Like laying the foundation stone, I have put down the first words of Book 7.
Pick a moment. A special moment. Imagine that everything stems from there and that everything will make sense if you could only tie together all the roots and branches shooting into and out of that instant.
You see, every story has to start somewhere. And it should be at a special moment. So this one I will start here, with me descending down damp, worn steps with a key clutched firmly in my fist. The key is heavy and twice the length of my hand. The metal had once been polished but it had long since become quite dulled by the passage of time.
Time, quite aptly, is the metaphorical key to everything, the channel along which all the threads of fate must progress. In a good story, many of these threads meet back together at just the right point. If I am ever considered a good storyteller, it is perhaps because I don’t always see time in the way that you do: where you see the hands of a clock, I see the very hands of Fates weaving their threads.
So I start my account at this particular, special moment; the moment when I, Sapphira Rossini, Queen of Demons, descend down these ancient, stone steps holding a key with which I shall unlock the very gates of Hades.