THE ARTIFACT CURSE

Arc 1: The Hire — Episodes 1–10 The bookstore reeked of dust and aged cedar, the stillness of a place sealed off from time. Lyric Vane stepped through the door at 8:58 AM, double-checking the address on his phone. The shop’s front sign hung dim and unlit, clearly closed for business. He went in anyway. The overhead bell remained silent, dead. A man behind the counter didn’t look up from his auction catalog, his broken nose and weathered reading glasses marking a lifetime of handling rare antiquities. “Lyric Vane.” It was no question. “That’s me.” “Last spring, you authenticated the Halverston estate’s Han Dynasty ink stone. The family had mislabeled it Ming for forty years.” The man finally lifted his eyes, sharp and unyielding beneath their dull surface. “Your final line amused my employer: This object has been misidentified for longer than most families have existed.” Lyric said nothing. The man slid a plain card across the counter. No logo, no address—only a name printed in crisp serif font: Caspian Graves — Director of Special Assets, Graves Industries. “Eleven o’clock. Thamesford Quay. They’re expecting you.” Lyric flipped the card over. Blank. “To do what?” “Authenticate something that shouldn’t exist.” The twenty-minute cab ride gave Lyric time to study his own reflection in the window. Average features, forgettable face—the greatest tool in his line of work. Invisibility made people careless. Careless people revealed the truth hidden in their possessions. He brushed a finger lightly over his collarbone through his shirt, then forced his hand away. Graves Industries’ waterfront tower was sleek, unassuming glass and steel—expensive enough to look entirely ordinary. The marble lobby was cold and sterile, lined with surveillance cameras and manned security desks. A woman waited by the elevators: mid-thirties, full-sleeve tattoos peeking out of a worn leather jacket, her demeanor sharp and unimpressed. “Lyric Vane?” “Yes.” “Evelyn Thorne, archivist.” She pressed the elevator button, no formalities. “Three rules. No bare hands on vault artifacts. Don’t read any labels aloud—three are phonetically active Old Meridian script. Never ask about the sealed sixth floor. The maintenance story is a lie.” Lyric tilted his head. “Is there a seventh floor?” Evelyn’s gaze locked on his. “Get in.” The elevator descended far past the lobby floors. The air thickened, turning cool and metallic, tasting of ancient iron and silver. The doors opened onto a vault corridor that stretched farther than it should. Amber lights gilded the glass cases, each artifact sitting like a tooth in a dead man’s mouth. At the far end, a man in a charcoal suit stood with his back to them, shoulders squared as if he were guarding the air itself. Charcoal three-piece suit, wire-rimmed glasses, perfect posture—less corporate executive, more curator of dangerous things. He turned at the sound of their footsteps. “Mr. Vane. Thank you for coming.” Lyric’s gaze zeroed in on the vacant case. “Something was stolen.” “Last night.” Caspian’s tone was steady, unyielding. “Locked vault, six security layers, zero triggered alarms. The thief knew exactly what they were taking.” “What was it?” “A set of eleventh-century bone dice, with direct family provenance.” Lyric recognized the vague wording immediately—Graves family history with too many unwritten secrets. “You want me to trace who touched it.” Caspian’s dark eyes held his firmly. “You pulled forty years of hidden history from an ink stone. Do the same for this pedestal.” “I charge daily rate, plus expenses.” A faint, controlled shift softened Caspian’s expression—no smile, only quiet acquiescence. “Acceptable.” Lyric reached for his gloves. He failed to notice Caspian’s gaze fixed intently on his hands the entire time.