The Silver Crest

Morning light cut across the dark wood. I moved out from under the riser, shield angled toward the glare. Clear passage. Ahead lay a dense, dark leather ridge. I approached with measured strides, keeping the trident leveled. Pressed into the black grain was a cold silver foil imprint. Two curved wings flanking a notched key. An unknown seal. I planted my feet into the desk surface. I brought the butt of my trident down against the foil. A dull, dry snap echoed off the paper edges. The emblem remained firm, unmoving under daylight. Perimeter secure. Territory cataloged.