Page 49 of Dalla's Royal Guards
The pages were yellowed, the ink faded in places, and the leather was stained with age and perhaps tears—hers or another’s, she couldn’t be sure. The writing wove through Old Norse, Latin, Arabic, Gaulish—even ancient Runic symbols—each entry a marker of the life she’d lived, of the centuries she’d endured. Intricate illustrations of battlefields, seascapes, and familiar stars spiraled across the margins, drawn by her hand in the stolen moments between deaths.
She flipped through it slowly, her eyes tracing her own journey from the first time she came back—fromthe beginning. So many lifetimes. So many names of those she had known, loved, and lost.
She had kept this journal close until the day it had become too dangerous to carry anything with her. She had handed it to Harlem with trembling hands before they parted the last time they saw each other, and whispered, “Keep it safe.”
He had promised. And he had kept that promise.
“He said he would place it in a small hole behind a rock in this cave,” she murmured.
She closed the journal with trembling fingers and handed it to Nasser, who had quietly moved to sit beside her.
He accepted it with a reverence that made her heart ache.
Next, she pulled out a piece of pale ivory silk, carefully knotted. Inside was a delicate necklace, the metal soft with age, the gemsthe color of a frozen lake in spring. It glimmered faintly in the firelight.
Nasser inhaled sharply. “That’s… priceless.”
Dalla nodded. “Gerold gave it to me. The silk… was from Pascal. He said it matched my skin.”
Her smile faded as she reached into the chest again, fingers brushing past a cascade of small items: A small glass bottle, still smelling faintly of rosewater from ancient Rome. A jade pendant carved with Chinese characters for courage and family. A French locket with an image of a tree inside, sketched on parchment. A twisted iron nail from a crossbeam in a castle destroyed by fire. A child’s wooden whistle, worn smooth, likely from her time in England in the 1600s. A pair of silver cufflinks, engraved with a family crest lost to time.
Each item was a story, a heartbeat she had once known. She touched the relics, reverent and sorrowful. Her fingers paused as they reached the bottom of the chest, and she frowned.
There—barely visible—was a Viking symbol for prosperity, etched with such subtlety it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. She ran her fingertips along it. There was a small indentation and a narrow gap at the edge of the base.
“Musad,” she whispered without taking her eyes off it. “May I borrow your tool again?”
Wordlessly, Musad handed it to her. She flicked open the blade and slid it carefully into the seam. With a softclick, the bottom sprang open.
She pushed the panel aside.
Inside was a worn leather bag. Her pulse quickened as she lifted it and pulled it open.
A cascade of gold coins spilled into her palm, catching the firelight in a glimmer of warmth and memory. Nestled among them was a single folded letter, her name inked in Harlem’s bold, familiar script.
She gently poured the coins back into the bag and handed both the pouch and the tool back to Musad before unfolding the letter.
The paper crumpled in her hands.
Dearest Dalla,
If you are reading this, it means you have returned and found our secret hiding place before any other.
I’ve included some coins that will give you the funds you need to exist in this time period.
Call this number, and I will help you.
Best wishes,
Harlem
Her eyes blurred as the inked words pulled a tremor through her heart. She didn’t resist when Musad reached for the letter, holding it between them for a long moment before silently handing it to Nasser.
Nasser accepted it, eyes narrowing in curiosity. When Musad passed him a coin, he hissed sharply and turned it over.
“This is…” he murmured, awe in his voice, “a Greek gold stater, minted around 600 B.C.”
Dalla slowly and tenderly repacked the chest. She left the coin pouch beside her, staring at it as if it held the weight of centuries—because it did.
