Narrator: Faurgar (F)

  I pulled the violet stone from my pouch. Calling it a "stone" was a technical error—before me lay a complex polyhedron where one plane flowed into another, creating a puzzle of frozen, shimmering light. On its outer "belt" were eight segments, and inside pulsed eight smaller ones—a compass rose within a compass rose. My "Function" immediately identified it as a navigation interface.

  The Key came alive as soon as it touched my palm. The inner circle flared with cold ultraviolet, and three thin indicator petals lit up. They rotated like the hands of a chronometer and froze: one pointed at Priorin, the second at Gellia, the third at Flint.

  "It’s scanning us," the Leonin grunted, shifting his axe. "Let's test what it’s tuned to."

  Priorin dropped his shield onto the snow and stepped back three paces. The inner petal "watching" him wavered for a moment, sliding sideways... then snapped back to the Shield with a death grip. Priorin silently stripped to the waist, standing in the icy wind with a bare torso, and handed his breastplate to Gellia.

  The Key’s petal didn't budge. It didn't care about the Leonin's living flesh; it stubbornly pointed to the Shield.

  "Understood," Priorin remarked. "Not 'us.' But what we carry. The biological vessel is secondary."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Flint smirked, deciding to take the logic to its conclusion. He began shedding his gear. When he got to the Boots, he frowned. The Key’s petal practically bit into his feet, completely ignoring the rest of his clothes.

  "I’d take them off, but it’s too fashionable," he grumbled, tugging at the leather. His fingers turned white from the strain, but the boots seemed to have fused with his skin. Another yank—no result. The Boots had become part of his anatomy. Gellia looked at her sword. The inner petal was fixed on it. She unbuckled her scabbard and removed her plate. When she held the naked blade in her palm, the air trembled with a high note—the resonance was so pure it felt as if the steel were satisfied.

  "Accepted," Priorin said, tightening his straps.

  I returned the stone to my open palm. Now the outer circle lit up—three segments. Two of them stretched into a single unified beam, sharp as a surgical knife. It pointed NW: toward the Wolf's City.

  The third segment stood alone. It stubbornly pointed East, digging into the horizon as if there were an unpaid debt or an unaccounted variable there.

  "Two vectors to the Wolf, one to the East," I summarized. "The internal ones are locked to the Shield, the Blade, and the Boots. System is stable."

  "Good map," Priorin said. "Clear. We’ll stick to it."

  Krauser (I saw his gaze harden, pushing Flint aside) snapped his last buckle.

  "We can always reach the East later. The City is our first priority. There’s the throne, there’s Hank, there are answers."

  The Key went dark as soon as we made the decision. We were no longer just a squad of mercenaries. We were a mobile platform for three ancient powers that had finally chosen a direction.

  "Moving out," Krauser commanded. "Hank already feels this light. And it won't make him happy."