Chapter 57: A Dragon Acting On Instincts

Cyrus stood by the bed, watching Kane’s chest rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of unconsciousness.

His fingers drifted to his chest, where the mirror of Kane’s karmic seal lay hidden beneath expensive fabric.

The connection between them felt unusually calm now, a steady warmth rather than the pulsing, demanding thing it often became when Kane was conscious and argumentative.

"This was necessary," Cyrus whispered to the quiet room, though he wasn’t entirely convinced himself.

He’d acted on instinct—a rare occurrence for someone who prided himself on calculated decisions.

Something about Kane’s recklessness with Bob Holloway had triggered a protective response that surprised even him.

Cyrus moved to the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

Kane would be furious when he woke. The fox had made it abundantly clear how much he resented being underestimated or controlled.

"So be it," Cyrus murmured.

Cyrus changed into a sleek black outfit—a tactical turtleneck and fitted pants designed for stealth rather than style.

He pulled up the schematics Kane had prepared on his tablet, studying the layout of Bernard’s Neptune Suite.

Kane’s work had been meticulous, noting potential security measures and blind spots. Cyrus had barely acknowledged the effort at the time but now found himself grateful for the fox’s attention to detail.

According to the plans, Bernard’s collection vault would be hidden within his private quarters—likely behind a painting or bookshelf.

Kane had marked three possible locations with question marks, each noting "potential biometric/magical security."

Cyrus’s fingers traced the most probable location—the master bedroom’s north wall.

Bernard was predictable in his arrogance; he’d want his treasures close while he slept, like a dragon with his hoard.

The irony wasn’t lost on Cyrus.

Cyrus slipped the tablet into a hidden pocket and moved toward the door, pausing for one last glance at Kane.

The fox spirit’s tail had escaped the blanket, its silver-white tip twitching slightly in dreams.

The corridor outside was deserted, the ship’s wealthy passengers either asleep or gambling away fortunes in the casino below.

Cyrus moved silently, his footsteps making no sound on the plush carpet.

The Neptune Suite was just around the corner—the crown jewel of the Silver Mermaid’s accommodations. Bernard had spared no expense, including the two armed guards positioned outside his door.

Cyrus assessed them with a cold, calculating gaze.

Ex-military, judging by their posture. Armed, but their weapons wouldn’t be much use against a dragon.

He considered his options. A direct approach would be efficient but messy. Stealth required patience but minimized complications.

The karmic seal on his chest warmed slightly—Kane’s consciousness stirring even in sleep. Cyrus pressed a hand against it, willing the fox to remain under.

Cyrus slipped into the shadows, moving to the service corridor he’d memorized from Kane’s schematics.

The staff passages would allow him to bypass Bernard’s guards entirely.

A maintenance panel yielded to his touch, revealing a narrow passage designed for the ship’s crew. With inhuman flexibility, his body adjusted to the cramped space as he squeezed through it.

The service entrance to the Neptune Suite would be unguarded but locked. No matter.

The lock clicked open under his fingers, yielding to a whispered command in an ancient tongue.

Dragon magic, subtle but effective.

Bernard’s suite mirrored their own in layout but surpassed it in opulence.

Gold fixtures gleamed in the darkness, and the air carried notes of expensive cologne and cigar smoke.

Cyrus paused, listening. Snoring came from the master bedroom—Bernard, sleeping soundly after the night’s festivities.

He moved toward the bedroom’s north wall, where a large painting hung—a maritime scene with a mermaid watching sailors from afar. Fitting, given the ship’s name.

Behind it, just as Kane had predicted, lay a sophisticated wall safe.

Cyrus examined the safe with narrowed eyes.

Biometric lock, magical wards, and what appeared to be a spirit-essence detector—all expected from someone of Bernard’s paranoia and resources.

The man collected artifacts that could control spirits; of course he’d implement protections against them.

Placing his palm against the cool metal, Cyrus closed his eyes. Ancient dragon magic stirred within him, flowing outward in crimson tendrils too subtle for human detection systems.

The magic seeped into the safe’s mechanisms, seeking weaknesses in the wards.

There—a fluctuation in the magical barrier. Bernard had calibrated his defenses against common spirits, not against something as rare and powerful as a black dragon.

A small smile curved Cyrus’s lips as he worked his fingers into the fluctuation point, widening it with precision.

The safe’s internal mechanisms began to respond, tumblers shifting silently.

The karmic seal on his chest suddenly flared hot. Cyrus stiffened, feeling Kane’s consciousness stirring more insistently now.

The fox was waking up. He needed to work faster.

The safe door yielded with a nearly imperceptible click.

Inside the safe, Bernard’s collection glittered—ancient relics and spirit artifacts crammed together like magpies’ treasures.

At the center, nestled in deep purple velvet, sat the Midnight Chalice.

He reached for the chalice, its silver surface catching the faint moonlight filtering through the suite’s windows.

The artifact looked exactly as ancient texts had described—an obsidian base transitioning to silver, with runes spiraling around its circumference.

He lifted it carefully, expecting the telltale resonance of power that accompanied genuine magical artifacts. The weight felt right in his palm.

But something was wrong.

Cyrus tilted the chalice, examining the glyphs more closely.

His eyes narrowed. The third rune sequence was incorrect—a subtle mistranslation only someone who’d seen the original would notice.

The metal, though aged in appearance, lacked the distinctive magical signature of spirit-forged silver.

He ran his thumb across what appeared to be centuries of patina.

The weathering flaked slightly under pressure—artificial aging, expertly applied but unmistakable to his trained eye.

"A forgery," Cyrus whispered, anger coiling in his chest like smoke.

Bernard Holloway never possessed the real Midnight Chalice.

This explained his willingness to include it in the auction—he was selling a convincing fake to unsuspecting buyers.

Cyrus placed the counterfeit back in the safe, disgusted. His mission had been for nothing.

A bedside lamp clicked on.

"Admiring my collection, Mr. Drakhal?" Bernard’s voice carried from the bed, smug and entirely too alert for someone who should have been asleep.

"I must say, breaking and entering seems beneath someone of your... reputation."

Bernard sat up, silk pajamas reflecting in the lamplight, a small pistol balanced casually in his hand.