Chapter 2

Dinner resumed around the long table.

Silver candelabras, white porcelain plates, crystal glasses—carried in by servants in a steady procession. Bottle after bottle of red wine was opened, their labels bearing vintages old enough to make a sommelier wince. Truffle soup, seared foie gras, roasted squab—silver domes lifted one by one. The aroma of food mingled with the resinous scent of burning candles, churning into a thick, heavy fog in the air.

But no one was really eating.

Forks scraped against porcelain with grating sounds. Crystal glasses clinked too hard; a servant cut his hand on a shard, blood spotting the white tablecloth. He withdrew expressionlessly, and a new one took his place. No one noticed the interruption. Everyone was talking.

Philip was discussing his polling numbers. They'd dropped eight points. He needed cash within three months—enough to punch through media budgets—and his father's estate, he lowered his voice at the word, could conveniently fill that gap.

"You just want a quick grab and run," Liana said, slicing her foie gras with surgical precision. "I'm the one actually running the trust Grandfather left behind. I'm the one working for this family every single day."

"You? You bought yourself a VP title with trust fund money."

Margaret let out a laugh. "You two can stop squabbling. Grandfather favored me most. He said it himself—'Maggie, you're the one most like me.'"

"When did he say that?"

"Last Christmas."

"You weren't even here last Christmas."

Margaret's fork stopped mid-air. Her smile didn't change, but something in her eyes shifted. "I video-called that day. He said it. He said I was the one most like him."

"He was losing it. He'd been losing it for three years." Philip took a drink.

"He wasn't losing it. He knew exactly what he was saying. He knew who cared and who didn't."

"Enough." Ella's voice wasn't loud, but the entire table fell silent for an instant. She set down her knife and fork and looked at the arguing faces around her. "Grandfather is sitting right there. Can you at least—"

She turned to the head of the table. Grandfather was quietly cutting into the steak on his plate, barely touched. His head was lowered, his knife and fork moving slowly and deliberately, like an old man eating alone in a noisy cafeteria. He wasn't looking at anyone. And no one was looking at him.

Leo reached for the wine bottle and poured himself a full glass. "Forget it. Let them fight. Same old routine—who's the favorite, who's not. Who cares once the money's being split."

He downed the glass in one go, his gaze fixed on the bottle in front of him. He reached out and touched its rim; the moment his fingertip met the glass, he jerked his hand back, as if burned.

Grandfather set down his utensils and dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He surveyed the table, letting his gaze rest on each face for a second. Then he stood, raised his glass, and tapped the rim lightly with a silver knife.

"I heard what you were all talking about just now," he said. "Companies, stocks, elections, property prices. Fascinating topics."

He smiled and took a sip.

"Not one of you asked me—how has the old man been these past six months? Living alone in such a big manor, does it get lonely? Do I ever wish for someone to talk to?"

The smile was still there, but his tone had changed. Like a thin layer of ice over a lake—you couldn't tell how deep the water was beneath.

"So I thought, maybe I should give you a reason to learn to listen to me carefully."

He extended his left hand. The palm was withered, the back speckled with brown age spots. Then he turned his wrist—his hand was empty. But when he turned it back, a gold coin lay in his palm.

Not magic. No sleeves, no fingers, no sleight of hand. The coin simply appeared in his palm, as if it had been there all along and had only just chosen not to be seen.

"I've acquired a certain power," Grandfather said, his voice not loud, but every word driving straight into the eardrums of everyone present. "A power that can make your dreams come true. This manor was once a monastery. Buried beneath it is something older than God. I found it. And it agreed to let my children have what they want most."

A brief silence. Liana let out a skeptical laugh. Philip frowned, opening his mouth as if to speak, then thinking better of it.

Leo slammed his glass down on the table. "Prove it."

Grandfather looked at him, his smile unchanged. "Break that bottle."

Leo looked down at the bottle before him. He grabbed it by the neck, then let go—the bottle hit the floor, glass shattering, red wine splashing everywhere. Then, under everyone's watchful eyes, the wine retreated from the cracks between the stones, glass shards sprang up from the floor, reassembling themselves. Three seconds later, a perfectly intact bottle stood on the table. Not even a watermark remained on the floor.

No one spoke. The flames in the fireplace all shrank half an inch at once. The candlelight flickered, stretching and shortening everyone's shadows.

"The rules are simple," Grandfather said, placing the coin on the table. It spun on its own, emitting a faint hum. "From this moment on, for the next ten hours, this manor is sealed off from the outside world. Each of you may make one wish. Money, power, beauty, health—anything. It's not a trick. Not a joke. It's real. There's only one condition—everyone must speak their wish aloud. I won't force anyone. Every word must come from your own mouth. But if anyone remains silent until the end, all fulfilled wishes will be voided. And everyone will stay here forever, unable to leave."

He picked up his cane and turned toward the stairs. The cane struck the stone floor—thud, thud, thud—in rhythm with a heartbeat. At the foot of the stairs, he stopped and glanced back. Something flickered in those pale blue eyes—like the glint of a spinning coin.

"Think carefully about what you want most."

He disappeared around the stairwell.

Silence held the hall for a moment. Then the reactions split into three layers—Margaret took half a step back, her fingers tightening around the pendant at her throat; Leo was already typing on his phone, his gaze unfocused; Philip straightened his tie, the expression of a man assessing an opponent across a negotiating table settling onto his face. Fear, greed, calculation—three expressions around the same table.

I rose from my seat, took Ella by the wrist, and pulled her into a corner. My back molar was still aching. Now it ached so badly half my face was going numb.

"Your grandfather is no longer your grandfather. I don't know what that thing is, but there's a hole in the rules it laid out—it keeps stressing that everyone must make a wish, but it hasn't said a single word about the price. All contracts of this kind follow an ancient principle of equivalence: to gain, you must pay. I've read over a dozen witness accounts of demonic pacts in the archives. Not one of them listed the price up front. The price is always in the fine print. Or worse—paid by a third party."

Ella looked at the empty chair at the head of the table, then at her family, already beginning to discuss their wishes with growing excitement. "What does it want?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is—don't make a wish. At least not until we figure this out. It's holding everyone hostage with everyone else's fate. The price of you not wishing isn't yours alone to bear—it falls on all of them. That's the trap."