The command center of The Obsidian was a cathedral of data. Dozens of transparent glass screens floated in the center of the room, casting a ghostly blue light over Rosw’s pale face. He sat in a high-backed ergonomic chair, his chest still tightly bound in medical gauze, his fingers dancing across a haptic keyboard with a speed that defied his injuries.
"The ring, Lucian," he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. "Place your hand on the scanner."
I looked at the circular obsidian pedestal glowing with a soft white light. This was it. The moment I became more than a Vance or a Blackwood. I became the key. I stepped forward, my heart hammering against my ribs, and pressed my right hand—the one carrying the pear-shaped diamond—onto the cold glass surface.
A thin red laser swep
