The King's Tomb

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The street lights of Lugano fell away below the Jet Ranger’s windshield as the pilot raised the collective and flew toward the fir tree-lined slopes of Monte Brè. In the darkness of the chopper’s rear cabin, the man known as the Oracle was staring pensively through his window, weighed down with the baggage of his life’s mission.

No, pilgrimage. He tapped his chin with a withered forefinger while he gave the matter some thought. As the helicopter flew over the crest of the mountain and headed toward his compound on the eastern slopes, he concluded it was definitely more of a pilgrimage than a mission.

Thousands of years spent protecting the sources of eternal life had taken a heavy toll on him, but not as heavy as the search for the Citadel. In the black, hollow void he called a heart, he knew this hallowed place was more than a legend and yet no one had set eyes on its sparkling walls for millennia.

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