In a large manor built on old wealth and older secrets, deep beneath its ground-level rooms, there was a chamber that looked more like a private vault than part of a residence.
The walls were smooth stone, lined with protective runes and display cases made of reinforced glass. At the center of the room stood a raised pillar under a ring of soft white light.
On that pillar rested a golden apple.
It was small, round, and unmarked—so ordinary in appearance it almost seemed fake. But it wasn't.
The man standing before it stared with silent intensity. He wore a tailored black suit and stood tall, broad in the shoulders, with a full beard and neatly combed black hair. His reflection was faint in the glass, but his eyes never left the apple.
"I wonder what you can do," he muttered.
The apple had been in his family's possession for generations.
It was treated like treasure, passed down, moved from country to country, always kept under heavy protection.
