Legacy of the Obsidian Throne

The Price of Power

The key burned in my pocket. Even now, even after everything, I could feel it calling to me.

"Stop thinking about it," Gus said from across the table. "You'll drain yourself again."

I pulled my hand away from the obsidian. "I didn't know it would take that much out of me."

"Every use costs you something. Energy. Focus. Blood." He pointed at my nose. "You've got a lot to learn before you can face Alexander."

Three days had passed since my death on the news. Three days of hiding in Gus's cramped back room. Three days of learning that everything I knew was a lie.

But I was done hiding.

"Teach me," I said. "Show me how to use it properly."

Gus studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. But you're not going to like it."

---

The basement beneath the bar was nothing like the rest of the building.

Walls reinforced with steel. Soundproof panels. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

In the center of the room stood a metal cage. Inside it, a fly buzzed against the bars.

"First lesson," Gus said. "Control."

"Control?"

"Power without control is useless. That fly can't hurt you. But it can teach you precision." He handed me a glass of water. "Make it stop moving. Without touching it. Without hurting it. Just make it still."

I stared at the buzzing insect. Small. Insignificant. Should be easy.

I raised my hand and focused. The key pulsed. Heat spread through my palm and up my arm.

"Stop," I whispered.

The fly kept buzzing.

"Harder," Gus said. "You're not commanding a person. You're commanding a creature with a simpler mind. You have to be louder inside its head."

I clenched my fist. The heat intensified. My head started pounding.

"Stop!"

The fly froze mid-air. For a second, it hung suspended, completely still.

Then my nose started bleeding again and I lost focus. The fly buzzed away.

"Better," Gus said. "You held it for almost three seconds. Tomorrow, we aim for five."

I wiped the blood from my face. "This is going to kill me."

"No." His voice was grim. "Alexander will kill you if you don't learn faster."

---

The next morning, Gus gave me a file.

"His name is Marcus Webb. Accountant. Mid-level member of the Order. He launders money for Alexander's network."

"What's his connection to the vault?"

"That's what you're going to find out." Gus slid a photo across the table. "He's got a penthouse on the forty-fifth floor. High-end security. Private elevator. And he's got a little habit."

"Drugs?"

"Gambling. Big debts. Alexander doesn't know about them." Gus's eyes were cold. "That's our leverage. You get in. You use the key. You get information about the vault beneath the throne."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." He handed me a burner phone. "I'll be your backup. But if things go wrong, I can't save you. You'll be on your own."

I looked at the photo of Marcus Webb. A scared little man in an expensive suit. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"One more thing," Gus said. "The key won't work on everyone. People with strong minds. Trained operatives. They can resist. Most normal people are easy, but you're dealing with members of the Order now. They're prepared for threats like you."

I stood up. "Then I better be fast."

---

The penthouse was everything I expected and less.

Glass walls. Marble floors. A view of the entire city skyline. And enough security to guard a presidential vault.

I bypassed the first layer by following a delivery driver through the service entrance. The second layer required a stolen keycard and some quick thinking. The third layer—the private elevator—required the obsidian key.

I pressed the black stone against the elevator's card reader.

The machine chirped. The doors slid open.

"Welcome, Mr. Webb," a computerized voice said.

I stepped inside.

---

Marcus Webb was sitting at his desk when I entered.

He was a small man. Thin. Nervous. His hands shook as he reached for a glass of whiskey that was already half-empty.

"Who the hell are you?" He started pressing buttons under his desk.

I moved fast. The key pulsed in my hand.

"Stop," I commanded.

Webb froze. His eyes went wide, but his body wouldn't move.

I walked around the desk. His computer screen was open. Spreadsheets. Account numbers. Transfers to offshore accounts.

"Where is the vault?" I asked. "The vault beneath the throne."

Webb's lips twitched. He was fighting it. The key was strong, but he was resisting.

"Tell me," I pressed. "Give me the password."

His eyes darted to the computer. He was about to speak.

Then the screen flashed. A red warning message appeared.

*Silent alarm triggered. Security dispatched. ETA: two minutes.*

The key's grip on him broke. Marcus Webb screamed.

Guards were coming. I was trapped on the forty-fifth floor. The only way out was through the window—a sheer drop to the streets below.

Webb pointed at the shattered glass behind me. "You can't escape," he laughed. "You're dead, boy. Just like your entire family."

I grabbed his collar. "We'll see about that."

The elevator chimed.

They were here.