Tom needed the emerald to be found in at most two days, a timeline he knew was impossibly tight, but necessary. Any longer, and it could be too late. Every hour that passed felt like sand slipping through his fingers. He needed to act quickly, decisively. That meant narrowing down the twelve possible locations he had identified through his earlier research.
Twelve locations meant twelve chances to be wrong. Twelve different terrains, obstacles, leads. He couldn't possibly search them all thoroughly within the time frame. Not if he was working with limited manpower, and right now, it was just him and Gregor. At best, he could visit half of them in time. And even that would stretch their resources thin.
He needed to reduce the list. Narrow it. Refine it until only the most probable spots remained.
But how?
He leaned back in the chair, the soft creak of the leather underscoring the weight settling in his chest. How was he supposed to filter these leads without more information? Without someone to help him connect the dots, without access to people who understood the history of the emerald
Tom sagged deeper into the chair, his posture collapsing for the first time that night. The fire that usually sparked behind his eyes dimmed just a bit, and for a fleeting moment, just a moment, he looked young. Tired. Vulnerable.
His fingers drummed idly on the edge of the desk, but it wasn't the usual rhythm of confidence. It was restless. Uncertain. He stared blankly at the tablet screen in front of him, the blinking red dot of Jhel's tracker still pulsing in one corner, mocking him with its distance.
He couldn't afford to waste time. Every second he sat still was a second closer to losing everything. Yet here he was, stuck. And beneath the stillness of his exterior, a cold panic started to creep in. The kind that didn't scream or thrash. The kind that whispered.
What if I don't make it in time?
What if I never find it?
What if I lose my father?
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as if trying to lock those thoughts away, but they clung to him like smoke. The walls of the hotel room, though quiet and warm, felt like they were closing in.
In a desperate attempt to distract himself, Tom pivoted, opened a new tab on his laptop, and typed in a new search: "Lorian. Emerald of Firan. Origin. Mentions. Anything."
He stared at the loading bar, willing it to produce something meaningful, something solid he could sink his teeth into.
Nothing.
Just page after page of dead-end forums, low-effort articles written by people who'd heard the name in passing but had no real context. No detail. No sources. No leads.
"Useless," he muttered under his breath.
He sat there, staring at the screen, willing it to change, but of course it didn't. After another thirty seconds of fighting the inertia, he stood abruptly, chair sliding back with a harsh screech against the floor. He began pacing, each step quick and tense, arms crossed, eyes darting.
He wasn't used to this.
This wasn't how things were supposed to go.
Tom Polo was always three steps ahead. Always had a backup plan for the backup plan. Even in chaos, he could usually pull a thread of control from the mess. But this time? This time, everything was too fragmented. Too hazy. The variables refused to behave. The connections refused to click.
And now?
Now all he could do was wait and watch and hope.
Hope.
The word itself irritated him. He didn't like relying on it. Hope was a fragile thing, dependent on chance and grace. It wasn't strategy. It wasn't action. It was faith, and Tom had never been the faith type.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. The helplessness buzzed inside him like static, hot and restless. The feeling was like an itch he couldn't scratch, an agitation that made his skin feel too tight.
Fine.
If the world refused to bend to him tonight, he'd bend something else.
He grabbed his phone from the desk, tapping through his contacts with a speed that was almost aggressive. If he couldn't get control of the situation out there, he'd take control of what he could. Of what was certain. What gave him XP.
He scrolled down, paused over one particular name: Selene.
A slow, mischievous smirk tried to curl onto his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Not tonight.
Still, he clicked her name and began typing.
"Hey. You up?"
"Got a little time to spare and thought of you."
He hit send. Then he waited.
Seconds turned to minutes.
He locked and unlocked his phone three times. Checked the signal. Refreshed the chat.
Nothing.
Selene was silent.
She was either out, or asleep, or just ignoring him. Whatever the case, it became obvious after five… ten… fifteen minutes that he wasn't going to get a reply. Not now, at least.