A room. Empty, save for a single box on the floor.
It is plain, but beautiful. Dark wood, smooth and polished to a gleam. A simple golden latch on the front. Wholly unremarkable. Its only distinguishing feature is an engraving on the lid.
Graceful loops and swirls of letters. A name.
The latch flicks open easily despite nearly a decade of disuse.
There's no gold. No artefacts or jewels either.
Something else lies within.
Velvet lines the inside of the box, the bottom, the sides, even the lid. It's soft and beautiful, a lush dark red.
The color of blood.
It is filled to the brim, gleaming pieces stacked haphazardly on top each other.
Everything gets taken out. One by one the content is spread carefully on the lacquered floor. Groups formed along the way. These together, these apart, now a new pile.
Then the box is empty.
Piece by piece, the parts connect, fitting together like a puzzle. They gleam in the dim light of the room. The smooth, white surface shining.
One more to go.
It is different from the rest. Essential in a way that the others are not.
It goes last. Always.
The final piece joins the rest, clacking faintly as it connects.
Finished.
It lies there on the floor, motionless.
Then it shudders.
Another moment and it is moving. Some of the smaller parts twitch. It rises, slowly and with the occasional jerk, until it is sitting up.
And then it stops again.
Nothing happens for a long while.
Then it cocks its head.
"Hello, Skulduggery," Darquesse says.
So. Yeah. That happened.