Chapter I. The Artifact

My name?
Oh, come on. Does it really matter?

I’ve been called a researcher, a traveler, a collector—usually by people who needed something from me and didn’t quite trust me. You may choose whichever version makes you comfortable. As for a name, let’s not get sentimental.

Call me Private Collector N.

It sounds mysterious, respectable, and just vague enough to keep me out of unnecessary paperwork.

What does matter is this: I enjoy a good adventure.
And I have a regrettable habit of saying yes to the wrong ones.

I collect artifacts. I hunt treasure. I poke my nose into places where sensible people would send a drone, a committee, or preferably someone else. Some say I’m a dreamer. Others say I’m a fantasist. History tends to agree with me rather than with them—but only after it’s finished laughing.

Now, about how I met Aelfric Glen, Licentiate.

That happened later. Much later. Or earlier, depending on how you look at time. For me, time behaves nicely—mostly in straight lines. For Glen… well, let’s just say clocks behave differently around him.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s start at the point where everything went wrong.

I first saw the object when the divers dragged it onto the deck.

Dragged is the correct word. Whatever it was, it didn’t want to come up politely. It rose from the sea wrapped in cables and improvised slings, dripping black water as if the ocean itself was reluctant to let go. The crew stared at it the way sailors stare at storms—respectfully and without asking questions.

The sea was calm. Too calm.
No one spoke.

That was when I knew it was valuable.

This was my trophy.
My payment.

Months earlier, I had agreed to consult for an enterprise whose relationship with science could best be described as creative. Officially, it was research. Unofficially, it was a scam with diagrams. I only agreed because my own work had reached the familiar stage where funding disappears, institutions lose interest, and colleagues begin suggesting I “focus on something more practical.”

The artifact was the price of that compromise.

I examined it from every angle. No corrosion. No identifiable alloy. It absorbed light instead of reflecting it—an annoying habit in an object that refuses to be photographed properly. Its shape suggested design, but not function. Intelligence, but not intention I could recognize.

I tested it.
I scanned it.
I insulted it quietly.

Nothing.

I couldn’t identify it.

And when a man who prides himself on identifying things can’t identify something, he has two choices: panic—or monetize.

I chose monetization.

With no sponsor and no clear future, I decided to sell it. Whatever money it brought would fund another expedition, another attempt, another refusal to quit when I clearly should have.

I expected a few thousand at best.

The auction listing was simple—almost insulting in its honesty:

Unidentified object recovered from the bottom of the sea near the Aleutian Islands.

Starting bid: one hundred dollars.

No one bid.

I relaxed. Then, just as I was congratulating myself on my impeccable instincts, an anonymous bidder offered one thousand dollars. I nodded. Reasonable. Sensible. End of story.

Except stories like this never end sensibly.

Another bidder appeared. Two thousand. Then five. Then numbers that stopped being numbers and started being emotional experiences. One hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Half a million.

At that point, I stopped breathing and started watching.

When the auction closed, the final price stood at one million one hundred thousand dollars.

I laughed. Out loud. Alone.

Clearly a mistake. A glitch. Someone leaned on a keyboard.

Three days later, a check arrived.

It was real.

Along with it came a name.

Aelfric Glen.

Nothing else.

No title. No institution. Just the name.

It meant absolutely nothing to me.

Which is why it bothered me so much.

I called the auction house. They knew nothing. Or pretended convincingly enough that it made no difference. The buyer’s identity was sealed behind confidentiality agreements thick enough to stop bullets—or curiosity.

Weeks passed.

Then one morning, a letter arrived.

Heavy envelope. Expensive paper. Handwritten address—the kind that tells you the sender wants you to notice that it’s handwritten. Inside was an invitation to London. Airline tickets included. First class, naturally.

No explanation.
No instructions.
No threats.

I accepted immediately.

Who Aelfric Glen, Licentiate really is—and what happened when we met—is a story for another chapter.

But that letter marked the moment when my research stopped being a lonely, mildly embarrassing obsession.

And when the artifact stopped being just an object.

It had found its audience.