The hiss of his own breath in the sudden silence was a roar. Water streamed from his drysuit, pooling in dark circles on the wide stone ledge. Four tactical flashlights pinned him, their beams turning the fine mist of the grotto into a blinding wall of white. He stood his ground, the waterproof pack containing the Logbook a solid, heavy weight against his spine. He made no move to raise his hands, no gesture of surrender. That was a choice he would not make.
The four figures in matte black tactical gear were statues, weapons held in a low, disciplined ready. They were a single, efficient organism. One of them detached from the group, stepping forward into the edge of his own headlamp’s beam. The movements were fluid, precise. A woman. Her face was sharp, intelligent, and as cold as the submerged stone of the ossuary he had just left. Her pistol, a modern polymer-and-steel design, was aimed squarely at his chest, its muzzle an unblinking black eye.
— That doesn't belong to you, — she said. Her voice was calm, level, a statement of fact, not a threat. It was colder than the water.
Sineus felt the phantom weight on his belt where his father’s gimbaled compass should have been. Its needle would have been spinning wildly in this place of deep memory and deceit. Now, he had only his own senses, and the woman in front of him was a distortion he could not easily read. He kept his hands visible, away from his body, a deliberate posture of non-aggression.
— My agency wants that artifact, — Isabelle Moreau stated, her gaze unwavering. Her team controlled the grotto, the single shaft leading thirty meters up to the surface, the only way out. Her leverage was absolute.
— The countdown is global, — Sineus countered, his voice rough from the rebreather. He did not need to ask if she knew. A woman with her resources, here, now—she knew. — Every major power is mobilizing on a set of coordinates they can’t interpret. They are racing to a locked door.
He shifted the weight of the pack slightly. A reminder. He held the key.
— That Logbook in the wrong hands guarantees a global catastrophe, — he continued, pressing the point. — That includes their hands. And it includes yours. This isn't about control. It's about containment.
Moreau’s expression did not change, but he saw a flicker of calculation in her eyes. She was not a zealot. She was a logician. She analyzed the tactical reality: he had the objective, an artifact of impossible value. She had the exit and the firepower. Neither of them could succeed alone. A firefight in this confined space would risk the Logbook’s destruction and guarantee mutual annihilation. It was a perfect stalemate.
Her eyes left his for a fraction of a second, scanning the dripping walls of the ossuary, the silent, watching skulls. She was processing the new data, weighing her rigid protocol against the catastrophic failure of losing the prize. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the drip of water from the ceiling. One of her men shifted his weight, the sound of nylon scraping on stone unnaturally loud.
— What’s your proposal? — she asked. The question was the first crack in her armor of certainty.
This was the moment. The choice. He could try to fight, to use the Logbook in a way she couldn’t predict, but the cost would be chaos and the potential loss of the very thing he’d come to save. Or he could pay a different price.
— A temporary alliance, — Sineus said, the words tasting like rust. The price was trust, a currency he hadn't traded in for years. — My knowledge for your tactical support. I can decode the broadcast. I can get us to Thule Ultima before anyone else understands where they’re truly going. You get your agency a seat at the table. I get to keep the world from being rewritten by men like Lars Magnusson.
He named the CEO of the Axiom Group deliberately. He saw the recognition in her eyes, a flicker of something colder than professional detachment. He had guessed correctly. This was personal for her.
Moreau was silent for a full twenty seconds. He could almost see the conflict playing out behind her eyes: the trained discipline of a state operative warring with the cold, hard logic of the situation. Her orders were to acquire the asset. But if she killed him, the asset was just a book of gibberish. If he killed her, he was trapped at the bottom of a well. The mission demanded cooperation.
— We are assets to one another, — she finally said, her voice clipped. — For now.
With a curt nod, she lowered her pistol. The movement was economical, a concession made to logic, not a gesture of peace. She gave a single, sharp hand signal, and the four beams of light shifted, the tactical operators relaxing from firing stances to a perimeter watch. The immediate, crushing pressure in the grotto eased. The air no longer felt like the last breath before a killing blow.
The standoff was over. Preservation had won, but the cost was an alliance with a viper.
— We exfiltrate now, — Moreau commanded, turning from him. — My team will secure the top of the shaft. You’ll follow me. Don’t make me regret this.
She moved toward the ascent ropes hanging down the dark, wet wall of the shaft. He watched her go, her movements efficient and sure. The truce was made. He had his escape. She had her key.
He followed her to the ropes, the Logbook a heavy promise on his back. The war for the artifact was over. The war for its meaning had just begun.
He clipped his ascender onto the line and began the long climb up into the Roman night.
