Page 64 of Autumn L.A.W

Ezra stood beside it, hands folded loosely, posture composed. Sahara’s desert fox familiar flickered in and out of visibility at her heel, pacing a restless path. She signed another form on a clipboard that had clearly been in bureaucratic circulation since World War II.

“You brought friends,” came a warm voice behind them.

Sahara turned.

Professor Nabila Rahim approached with the same ageless energy Sahara remembered from her student days: sharp eyes, brisk steps, hair pinned up with practical ruthlessness. The professor gathered her into a brief, fierce hug. She smelled faintly of cardamom and ink.

“You vanished into competence and never wrote,” Professor Rahim said. “I forgave you only because I knew you were not idle.”

Sahara’s throat tightened. “It’s good to see you, Nabila.”

“And you.” The professor turned to Ezra. “You must be the steady one I told her to travel with. She always needs the steady ones. Welcome. Thank you for not letting her shoulder everything alone.”

Ezra blinked. “I do what I can.”

“Yes,” Professor Rahim said. “Now do more.”

Ezra’s brows rose in surprise, but he didn’t want to know what she meant, so he didn’t ask.

Then she turned her attention to the crate. Her expression sobered in an instant.

“Show me,” she said.

“I can’t,” Sahara murmured.

They didn’t open it. They didn’t need to. The presence of the obelisk was a pressure in the air, a low vibration that hummed in bone and memory. The professor’s mouth tightened.

“I’ve arranged the vault,” she said quietly. “Climate, isolation, layered security, and a registry so blank it doesn’t exist. This will be completely off-book. No public mention. No glass cases. No donors.”

Sahara exhaled. “Thank you.”

“You were always my favorite student,” Professor Rahim said, softer now. “Now my friend too.”

The fox paused, listening. Then it kept pace with the two workmen rolling the cart carrying the crate containing the obelisk, which held the dangerous, metaphysical prisoner.

Inside, paperwork happened. Paperwork was apparently the fourth constant of the universe, after time, gravity, and academic egos. Ezra discussed humidity tolerances with the vault supervisor. Professor Rahim corrected a mislabeled asset tag with an expression that could shatter stone.

Sahara should have been paying attention. Instead, the fox went utterly still. The growl started in his chest and traveled through the floor like distant thunder. Sahara froze. The imprint inside her stirred, a faint drumbeat beneath the skin.

Down the corridor, two employees whispered with the intensity of men who believed they were the protagonists in a movie. They glanced up, then one of them pulled the other into a side room. The desert fox’s long ears stood up straight, listening. Sahara crept forward.

“We can’t leave something this valuable locked away down here,” one hissed. “We’ll never see funding like this again.”

“The professor signed off,” the other muttered. “And I don’t like being near it. My nightmares are bad enough⁠—”

“I’ll arrange a private pickup. Midnight. Quiet. No paper trail. Everyone wins.”

The fox materialized fully, coat rippling. His teeth were bared, but his silent focus skewered them like a blade.

Sahara stepped forward. Ezra fell into place beside her, calm as a held line.

“There will be no midnight transfer,” Sahara said matter-of-factly.

The first administrator looked at the fox, then at Sahara, then back at the fox, as if trying to decide which was more dangerous.

“We were only discussing contingencies,” he said weakly.

“No,” Ezra said. “You were discussing theft. Of an item that should never be unsealed, let alone transported by untrained hands.”