Chapter 159: Big Money Never Comes Clean
Dylan didn’t answer right away.
He let the silence thicken, stretch out like a taut rope between them. The kind of silence one uses to weigh the risks, to gauge the greed in the other’s pupils. He knew what he held. And more than that, he knew what he wanted them to believe he held.
So, slowly—almost theatrically—he slipped his hand under his tunic, just slow enough to seem hesitant. Not cautious, no. But... desperate. Like someone about to give up a part of themselves.
He pulled out the gem.
A soft pulse of light flickered from it now and then—amethyst in color, troubled by ink-black glints, as if the very light inside it was trying to break free.
A thin vapor drifted off the gem at intervals, almost invisible but definitely there. And when he held it over the ritual table, even the jars lining the laboratory seemed to react. Bubbles rose for no reason. An eyeball floating in greenish gel rotated slightly toward them.
The Skinweaver approached, slowly.
A long, pale finger brushed the gem’s surface. A faint charge, almost imperceptible, lit up the sigil on his bald skull. He closed his eyes. Drew in a long breath. And murmured:
"Still intact."
He carefully picked it up and placed it inside the same iron circle as before. The runes lit up in a sharp red, and the room was immediately filled with a deep, muffled heartbeat from nowhere. A thum-thum, organic and irregular.
The gem shimmered faintly, a dense and evasive light.