The elevator hummed as it descended to the museum's lower archive level, each passing floor echoing the growing tension in Noel's chest. The Crestmont name sat in her mind like a shard of glass—familiar now, sharp and dangerous.
She stepped out into the cool, dimly lit corridor where the museum's most obscure donations were processed and stored. Archive Room C was already open, a strip of yellow light spilling out across the tiled floor. The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood.
"Hey, Noel," the archivist, Marcy, greeted her with a raised brow. "Wasn't sure you'd still be around."
"I had a feeling I should be," she replied, forcing a calm smile.
Marcy gestured toward a wooden crate on the examination table. It was old—oak, iron-reinforced at the corners, with a wax-sealed envelope pinned to the lid.
"No paperwork, no heads-up. It just... showed up," Marcy said, clearly unnerved. "Courier said it was part of a will fulfillment, but didn't say more."
"Crestmont estate?" Noel asked, already stepping closer.
"Yep. You know the name?"
"Sort of," she muttered, fingers brushing the envelope. The wax was stamped with a sigil—two crescent moons crossed over a flame. Familiar. Too familiar.
She opened it carefully.
Inside, a note written in looping script:
> "For the one who remembers. For the one who listens. The time is turning again."
Below the note, a folded document: inventory list, handwritten. Several items were listed, but one caught her attention immediately.
Item 4 – Prism Fragment (Amethyst hue) — Recovered from unknown site, estimated 20th-century replication of proto-Spectra iconography. Handle with care.
Her breath caught.
"Jack," she whispered. "There's a piece."
His voice came through her mind, hushed, reverent. "A fragment? Here?"
Marcy looked up. "Did you say something?"
Noel shook her head. "Just... thinking aloud."
Marcy smiled warily. "Want me to start cataloguing or...?"
"No. I'll handle it personally."
Noel lifted the crate's lid slowly, heart pounding.
Inside, wrapped in layers of velvet and straw, sat several minor antiques—ceramic relics, a sealed journal, a tarnished locket—but nestled near the bottom was a small glass case. Within it: a crystal shard, smooth on one side, jagged on the other. It pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, with violet light.
Her hand hovered over it.
"Jack... is this from the prism?"
"I think so," he murmured. "But it's not just a piece. It's still active."
Noel swallowed hard.
A message sent. A puzzle unfolding. And now, a relic glowing with the same light that had sparked to life in her palm.
She turned to Marcy. "Can I take this upstairs? I want to run a few tests."
"Sure," Marcy said with a shrug. "Honestly, I'm happy to let someone else handle the creepy glowing rock."
Noel smiled faintly, but her mind was already racing.
She needed answers.
And maybe, just maybe, this fragment was going to give them.
....
Noel carried the glass case upstairs with the care of someone holding a live grenade. Every vibration of the elevator seemed amplified, as if the shard was responding—not audibly, but in presence. Like a faint static charge brushing against her skin.
Once back in her office, she locked the door and pulled the blinds. The usual hum of museum noise faded behind thick walls and silence. She set the case on her desk, turned off the overhead lights, and switched on her desk lamp.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's see what you are."
Jack remained quiet, but she felt him close—like a breath just behind her ear, waiting.
Noel unlatched the glass cover. Immediately, the shard gave off a soft thrum, not sound exactly, but something she felt more than heard.
She didn't touch it. Not yet.
Instead, she pulled on gloves and retrieved her portable scanner—standard museum tech for identifying chemical composition and age. She ran a light pulse over the surface.
The screen blinked uncertainly. Then: Reading anomaly. No known composite match. Electromagnetic field detected.
She stared. That wasn't possible.
"This thing is... self-charged?" she muttered.
Jack's voice entered her thoughts, faintly awed. "It's holding a resonance signature. That's... ancient tech. We never managed to stabilize it long-term."
"What does it do?"
Another pause.
"It remembers."
Noel blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The prism fragments—they were memory conduits. Designed to store, reflect, and, sometimes... share imprints."
Her pulse picked up. "So this could have a memory locked inside it?"
Jack's tone dropped, almost cautious. "Yes. But unlocking it could also activate it. And if it's keyed to a Spectra signal—"
"It could react to me," she finished. She was already pulling her gloves off.
"Noel—"
She touched it.
The world tilted.
Suddenly, her vision tunneled—not darkness, but light, flooding in from all sides. Her body remained still, but her mind was pulled somewhere else. Into the shard.
And then—
A hall of glass and stone. Dozens of robed figures gathered in rows. An argument—heated, impassioned—echoed across arched walls. She saw a man in violet, not Jack, but someone older. A woman in blue rising to speak, her eyes burning with clarity.
"If we seal him, we end the cycle. We stop the break before it happens again."
"Or we make the same mistake twice."
"This is treason."
A flash of silver. Panic. Then—shattering light, and Jack screaming as he was pulled into darkness.
Noel gasped and tore her hand away. Her chair scraped backward, and she nearly fell to the floor.
The shard lay still again. Quiet. Innocent.
Jack's voice was low, shaken. "You saw it."
She nodded slowly, breath unsteady. "Part of it. Not everything. But enough to know... it wasn't just about sealing you. There was a division. A betrayal."
He didn't speak.
Noel looked at the shard. "How many of these are there?"
"Seven. One for each color."
"And someone is leaving them for me."
"Or testing you."
A chill passed through her. Not fear—something colder. Purpose. Destiny. Burden.
Her computer pinged again—another message from the unknown museum account.
This time, a line of text:
> "The second fragment is already in play. Choose wisely."