THE PACKAGE WITH NO RETURN

The next morning came too quickly.

Black stood at his bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, eyes locked on the ring.

The golden band looked ancient and new all at once. It shimmered faintly in the bathroom light, the crest etched into it catching every flicker of movement like it was watching him. It hadn't come off all night—not that he tried hard. Some part of him knew it wouldn't. Not yet.

He spat out the toothpaste and leaned in. "You're not gonna suddenly talk, are you?"

The ring didn't answer.

Good.

He wasn't ready for that level of crazy before coffee.

Out in the kitchen, his phone buzzed. It was Sam—his coworker at the bookstore—asking if he was coming in today. Black stared at the message.

He texted back: "Nope. Taking a mental health day. Maybe the week. Will explain later."

A lie, sort of. But not really. Because how could he possibly explain this?

A genie. A cursed lamp. A bloodline binding and a ring that might be learning how to think.

Nope.

He grabbed his coat and walked out.

Black didn't have a plan—just an instinct.

His feet led him across the city, through winding alleys and down uneven sidewalks. He passed street vendors, morning joggers, and a man yelling about alien taxes. All normal. All grounded.

But the ring's pulsing glow—subtle, beneath the skin—tugged at him like a compass. It didn't tell him where to go, but it wanted something. Maybe it sensed magic. Maybe it remembered the world Azur'Raal came from. Either way, Black followed the pull.

It led him to a bookstore he'd never noticed before.

Not the big chain ones with free Wi-Fi and fake brick walls—this was small, crooked, and wedged between a shuttered pawn shop and a tattoo parlor. A hand-painted sign above the door read:

"Clocks, Quills & Curios"

Black raised an eyebrow. "Cute."

He pushed the door open. A bell above jingled with a sound like wind chimes in a thunderstorm.

Inside, the air smelled of parchment, old wood, and something faintly floral.

The shelves were mismatched, stacked high with tomes that looked too old to be here. Pocket watches ticked in synchronized chaos. Quills floated lazily in jars. And behind the counter sat an old woman in purple glasses and a sweater that looked knitted from smoke.

She didn't look up from her book. "You're late."

Black blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't be," she said, flipping a page. "Fate's rarely punctual. Come in. Don't step on the cat."

"What cat—?"

A black blur darted between his legs, nearly tripping him. It hissed once and vanished into the stacks.

"Right," Black muttered.

He moved deeper inside, the ring warm again. Not dangerous. Curious.

The woman looked up. Her eyes weren't quite normal. One was cloudy like a thunderstorm caught behind glass. The other shimmered gold.

"You've got the ring," she said simply. "Well. One of them."

Black stared. "You know about this?"

She snorted. "I knew about it when your great-great-grandmother traded a memory for a map to the lamp. Smith blood has a way of finding trouble."

"Wait—my what?"

She waved a hand. "Family secrets. Dusty ones. But you've stirred old echoes, boy. You opened the package."

Black stepped closer. "What is this thing? Why me? Why now?"

The woman shut her book. The cover read "Wishes: The Dangerous Art of Wanting" in silver script.

"You ask good questions," she said. "But not all answers are free. Some cost more than you can afford. Others..." she leaned forward, "are trapped in the wishes you'll make."

"I haven't made one yet."

"Then you're smarter than most."

She pointed to a shelf behind him. "Top row. Red book with no title. Take it. It's yours now."

Black pulled it down. The cover was rough, leather-bound. Inside? Blank pages. Dozens of them.

"It's empty," he said.

"For now. But as you go on, it'll write itself. Or rather... it'll remember."

He stared at the book. Then at her. "Who are you?"

"Someone who owed your family a favor. Call me Wren."

"That's not ominous at all."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Before he could ask more, the bell over the door rang again.

Black turned.

Two figures entered. One tall and thin, with a face like cracked porcelain. The other short, cloaked, and whispering to itself in a language that made Black's ears itch.

They didn't see him—yet.

Wren's voice dropped. "You need to leave. Now."

"Who are they?"

"Collectors. Agents of the Balance. They've caught the scent."

Black backed away. "Of what?"

Wren didn't answer.

The ring pulsed—hot, sharp. Warning.

He slipped out through a side door she pointed to, into an alley soaked in fog.

As he ran, he heard one last thing behind him, Wren whispering:

"They always come when the wishes wake."