“I’m a translator,” she whispered to the empty square. “I translate contracts. Not magic.”

Czech fantasy had just awakened. And Eliška was already late for her first lesson: in this land, the fairy tales never lied. They only waited.

But the key burned brighter. And somewhere beneath the city—in the underground tunnels where alchemists once sought the philosopher’s stone—a door that had been sealed since the days of Emperor Rudolf II began to tremble.