Lucía almost laughed. Then she thought of her brother, dying of a slow sickness that no doctor could name. She uncapped her pen.

Lucía was not a believer in curses. She was a scholar of forgotten texts. But the moment she touched the leather, the temperature in the vault dropped. The candles flickered green.

But the serpent clasp is closed now. And the key is gone.

That night, the book appeared on her nightstand.