The sky above Montreux was a slab of cold steel.
The lake, glistening beneath it, barely moved—frozen at the edges, still in the middle, like it too was holding its breath.
Serena stood at the edge of the estate overlooking the shore, her black coat cinched tight around her waist, snowflakes catching in her hair like fragments of forgotten lullabies. Beside her, Damon adjusted the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest. Inside it: blueprints, lock picks, and a copy of a key so old it looked like it belonged in a museum.
"You know this is madness," he murmured, eyes scanning the estate's looming stone structure down the hill. "No one's breached the Thorne vault in thirty years. The last one who tried vanished without a body."
Serena didn't flinch.
"I'm not just anyone."
Damon smiled slightly. "No. You're worse."
She met his eyes. "I'm the daughter of the woman who nearly brought them down."
---
They descended into the darkness just after 10:00 p.m., once the guards changed shift.
The path to the estate was slick, the old stone steps glazed in ice. Trees leaned in from either side, gnarled and silent like sentinels keeping secrets.
The Thorne property had been officially "abandoned" for over a decade.
Unofficially, Damon had uncovered signs of internal activity—electricity still pulsing to a single wing, updated wiring in the surveillance system, discreet shipments delivered at midnight.
They reached the old iron door that led beneath the estate. It was disguised as a maintenance cellar, rusted and cold—but behind it lay a staircase carved deep into the mountain's roots.
Serena produced the copied key from her coat.
Damon's fingers brushed hers before she could insert it. "Are you sure?"
She looked at him—storm in her eyes, fire in her bones.
"I need to know who I am."
Then she turned the key.
The lock groaned like a beast woken from hibernation.
And the door creaked open.
---
Inside, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The walls narrowed as they descended—first stone, then steel, then concrete reinforced with rivets that hadn't seen light in decades.
At the bottom was a second door. This one had no keyhole.
Just a scanner.
Serena knelt beside it, pulling a small device from Damon's bag—a portable pulse-scrambler designed to confuse biometric locks. It blinked green once, twice… then buzzed.
Denied.
She frowned. "It's expecting a live signature."
"Can you spoof it?" Damon asked, kneeling beside her.
"Not without a match."
She exhaled sharply, eyes darting around the frame of the door.
And then she noticed it.
A faint fingerprint smudge on the left side of the panel.
Not recent—but clear enough.
Serena blinked. "Someone's been here. Recently."
Damon straightened. "Then we're not alone."
---
They didn't speak as they backtracked slightly—moving into the side corridor Damon had marked on the blueprints as a possible bypass.
Behind a rusted panel, Serena found a narrow tunnel—crawling height only.
She went first.
Damon followed.
Every breath was shallow. Every heartbeat loud.
They emerged into a chamber not lit by electric light, but by the soft green glow of bioluminescent moss, covering parts of the stone wall. In the center of the room: a vault.
Old-fashioned. Manual.
Carved with a single name.
THORNE
And beneath it, etched in Latin: "Vera occidit magis quam gladius."
Truth kills sharper than a blade.
Serena stepped forward slowly. Her fingers hovered above the dial.
"Can you open it?" Damon asked, voice low.
"I was taught by the best," she murmured. "My mother used to teach me patterns by making me decode music boxes."
Her fingers turned the dial carefully.
Three clicks left. One right. Another half turn.
Click.
The mechanism gave.
With a hiss of air and a shudder that echoed through the floor, the vault creaked open.
Inside—
Boxes.
Hundreds of them.
Labeled with numbers.
Each bound in wax seal and velvet cord.
Serena picked up the first one.
No name.
Just a date.
December 13th, 1999.
She opened it.
Inside were photographs. Blurry, surveillance-style. A woman holding a child in her arms. Serena recognized the face even through the grain.
Her mother.
And the child… her.
A letter slipped from beneath the photos. Typed, unsigned.
> "Subject has changed identities four times since 1992. Current location confirmed. Recommend immediate containment or leverage. Cross asset monitoring required. Infiltrate via emotional link if possible."
Serena's hand trembled.
"They were tracking her," she whispered. "They knew where we were… they used you."
Damon read over her shoulder. "Cross asset. That's me."
"They wanted you close to her. Or to me?"
He stepped back, jaw tightening. "I never saw this file. Never agreed to it."
"Maybe you were the emotional link."
Her voice cracked.
Damon shook his head. "No. No. Serena, when I met you, I wasn't working for them. Not directly. I walked away because I couldn't use you."
"Then why were they watching?"
"I don't know," he said hoarsely. "But I swear to you—I never lied about what I felt."
---
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she moved deeper into the vault—opening box after box.
Financial records. Names. Locations. Blackmail. Murders framed as suicides. Children raised in false homes. A global empire of silence.
All connected.
All signed—with the same symbol.
A crescent moon inside an eye.
Serena's voice was ice. "It's not just Elias Thorne. It's a whole council. He was just the mask."
Damon stepped beside her. "Then we unmask them all."
But before they could say more—
A soft, deliberate click echoed from the far end of the chamber.
They turned slowly.
And from the shadows…
A voice said:
"I hoped you'd come, Serena Vale."
A man stepped forward.
Black gloves.
Silver tie.
Face unlined by age, but eyes ancient.
He smiled, and the room went colder.
"I'm Elias Thorne. Or at least, the part of him they let you see."