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The boss had gone to the sanctuary without him. He had left Swift behind in the office to brood whilst he went off to secure the legacy for himself.
Swift, if he had been any younger and any more naive, would have been heartbroken by the actions of the man.
Yet, he was calm. All because he knew the true extent of what was to come.
In Bronev's insistence on unlocking the final legacy, he had overlooked a translation that, from day one, had stuck in Swift's mind like poetry.
“When my three babes return to mine arms, I shall take them, proud and whole. If they are not given back to my heart, let the legacy I have left reign naught but terror upon thine pitiful souls”.
The three babes. The Princess, the Priestess, the Knight. Swift knew the prophecy well, and the legacy even better.
The Princess came back as an opera diva, shackled to her place on stage until her last dying breath meant she lived on through the watery grave of a city forgotten and her red headed friend who loved her dearly.
The Priestess came back as a sickly young girl, though the garden of healing resonated with her every sigh and healed her of the pain she had been suffering from.
As for the Knight? He came back as a scraggly young woman, too scared to look in the mirrors, who flinched at her own name. But now, the knight was a proud young man, and he wanted the legacy for himself. It was his.
It was sheer luck that saw Swift bump into the backs of Professor Layton and Descole as he raced to the Sanctuary. His breath caught in his chest from the running, and he bore the wounds of puzzles he'd failed a fair time more than just a few. Luke nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the uniform and the shock of bleached blond hair.
“Targent…” he whispered, hugging the professor. Descole, uncharacteristically, stretched out his arm to shield the boy.
“What do you want?” Descole spat. Swift could hear the rage in his syllables alone.
“The legacy… it's not what Bronev thinks it is. He's made a mistake. The third lock, it isn't open,” Swift said, the metallic tang of blood tingling in the back of his throat. His binding was clearly way too tight… again.
“Third lock? Whatever do you mean, my boy?” Layton asked him, beginning to grow concerned at the way Swift had started turning pale.
“The Garden was opened by the Priestess. The City by the Princess. But… the Vault. It remains locked. The legacy will fail,” he said, slumping against a pillar. Descole did not let him linger there. He pulled him up straight.
“You mean to say you are the reincarnation of the knight?” Descole demanded an answer, his hand grasping Swift's wrist with significant force. Swift didn't even wince.
“Yes. Now, please, you have to make him see sense.”
Descole let go. Sense and Bronev did not go together. It was Emmy they had to convince. He'd listen to her words.
“Come along. You too, Targent,” Descole snarled.
“Skylar… call me Skylar,” Swift said, his eyes blazing a defiant gaze behind his sunglasses.