Joan stepped out of the warm, smoky workshop and into the sharp, cool air of the evening. The rhythmic, insistent clang of Dan’s hammer faded behind her, replaced by the distant, deep murmur of the trade district settling down for the night—a sound like the city itself sighing in relief. She retrieved the wooden case from her satchel, the ring's latent corruption now feeling disproportionately heavier than its actual weight.

  He’s profound, in his weird way, she conceded. Smithsen’s unconventional analysis—that the ring was deliberately designed for mass-distribution rather than unique, isolated power—had completely flipped the premise of her entire investigation. She was no longer hunting a solitary, powerful rogue mage. She was tracking an organized, coordinated network. The logic was chillingly sound: why invest time and forbidden magic to corrupt a simple, common object unless the plan was to hand out dozens, perhaps hundreds, of them?

  She was only a block away, mentally reviewing the necessary changes to her strategy, when a frantic voice pierced the background noise.

  "Miss! Umm, Joan! Wait!"

  She turned abruptly to see Smithsen racing toward her, his heavy leather apron flapping around his skinny legs like a wounded bird. He clutched a crumpled scrap of parchment in one hand. He skidded to a stop, doubling over and clutching his knees, his chest heaving violently as he struggled for breath.

  "I didn't tell you inside the shop," he gasped, fighting to pull air into his lungs, "but... here. Take this. I had to wait until Dan wasn't looking."

  He thrust the sweat-dampened paper into her hand.

  "What is it, Smithsen?" Joan asked, her own tension rising, trying to steady the breathless boy by holding his shoulder. "What’s going on?"

  Smithsen swallowed hard, his eyes wide and fixed on some unseen spot behind her. "You see, I'm a real fan of jewelry, especially the fancy, complicated stuff—rings, amulets, even weird artifacts. I work there to improve my craft, to learn the techniques, even if I don't have the natural talents for magic. Fancy or unique rings always catch my eye. But... those rings," he whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, and he darted another fearful look over his shoulder. "I think I saw them before. Not just once, but maybe three times in the last month."

  He straightened suddenly, gaining a strange, almost feverish urgency that belied his nervous demeanor. "I just remembered now. This ring, I saw someone who wore it. It didn't catch my attention then because it looks so incredibly ordinary, but I'm sure now it is the exact same design, the same odd quality of metal. You might want to check on that guy." He pointed down at the parchment in her hand. "That's an address for a bar. There are probably more people there wearing it."

  "How did you—" Joan began, but Smithsen gave her no time to finish. He turned on his heel and sprinted back toward the workshop without a word, vanishing into the heavy darkness of the street as abruptly and dramatically as he’d appeared.

  Joan looked from the empty, echoing alleyway back to the parchment, which named a low-level, seedy tavern called The Grog and Grain. The paper was still warm from Smithsen’s panicked grip.

  Well, that certainly needs checking. She felt a profound wave of gratitude mixed with deep unease. Thank you, Smithsen. Although that information sounds so conveniently weird coming all of a sudden. It’s almost too perfect. Joan was a detective of the arcane, trained to distrust coincidence. Maybe he is just genuinely weird, but still, Smithsen, you're on my list. No accidental info leak that way. I'll come back for a proper interview.

  Her eyes, filled with both suspicion toward the messenger and fierce determination regarding the message, focused on the smudged address. She still had time, and this lead was too hot to ignore.

  The bar was a den of gloom, a windowless space heavy with the cloying, blended smells of stale beer, spilled spirits, and cheap pipe tobacco. The Grog and Grain was clearly where the respectable shadows of the city came to drink off their respectability.

  "I guess I might as well get a drink," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the low, guttural roar of conversation and the clatter of dice. She slipped into a vacant seat near a central, supporting column, opting for a position that offered a clear, panoramic view of the room without drawing undue attention.

  For the next thirty minutes, sipping slowly on a glass of overly-sweet lemon drink—a deliberate choice to keep her mind clear—Joan’s eyes carefully scanned the hands and fingers of every patron. She counted thirty-seven people: men and women, obvious drinkers, serious gamblers hunched over sticky tables, and sharp-eyed hustlers patrolling the periphery. Nothing. Is Smithsen's information completely incorrect? Did I waste valuable time on a nervous boy’s delusion?

  Frustration began to set in, tightening her shoulders. The initial high of Smithsen’s discovery was curdling into flat disappointment. She decided on a riskier, more provocative move. What if she wore the ring? Maybe the magical corruption, or even just the sight of the plain black band, would act as a signal and flush out her quarry. She retrieved the case and, ensuring her body blocked the view from the bartender, slid the smooth, black band onto the ring finger of her left hand. It felt cold, strangely magnetic, and absolutely ordinary.

  Then, she deliberately began to fan her face with her hands, spreading her fingers and allowing the plain black metal to flash—just a moment of reflected light—under the dim, oily ceiling lamps. "Oh, it's hot here," she muttered, projecting her voice just enough to be heard by her immediate neighbors, all the while scanning the room to see if anyone’s gaze lingered, if any head snapped up. She was deliberately sending a broadcast message to anyone who cared to look, waiting for a response.

  The response came almost immediately. A man with strikingly blue hair—the colour looking unnatural, almost electric, under the low light—slid onto the stool beside her, taking the space she hadn’t even realized she was guarding. He was lean and sharply dressed, but his clothes carried no insignia of any known guild or power. He leaned toward the bartender with a calm, practiced ease.

  "Mister, give me an apple cider drink. Sweet, please."

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  "Coming right up," the bartender replied, not looking away from cleaning a glass.

  Is this guy here for the drink, or did he notice the ring? Did he notice me notice him?

  Joan looked openly at the blue-haired man's face, her scrutiny deliberate. His eyes, a cool, dark gray, caught hers instantly, and he raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in a gesture of cool inquiry.

  "Is there something wrong with my face, miss?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly low, smooth, and utterly devoid of the drunken slur she associated with the bar’s patrons.

  "Oh, no, nothing at all," Joan stammered, recovering quickly. She forced a casual smile. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm here to drink and I thought perhaps you were... interested in starting a conversation." She kept her left hand visible, still casually fanning herself.

  The guy took a long, slow sip of the cider the bartender delivered, savoring it dramatically. "Sorry to disappoint. I'm just here for my cider. You look new here, though. Haven't seen your face before." He gave her a long, level look that was more professional assessment than flirtation, his vibrant blue hair nearly glowing in the dim light.

  "That’s none of my business, of course," he continued, a faint, unnerving smile touching his lips. He leaned closer, and the smooth, almost predatory quality of his voice took on a definite warning edge. "But in places like this, curiosity is often a debt paid in blood, and digging into someone's business is the quickest way to find yourself owing a favor to the darkness."

  He turned back fully to his drink, his posture closing off the conversation, leaving Joan’s heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

  The Blue-Haired man turned back to his cider, leaving Joan's heart pounding. He had delivered his line—"curiosity is often a debt paid in blood"—with the calm assurance of a judge delivering a verdict, not a drunk making a threat. His presence felt like a perfectly placed obstacle, or perhaps even an authoritative sentry, certainly not just a thirsty patron enjoying an evening drink.

  Joan waited another ten agonising minutes, continually fanning her face, checking her reflection in the dark, liquor-stained glass behind the bar. Her deliberate signal was failing. No one looked twice at her ring. No one responded to her display. The bar was, apparently, a dead end, and her bold move had only garnered a cryptic, frightening warning. The clock was ticking, and she felt the heavy weight of professional failure settle on her shoulders.

  Defeated, Joan finished her drink in one swift gulp and slid off the stool, carefully securing the ring back inside the wooden case. I wasted too much time. She had nothing concrete, nothing actionable, to report to Aaron—just a weird boy's flimsy hypothesis and a cryptic, possibly random, warning from a stranger. My window for intervention is closing rapidly.

  She left The Grog and Grain, stepping from the suffocating, stale air of the tavern into a narrow, damp alleyway running along the building's side. The alley was poorly lit, slick with moisture, and heavy with shadows. She hurried along, intent on finding a clear path back to the main avenue where she could hail a cab or at least get a clear view of the street ahead.

  She stopped abruptly, freezing mid-stride.

  Up ahead, near the mouth of the alley where a single, weak gaslight flickered and sputtered, a small group was gathered in the deep shadows. It was the Blue-Haired man, standing and talking to two other people, a casual conference under the cover of the street's darkest corner.

  Joan instantly flattened herself behind a precarious stack of splintered wooden crates, burying herself in the shadows and ensuring her presence was completely hidden. She held her breath, willing herself to become invisible.

  One of the men was dressed in dark, expensive, tailor-made clothes—clearly of a higher social standing than the typical bar clientele. As he shifted his weight, the cuff of his leather glove rode up, revealing a flash of black metal on his ring finger. The ring. It was the same plain, solid band she now held in her case.

  The third person was a woman, slight and clutching herself tightly, her eyes darting nervously around the gloom like a trapped animal. She looked utterly terrified.

  "Good work, Tel," the Blue-Haired man said smoothly, his voice carrying clearly and chillingly in the quiet, echoing space of the alley. His tone was professional, managerial.

  The nervous woman wrung her hands, a repetitive, anxious motion. "I don't know what to do. I’m scared. My son... I just want him safe."

  The Blue-Haired man’s voice softened further, adopting a dangerous, honeyed, paternal tone that was far more unsettling than a direct threat. "Relax, my dear. Tel will help you and your son. You have opened your eyes to the truth, to the necessary path, and now you need to trust him completely." He paused, letting the word 'trust' hang in the air, before gesturing sharply to the man wearing the ring—Tel. "Escort her now to the exorcist. She is ready for the first cleansing."

  The ring-bearer, Tel, nodded once—a silent, practiced acknowledgement—and gently guided the terrified woman away, deeper down the alley and into the street. The Blue-Haired man remained, watching them go with the detached air of a director observing a scene.

  Joan remained absolutely motionless behind the crates, the taste of stale beer and fear mixing in her throat, her breath held tight in her chest until her lungs ached.

  The exorcist? Cleansing? This wasn't merely a petty smuggling operation or a low-level black market ring; it was something far more sinister, preying on fundamental human fear and desperation, using the rings as a sign of trust or, terrifyingly, initiation. The sheer scope was far greater than she had imagined.

  She gripped the small wooden case in her hand, the black band suddenly feeling like a burning coal, as the horrifying truth of the situation snapped into place.

  He knew.

  Tel did not move with the stealth of a criminal; instead, he guided the woman with a relaxed, almost ceremonial pace. They turned onto a service lane where the flickering light of numerous lanterns spilled across the cobblestones. Here, Joan could hear a low, rhythmic chant—a sound previously muffled by the thick tavern walls.

  Tel led the woman toward a cluster of derelict warehouses. The area was not guarded, yet the atmosphere itself acted as the security. A crowd of perhaps thirty people had gathered in a clearing between the buildings, their collective gaze fixed on a makeshift stage erected near a burning brazier. The attendees looked utterly ordinary—laborers, shopkeepers, even a few minor nobles—but their rapt attention and the low, synchronized chanting gave the scene a deeply unsettling, cultish energy.

  Joan quickly melted into the back of the crowd, adopting the same blank, focused expression as the others.

  Tel escorted the nervous woman to the stage and gestured for her to lie down on a simple cot. The chanting grew louder, a wave of low-frequency sound that seemed to vibrate in Joan’s very bones.

  A figure stepped onto the stage from the shadows. He was small, clad in a heavy linen robe that was far too large for his frame, and wore a simple black metal ring on his left hand. The "exorcist" positioned himself over the woman, his head bowed in silent preparation.

  As the exorcist raised his hands, the air grew instantly cold and taut. The flame in the brazier hissed, stretching impossibly tall. The woman on the cot began to weep uncontrollably, her body beginning to convulse as if under immense pressure. Joan pressed her back against a warehouse wall, certain she was witnessing a forced demonic initiation.

  Then came a sudden, sharp movement.

  From beneath the exorcist’s wide sleeve—or perhaps from the brass tongs he held—a thick, black tentacle-like artifact shot out. It moved with shocking speed and purpose, hovering inches above the woman’s chest. She cried out as the tentacle began to drain the unnatural, swirling darkness pooling around her. As the artifact worked, a jagged, dark purple crystal began to materialize at its tip. The exorcist waited patiently until the crystal was fully formed, then cleanly snapped it off with the brass tongs.

  As the artifact retracted back into the shadows of the robe, the atmosphere in the clearing instantly normalized. The air warmed, the brazier flame shrank to a flickering glow, and the rhythmic chanting ceased.

  The woman on the cot, who had been weary and weak moments before, sat up. She touched her face and looked down at her hands, a slow, genuine smile spreading across her features. Her eyes shone with clarity, and tears of relief—not fear—flowed freely. She looked healthy. She looked saved.