The walk back to the estate felt longer, weighted by the knowledge they'd uncovered. Bonereghard's flames had dimmed considerably, though his monocle still caught the occasional glint of lamplight.

"Tell me about the archives," Silas said as they navigated the darkening streets. "If Kelso wants what's inside so badly, I should at least know what I'm protecting."

"Ah." Bonereghard's skull floated about. "Perhaps it's time for a proper tour. Though I should warn you, some of your grandfather's collection can be... unsettling."

They passed through the estate gates. The Gemini acknowledged them with a synchronized movement of their halberds and the movement of red and blue.

Once inside the manor, Bonereghard's skeletal form began to shift and expand, purple flames swirling around his skull. He transformed back into his impeccable butler's attire.

"Much better," he said, adjusting his monocle with a bony finger. "Being reduced to a floating skull does get rather tiresome. This way, if you please."

He gestured toward a clock and set the hour on its hands to midnight. The wall slid back with a grinding of ancient gears, revealing a spiral staircase that descended into darkness.

Bonereghard produced a lantern from thin air, its purple flames casting long shadows against the stone walls. "Mind your step. The archives weren't built with comfort in mind."

Silas followed the skeletal butler down the stairs, his hand trailing along the cold stone wall. "How deep does this go?" Silas asked, his voice echoing strangely in the narrow space.

"Deep enough to hide things that shouldn't see daylight," Bonereghard replied. "Your grandfather was quite thorough in his collection methods. Some might say obsessive."

The stairs finally opened into a vast chamber that stretched beyond the reach of the lantern's light. Rows of towering bookshelves loomed overhead, their contents hidden in shadow, each shelf reaching up so high that Silas had to crane his neck to glimpse their tops.

Between them stood glass cases containing objects that seemed to shift and move when viewed from the corner of his eye. Artifacts that made him feel uncomfortable and seemed to contain an otherworldly energy.

"The archives exist in a space between spaces," Bonereghard explained as they walked. "Your grandfather modified the estate's foundations to accommodate his more... interesting acquisitions. A rather ingenious solution, though the construction cost him three years and no small amount of sanity."

They reached a heavy door marked with complex magical seals, its surface etched with runes that pulsed with a faint blue light. The metal felt unnaturally cold, even from a few feet away.

Bonereghard gestured for Silas to place his hand on the central sigil, his bony finger pointing to an elaborate rune that looked like an archaic symbol for frost and shadow. "Blood recognition," he explained. "Only a Beckham can open these doors."

Silas pressed his palm against the cold metal. The sigils flared briefly, and the door swung open with a sound like exhaling breath. Beyond lay a vast chamber that seemed to stretch impossibly far.

Row upon row of containment cells lined the walls, each one holding something different. Some glowed with internal light, others were shrouded in absolute darkness.

"Welcome," Bonereghard said, "to your inheritance." Silas walked slowly down the central aisle, staring at the cells they passed. In one, a creature of living flame paced endlessly, its footsteps leaving scorched patterns in the floor.

In another, something with too many eyes watched them pass. Its tentacles pressed against invisible barriers.

"How many are there?" Silas whispered.

"Three hundred and seventy-two at last count," Bonereghard replied. "Though some exist in multiple states simultaneously, so the exact number is... debatable."

They passed a cell containing what appeared to be a mirror, though Silas's reflection showed something else entirely—a version of himself with black eyes and too-sharp teeth.

"Your grandfather collected them over decades," Bonereghard continued. "Some he bound through combat, others through cunning or bargaining. Each one represents power beyond ordinary comprehension."

"And they're all bound to our bloodline?"

"More or less. I wouldn't quite get comfortable with the 'bound' part. Controlling them requires more than just a blood connection. Each has its own requirements, its own prices to be paid."

Stolen story; please report.

They stopped before a cell that seemed to contain a piece of the night sky, complete with slowly moving stars. Silas followed Bonereghard deeper into the vault.

The next cell contained what appeared to be an ancient suit of bronze armor, though the metal rippled like water every few seconds. "That one," Bonereghard indicated a chamber filled with twisting darkness, "Consumes the dreams of the summoner in return for not needing to sleep. Invaluable during extended battles, though the sleep deprivation eventually wears down the body."

They stopped before a cell that seemed empty at first glance. As Silas peered closer, he noticed subtle movement in the air. "An elemental of the fire plane," Bonereghard explained. "One of the few your grandfather managed to bind. She demands tribute in the form of precious gems. The larger the stone, the longer she'll fight for you."

The next cell contained what looked like a normal crow, except its feathers were metallic and its eyes glowed with an inner fire. "That one requires a blood sacrifice. Nothing too dramatic, just a few drops will do. Though it must be freely given."

They moved on. "This one, for instance, requires the sacrifice of a memory each time it's summoned. That one," he pointed to a cell containing what looked like a child's music box, "Demands payment in years of life. Your grandfather was very careful about which prices he was willing to pay."

Silas stared at the innocuous music box, its delicate porcelain surface painted with faded roses and gilded edges worn by time. Despite its innocent appearance, something about it made his skin crawl.

"What does it do?" he asked, unable to look away from the seemingly ordinary object.

"Ah." Bonereghard's monocle caught the purple light. "The Spirit of the Horde. One of your grandfather's more... interesting acquisitions. Wind the box, and it summons an army of spectral warriors. Each turn of the key costs one year of life, and each warrior summoned requires another."

Silas swallowed hard, imagining an army of ghostly soldiers at his command. "How many can it summon?"

"As many as you're willing to sacrifice years for." Bonereghard's tone grew serious. "Your great-great-grand uncle used it only once to summon fifty spectral warriors. It cost him fifty years of his life, aged him half a century in moments. Purely accidental, he thought it a regular music box and wanted to hear the song."

The music box was just there in the cell, its key waiting to be turned.

"The warriors themselves are quite effective," Bonereghard continued. "Each one possesses the skill and strength they had in life. They cannot be killed, being already dead, and they follow commands without question. The perfect army, if you don't mind the cost."

Silas tore his gaze away from the music box, his mind racing with calculations. "That's a hefty price for temporary soldiers. How long do they last?"

"The duration matches the years sacrificed." Bonereghard adjusted his monocle. "One year of life grants you one year of service from each warrior. Your great-great-grand uncle's warriors served for fifty years after his death, guarding his widow until she passed."

"Seems like a raw deal." Silas shook his head. "Trading fifty years of life for soldiers that vanish after the same time? You'd be dead before they finished serving."

"I suppose so, but if one were particularly desperate, or had a legacy to protect..." Bonereghard's skull tilted. "But you're correct. Most of the items here carry similar drawbacks. Power always demands payment."

They kept going. Another cell contained a creature that looked like it had been stitched together from pieces of storm clouds, lightning crackling between its segments.

"The truly dangerous ones are kept deeper down," Bonereghard said, gesturing toward a darker section of the vault. "Beings that require a more careful approach."

Silas stared at Bonereghard, his stomach turning. "More dangerous than trading your life away?"

"The music box takes what you offer freely, relatively." Bonereghard adjusted his monocle. "Other artifacts and beings in our collection aren't so... ethical in their appetites."

They passed a cell containing what looked like an ordinary wooden puppet. Its painted smile seemed to follow them as they walked by.

"That one's particularly nasty," Bonereghard said. "Appears to children as a friendly playmate. We found it in a village where all the adults had disappeared. The children were... changed."

Silas felt the hair on his neck rise. "Changed how?"

"Let's just say they weren't quite children anymore." Bonereghard's skull turned to face him directly. "The music box, for all its terrible price, is honest about its nature. But some of these artifacts, these creatures, they're not just dangerous, they're malevolent. Evil in its purest form."

Silas tried to process everything he was seeing. "And Kelso wants access to all this?" Silas asked.

"Of course, young master." Bonereghard replied. "Though I suspect he doesn't fully understand what he's trying to claim. Most who seek power rarely comprehend its true cost."

They reached a junction where the path split into three directions. The air felt heavier here, pressing against Silas's chest like a physical weight.

"Your grandfather spent decades building safeguards," Bonereghard said. "The archive's defenses are tied to the estate's mana supply. Should they fail..." He left the sentence hanging.

"So when you said the estate's security was important," Silas said, "you weren't just talking about the Gemini."

"The Gemini are merely the first line of defense." Bonereghard's monocle caught the purple light. "What lies beneath requires considerably more... attention."

A distant sound echoed through the vault—something between a scrape and a whisper. Silas jumped, but Bonereghard seemed unperturbed.

"Perhaps we should continue this tour another time," the skeletal butler suggested. "Some of our residents get... restless when they sense new blood."

"Yeah. Let's get going. But what about Diog? What did he cost me?"

A dry chuckle echoed through the vault. Bonereghard answered, "Nothing really, that owl you had and a few trinkets, but otherwise, nothing more than pure dumb luck summoned and brought forth the Fenrir."

Silas blinked, processing this information. After seeing the terrible prices demanded by the vault's inhabitants, the idea that Diog had come to him through chance seemed almost impossible. He'd been prepared to hear about some hidden cost, some price he'd unknowingly agreed to pay.

"You mean he's just... mine? No catches?"

"The universe occasionally deals a winning hand, young master." Bonereghard adjusted his monocle. "Though I wouldn't recommend counting on such fortune becoming a habit."