Page 22 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Fourteen

Dalla felt the press of warm hands on her cheeks. She blinked as two blurred faces came into focus—Musad to her left, Nasser to her right. Each of them gently brushed the tears from her skin.

She drew in a shuddering breath and gave them a watery smile. From the concern on their faces, the grief in their eyes, she realized that she must have spoken aloud the last time she saw Harlem.

“Thank you,” she whispered, swallowing as she carefully looked into the chest.

The scent of leather, wood, and time drifted out, soft as a ghost. Faded fabrics.

A yellowed letter. A folded rebel cap from France.

Her trembling hand reached in, brushing a wax-sealed journal that had once been hers—and beside it, a single wine glass, carefully wrapped in linen. The twin of the one Harlem had kept.

Hope stirred in her chest. Not for the past. But for the truth. And for what was still to come.

Dalla reached into the chest, her fingers brushing over the familiar textures. Her breath caught as she lifted the first item— a leather-bound journal, supple but worn, its edges frayed and softened by time. She pulled it out and set it gently on her lap, then opened it.

The pages were yellowed, the ink faded in places, and the leather was stained with age and perhaps tears—hers or another’s, she couldn’t be sure.

The writing wove through Old Norse, Latin, Arabic, Gaulish—even ancient Runic symbols—each entry a marker of the life she’d lived, of the centuries she’d endured.

Intricate illustrations of battlefields, seascapes, and familiar stars spiraled across the margins, drawn by her hand in the stolen moments between deaths.

She flipped through it slowly, her eyes tracing her own journey from the first time she came back—from the beginning . So many lifetimes. So many names of those she had known, loved, and lost.

She had kept this journal close until the day it had become too dangerous to carry anything with her. She had handed it to Harlem with trembling hands before they parted the last time they saw each other, and whispered, “Keep it safe.”

He had promised. And he had kept that promise.

“He said he would place it in a small hole behind a rock in this cave,” she murmured.

She closed the journal with trembling fingers and handed it to Nasser, who had quietly moved to sit beside her.

He accepted it with a reverence that made her heart ache.

Next, she pulled out a piece of pale ivory silk, carefully knotted. Inside was a delicate necklace, the metal soft with age, the gems the color of a frozen lake in spring. It glimmered faintly in the firelight.

Nasser inhaled sharply. “That’s… priceless.”

Dalla nodded. “Gerold gave it to me. The silk… was from Pascal. He said it matched my skin.”

Her smile faded as she reached into the chest again, fingers brushing past a cascade of small items: A small glass bottle, still smelling faintly of rosewater from ancient Rome.

A jade pendant carved with Chinese characters for courage and family.

A French locket with an image of a tree inside, sketched on parchment.

A twisted iron nail from a crossbeam in a castle destroyed by fire.

A child’s wooden whistle, worn smooth, likely from her time in England in the 1600s.

A pair of silver cufflinks, engraved with a family crest lost to time.

Each item was a story, a heartbeat she had once known. She touched the relics, reverent and sorrowful. Her fingers paused as they reached the bottom of the chest, and she frowned.

There—barely visible—was a Viking symbol for prosperity, etched with such subtlety it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. She ran her fingertips along it. There was a small indentation and a narrow gap at the edge of the base.

“Musad,” she whispered without taking her eyes off it. “May I borrow your tool again?”

Wordlessly, Musad handed it to her. She flicked open the blade and slid it carefully into the seam. With a soft click , the bottom sprang open.

She pushed the panel aside.

Inside was a worn leather bag. Her pulse quickened as she lifted it and pulled it open.

A cascade of gold coins spilled into her palm, catching the firelight in a glimmer of warmth and memory. Nestled among them was a single folded letter, her name inked in Harlem’s bold, familiar script.

She gently poured the coins back into the bag and handed both the pouch and the tool back to Musad before unfolding the letter.

The paper crumpled in her hands.

Dearest Dalla,

If you are reading this, it means you have returned and found our secret hiding place before any other.

I’ve included some coins that will give you the funds you need to exist in this time period.

Call this number, and I will help you.

Best wishes,

Harlem

Her eyes blurred as the inked words pulled a tremor through her heart. She didn’t resist when Musad reached for the letter, holding it between them for a long moment before silently handing it to Nasser.

Nasser accepted it, eyes narrowing in curiosity. When Musad passed him a coin, he hissed sharply and turned it over.

“This is…” he murmured, awe in his voice, “a Greek gold stater, minted around 600 B.C.”

Dalla slowly and tenderly repacked the chest. She left the coin pouch beside her, staring at it as if it held the weight of centuries—because it did.

She looked up at the two men, her heart full and aching, and rose to her feet.

Nasser instinctively stood as well and took a step toward her, but she lifted a hand and shook her head.

“I just need a moment… alone.”

He stopped, nodding.

She turned and walked toward the cave entrance. Her steps were slow… but steady.

Dima, Simdan

The sun dipped behind the distant mountains, casting long shadows across the sprawling skyline of Dima, the capital city of Simdan.

Kramer stood at the window, staring out at the construction across the city.

Historical buildings, many still in a state of repair from the damage of war and neglect, mixed with new, modern structures.

The air inside the elegant penthouse suite was crisp, filtered through state-of-the-art ventilation that carried the subtle scent of imported sandalwood.

The sleek desk at the center of the room reflected the last embers of natural light, mirroring the tension that had settled like an invisible storm cloud stirring inside him.

Since the return of Raja Hadi, the mythical Savior of Simdan and ghostly prince thought to have been killed by his ruthless uncle decades ago, international support had flowed into the little-known country.

Hadi’s connections were impressive. From international sensations like jazz and pop star, Idella, to political figures and royalty, the man had changed Simdan’s landscape both locally and internationally.

He is not someone I wish to cross.

A quiet knock at the door caused him to turn away from the scenic view.

“Enter,” he called out.

Doris opened the office door with a polite smile. Kramer nodded to her, and she closed it again behind Detri. Kramer’s eyes narrowed on Detri’s face. The man appeared… distracted.

Shaken.

The thought unsettled him. “What is so important that you deemed it necessary to meet me in person here?” he demanded.

Detri entered, his face stiff and lined with tension. Something in his rigid posture, in the haunted look in his eyes, made Kramer’s brow twitch.

“You look like shit,” Kramer said flatly. “You'd better have something. I won’t tell you how dangerous it is for me to be in this country. I don’t have the same connections that I had with the previous government.”

Detri’s expression turned grim, and he walked forward. He placed the disk Kyle had given him on the desk and motioned to it. Kramer scowled at the disk.

“I’ve already seen the footage,” he snapped.

Detri shook his head. “You haven’t seen this footage,” he snapped back.

Shock coursed through Kramer.

Detri never lost his cool. Not with him.

“Kyle enhanced some new feed that he found from the CCTV cameras in the square,” he said, voice low, taut. “You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

Kramer lifted an eyebrow at Detri’s tone. Ambient lighting automatically came on as the sun set behind him, casting an artificial golden hue across the room.

He took the chip, slid into his leather chair, and inserted it into the laptop waiting on the desk. The screen flickered as the video loaded.

“Let’s see what you’ve brought me now,” he said, his eyes flashing to the screen.

The footage started grainy, then sharpened.

The stone wall of a business in the square backdropped the twisted wreckage of an upside-down SUV.

Smoke curled upward from the undercarriage.

He was about to look away from the scene when the smoke shimmered and a person appeared.

He could still see through the ghostly shape.

The resolution sharpened—as did the figure standing on top of the vehicle.

The woman.

Tall, cloaked in desert garb, her bow drawn with easy familiarity and strength as she solidified. She turned slightly—enough for Kramer to catch the barest flicker of movement behind her.

Wings?

The image on the screen distorted.

“Wait—”

The image froze mid-frame, fuzzing into static before becoming so disrupted, he couldn’t distinguish the image any longer. The video scrambled and twisted into digital snow before it vanished.

“What the hell?” Kramer snarled, stabbing the keys with growing frustration.

He clicked the mouse before he pressed the keys of the laptop again. He closed and reopened the file folder. Nothing. The disk stated, ‘No files detected’.

“What happened?” Detri demanded in a grim voice, circling the desk to peer at the screen over Kramer’s shoulder.

“It vanished. See if you can fix it.”

Kramer shoved back from the desk as Detri grabbed the laptop, slid into the chair, and started working the keys with growing aggression. His fingers flew over the keyboard, his breath growing shallow as screen after screen showed the same results: No File Found.

“Damn it!” Detri hissed, pulling out his phone. Seconds later, the call was answered, and he put it on speaker. “Kyle, what the hell is happening?”

On the other end, chaos.

Alarms blared in the background—shrill, pulsing, urgent. A distant voice shouted over the din.

“I don’t know!” Kyle shouted, panicked. “It’s all gone!

My entire setup is gone! All my files—including the ones I saved offline—are toast!

I checked the backup drives—they’re all fried!

Like… melted! There are scorch marks on the casings!

I swear it’s like a lightning strike hit everything! But the weather’s clear.”

Detri cursed under his breath again. “What about the video of the woman? Do you have it saved somewhere else?”

“It’s gone, man! It’s gone. Everything… all my equipment. All the files. Every piece of electronics is dead, wiped out, fried. I don’t know what happened , man. I… It’s a freaking disaster,” Kyle replied, his voice reflecting his disbelief.

“Impossible,” Kramer growled. “I want a copy of the video. Find it! Hack into the city server or whatever it is you do. Do whatever you did to get it.”

“I’m telling you, it’s all gone. I tried.

On my phone. The video from the CCTV… all the servers have been wiped clean, but only for those few minutes with the woman in them.

” Kyle released a loud, frustrated groan.

“I’ve been chasing something —I couldn’t even begin to tell you what it is—from one server to the next.

It’s a sweeping wave of change is what it is, it’s fucking destruction , but that’s all I can tell you, man.

I’ve never seen anything like this. Systems are letting them in one by one.

Even the building’s backup grid is flickering. Something has infected?—”

The line crackled.

“— anything electrical, even if it’s not online,” Kyle finished, his voice sounding distant and distorted.

Detri lowered his head, one hand still clutching the laptop, the other clenched into a white-knuckled fist. “Did you print anything?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

There was silence on the line. Then Kyle’s reluctant voice: “Printing is old school… but, yeah. One image before everything went nuts. It’s… it’s grainy. Low-res.”

“Give it to Gunther,” Detri snapped. “Tell him to bring it to Dima. I’ll text the address.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply and immediately dialed Gunther. The call was brief, all business. Once it was done, Detri sank into the chair and looked at Kramer, his face a mask of rage and confusion.

Kramer stared at him.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “Who is this woman? How much does she know? What the hell is she?”

Detri stood, slowly, his face hardening with determination. “I don’t know who or what she is,” he said. “But I’m going to find out.”

Kramer watched as Detri turned and stormed from the office, the door slamming behind him with a thud that echoed like a gunshot.

Kramer sank down into the chair. He sat in silence, his fingers resting on the laptop’s edge. The office now felt… eerie. Claustrophobic. The overhead light flickered for a heartbeat, then stabilized.

He looked back at the dark screen.

Closing the lid, he pulled his hand away. He felt a wary unease, as if someone or something could emerge from the device. He pulled the electrical cord out of it before he rose and stepped back from the desk.

In his mind’s eye, he could still see the glimmering image of the woman from the video as she suddenly appeared—wings flickering behind her.

It had to be a trick of the light.

Had to be.