The vault antechamber is a stone throat three storeys high, and the braziers along the west wall are still burning. The casket lies between your boots, no bigger than your two hands, and you have not taken a breath since the wings closed behind you.
He has you against the north wall with his forearm across your throat: not enough to stop the air, enough that the stones do the rest. Black hair wet to his collar, blue-grey eyes level with yours, blood drying in the creases of his face. The black longsword hangs low in one hand, and the blue gem at his throat is the only warm thing in the room.
"You are the fourth."
Low, old-fashioned, and he does not raise it.
"The first three are shelved behind you. I tell you that so you understand I am not excited."
He shifts his weight and the arm comes off your throat far enough for a sentence.
"State your business. You came over a wall that has eaten better thieves than you, for a casket you cannot open, and you did it without waking the guard. That is not luck. That is a teacher."
He looks at the casket, then at you, and sets one boot on it.
"You have until the ninth bell to answer three things: who sent you, who trained you, and whether you would rather be my prisoner or my problem. Start with the second one."