THE PACKAGE WITH NO RETURN

The portal hurled them through a corridor of light and darkness—no floor, no sky, just motion. Black saw fragments of other places flicker past: a crumbling tower swallowed by sand, a cathedral with upside-down windows, a mirror that bled shadows instead of reflections. He reached for Sam and Jules instinctively, unsure if they were still beside him—until their hands found each other mid-fall.

Then: impact.

The world slammed into them with a jolt that felt like memory and thunder. Black hit the ground hard, gravel scraping his palms. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The ring on his finger was still glowing, though faintly now, flickering like a dying ember.

They were in a forest. A different one. The air was colder, drier, and tinged with the scent of ash.

"Everyone in one piece?" Sam's voice, hoarse but steady, cut through the ringing in his ears.

"Define 'piece,'" Jules groaned from a few feet away, brushing dust off his coat. His canvas pouch had survived—barely. The feather was gone. Burned. Used. But the shard inside was still intact.

Black stood slowly. Trees towered around them, tall and thin, their bark the color of bone. No birds. No wind. Just the faint creaking of wood like something heavy moving between the trunks.

"This isn't anywhere on the map," Jules said, spinning slowly. "It's off the grid."

"It's somewhere the Collector didn't expect us to reach," Sam offered. "That portal wasn't theirs. It was a failsafe."

Black looked down at his ring. The pulsing light was almost gone. But then—it blinked once, hard. A direction. North.

"We follow it," he said.

They walked for what felt like hours through the whispering forest. Shadows moved strangely here, stretching and folding as if curious. The trees leaned slightly inward the farther they went, like hands reaching to cradle—or cage—them.

Then they found the statue.

It was enormous. Half-buried in vines and earth, shaped like a robed figure kneeling, its head bowed. No face. Only a mirror where the features should've been, cracked and weathered by time.

"Another bearer?" Jules asked, eyes wide.

Black stepped closer. The ring glowed stronger again.

The statue's hand rested on something—a stone platform, like an altar. On it was carved a spiral of symbols, similar to those seen at the lake.

Sam squinted. "That's not just a language. It's a countdown."

Jules paled. "To what?"

Before anyone could answer, the ground trembled.

Not a quake. A pulse.

Black staggered back. "We've triggered something."

The spiral symbols flared, and the cracks in the mirror face began to widen—splitting with soft, deliberate sounds.

Then it whispered: "You brought the shard. The next bearer must choose."

Sam turned to Black. "Choose what?"

The mirror rippled like water. A vision appeared—this time clear.

A young girl, maybe twelve, clutching a version of the ring. Her eyes wild. Around her, ruins burned. In her wake, people fled. A Collector lay impaled behind her—its form cracked like porcelain.

The image vanished.

Then came another.

A man in robes using the ring to close a gate in the sky—his body turning to ash even as he smiled.

And then, a third.

A woman speaking to a circle of others—each wearing rings. A council. United. Planning something too large to name.

Jules stepped forward, voice low. "These are possible futures."

"Or pasts," Sam added. "Maybe both."

The statue whispered again.

"The ring listens. It shapes. It remembers. But only the bearer can define the path."

Black took a breath. "It's not about power. It's about intent."

The mirror's cracks widened—then shattered. Inside, behind the now-open face, was another shard. This one larger, refracting light in unnatural ways. It hummed with a strange melody—notes that didn't belong to any human instrument.

Black reached for it.

The second his fingers touched it, everything stilled. No wind. No breath. No sound.

And he saw it.

A vision not from the past or future, but from the ring itself.

A world where all the shards were united. A ring so complete it glowed like a star. A choice made—final and absolute—that tore reality in two. One side bathed in endless creation. The other... devoured.

Then it ended.

Black stumbled back, clutching the shard. It was warm. Alive.

Sam grabbed his arm. "What did you see?"

"Not the end," he said quietly. "The beginning of something bigger than we thought."

Jules looked around. "Then we need the third shard."

"And fast," Sam said, glancing up. "Because if the Collector survived the lake... it'll come here next."

The countdown on the altar had ticked down.

One symbol now pulsed.

One remained.

As they stepped away, the statue cracked down the middle and collapsed—its purpose fulfilled.

Behind it, where there was once nothing, stood a door of glass and flame. No handle. No hinge. Just presence.

The ring pulsed.

Inviting.

Demanding.

They exchanged a look.

And stepped forward—toward the final shard, and whatever waited beyond.