THE PACKAGE WITH NO RETURN

Back in the city, Jules sat at his grandfather's old desk, the room dim except for the circle of lamplight pooling on aged wood. He'd pulled the crest from the photo Black had sent—the one from the ring, the package, the damn lamp—and traced it carefully. Then he stood, lifted a dusty frame that had hung crooked above the fireplace for decades, and turned it over. There it was again, carved faintly into the backing board. The same symbol.

Axe and sunburst.

The Smith crest.

His hands trembled slightly.

Jules didn't believe in coincidences anymore.

He'd tried calling Black three times. All went straight to voicemail. Sam, too. He'd left one message, but he knew that if either of them was choosing not to pick up, something had gone sideways. Worse, something had gone deep. Magic-deep. He could feel it now, humming beneath the city's noise like a barely audible frequency, buzzing behind his teeth and bones. Something was happening, and Black was at the center.

He didn't know what the ring was. Not fully. But something about it felt familiar.

Something buried.

He flipped open a journal from his grandfather's locked drawer—pages filled with odd diagrams, notes written in three different languages, and sketches of symbols that matched the one now pulsing in Jules' head like a heartbeat. Some entries mentioned wishes. Some warned of consequences. One, half-torn and written in shaking ink, simply read:

"If the ring finds a true Smith, the seal breaks. Time begins again. Beware the Collectors."

Jules underlined it twice, then circled Collectors. He didn't know who they were, but he had a growing suspicion they weren't nice.

He packed his bag.

Miles away, Black and Sam drove through the veil of morning mist on a back road that didn't show up on Sam's GPS. The ring glinted faintly on Black's hand, reacting to something unseen, guiding them with a quiet pull that felt more instinct than logic. The radio was off. Conversation had dwindled to fragments. Both of them felt it—that sense that they weren't just moving through space, but through layers. Like the world was paper-thin in places and something waited on the other side, listening.

"You think the ring is... leading us?" Sam finally asked.

Black nodded. "It's not just a ring. Azur'Raal said it evolves. It hides. Protects."

"And speaks in riddles, apparently."

Black smiled faintly, but the weight in his gut hadn't lifted. "It feels like we're being watched."

"We are," Sam muttered. "We're on the list now, remember?"

She tapped the edge of the old parchment they'd found tucked in the package, the one with the faint script naming prior ring-bearers. Most of them were crossed out in faded red ink.

Dead, probably. Or worse.

And the Collectors? Still faceless. Still unnamed.

"Do you think they're following us now?" Black asked.

Sam glanced at the rearview mirror. "If they are, they're doing a damn good job staying hidden."

Lightning flashed on the horizon, even though the sky was cloudless. Just like before.

The road curved sharply, revealing a weathered sign: Weller's Rest – 3 miles.

Jules stood on the cracked stone platform at the edge of the city's underground archives, staring at a door that hadn't opened in fifty years. The sigil on the handle matched the crest again. Only this time, it wasn't etched—it burned, glowing softly with blue fire. The same shade that had leaked from Black's photo of the lamp.

He hesitated, then pressed his palm to it.

It opened with a sigh.

Inside, the air was old magic—dust and memory, ozone and something deeper. Jules stepped inside, guided by instinct, guided by dread. The further he walked, the more it felt like he was walking into someone else's past.

And then he saw it: a mural. Towering. Half-faded.

It depicted a man holding a lamp in one hand and a blade in the other, standing atop a fractured world. Behind him, shadows twisted into monstrous forms—figures with golden eyes and skeletal faces. And next to the man: a ring, hovering, burning with light.

Beneath the image was a single word, scorched into the wall:

"Return."

Jules stepped back, heart racing.

He wasn't just following a mystery.

He was part of it.

In Weller's Rest, Black and Sam arrived at a forgotten inn perched between mountains and mist, its windows shuttered, its wooden frame leaning like it was whispering secrets to the trees. They checked in under fake names. Black's instincts had started sharpening lately, and something told him the ring was still testing him.

That night, he dreamed.

Not of fire or sand or magic.

But of Jules—standing in a library filled with stars, reaching out, calling his name.

And behind him, something old. Something dark.

Watching.