The frantic energy of the initial hunt quickly dissolved into a grueling, cerebral race. Team by team, the players had fallen away, defeated by Mark's increasingly complex riddles. Hours later, the grand hall was almost empty.
The final puzzle was a complex mechanical box, secured by a five-digit numerical lock. Scattered around the table were the last remaining clues: a weathered map, a book of esoteric poetry, and a laminated card with a cryptic sequence of symbols.
I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I'd figured out the map, identifying the final three digits.
Sean sat opposite me, his expression unreadable behind thin wire-rimmed eyeglasses that caught the dim light as he tapped the final number sequence on a small notepad.
He looked up, pushing the frames up the bridge of his nose, his eyes meeting mine with a strange, knowing intensity.
"It's the second line of the third stanza," he murmured, so low I could barely hear it over the silence. He didn't point or move—just held my gaze steady.
I frowned, glancing down at the poem. Second line, third stanza
...Beneath the Watcher's steady stare,
The number born of first and last,
The silent count of what is past…
The first and last letters of "Watcher"—W and R—didn't make sense for a number. But wait—the first and last clues Mark had given us. The very first clue's answer had been "1," and the second-to-last riddle was "7." My breath hitched. The numbers: 1 and 7
I looked back at Sean. He gave the slightest, almost imperceptible nod, then deliberately pushed the laminated card—the one with the sequence of symbols that held the key to the first digit—slightly closer to my side of the table, as if tidying up. He turned his attention back to his notepad, scratching out a nonexistent calculation and giving me his back.
Is he letting me win for real? I thought, flustered.
I snatched the card, deduced the final two numbers from the symbols using the first riddle's key—4 and 9—and spun the tumblers on the box: 4-9-1-7-3.
The final click was the loudest sound in the room.A cheer erupted as the lock sprang open
Mark strode forward with an air of detached superiority, but the smile that briefly touched his lips was more smirk than genuine warmth."Hmph. Guess someone finally got lucky," he announced, pulling a glittering, velvet-lined box from the unlocked chest with a casual flick of his wrist. "The newbie, Scarlet, takes the prize. I didn't think she had it in her."
The small crowd that remained—Ryan and a few of the earlier defeated participants—managed polite, scattered applause.
"Incredible is a bit strong, wouldn't you say?" Mark remarked, his gaze sweeping over the audience before landing on me, momentarily devoid of warmth. He gave a sharp, almost dismissive nod as he pushed the prize box toward me. "Still, you actually finished. Let's see if you can handle something more complicated next time."
He punctuated his assessment with a faint roll of his eyes, already signaling for someone to start tidying up.The praise felt like sandpaper against my conscience. I managed a weak smile.
Sean finally looked up, closing his notepad. He offered polite, casual applause, his expression still utterly neutral.
"Well played, Sean," I said, my voice too bright, too forced.
"You earned it," he replied. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—not malice, not even disappointment, just a faint, sad acknowledgment of the truth we both knew.
Ryan clapped me on the back with a little too much force, then turned to Sean, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
"Seriously? You let her beat you? She's better than you thought, but that close? You looked stunned when Scarlet pulled those last two numbers—I bet you didn't see it coming!"
Sean shrugged, a genuine smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes gleaming with that sharp, knowing look.
"The better player won, Ryan. Save the salt for your next defeat," he shot back smoothly, flipping the tease with effortless wit.
As I accepted the prize—a beautiful, antique brass telescope—the weight of it felt heavy and cold in my hands. The applause faded into a distant hum as a sickening realization washed over me.
I'd raced an honest race for hours, only to cheat at the final step—accepting unearned numbers and basking in praise for an outstanding deduction that wasn't mine. It was a game I shouldn't have won, and now I knew I could never look at Sean the same way again.