”
