Page 121 of Ashen Souls

“He grew deeply agitated.” Caldwell paused. “He started scratching at his own wrists, repeating a single phrase over and over.”

I dug my fingernails into the rough grain of the table. “What phrase?”

“He kept muttering, ‘Even in ash, it binds. Even in ash, it binds.’”

The words hung in the cramped room.

Caldwell let the silence hold. The dead air of the storage room settled over us, tasting faintly of stagnant dust.

He exhaled. “Then I did what I should have done months ago. I began excavating the back room.” He gestured to the chaotic stacks around us. “This shop holds decades of hoarded inventory. I went through dozens of ledgers. Almost every scrap of paper my grandfather left behind. I nearly abandoned the search twice. But then I found something.”

He crossed the room to a cluttered desk, retrieved an object, and set it down between us.

It was a small, unadorned journal bound in matte black leather. The edges were frayed, the cover devoid of any title or crest. It was a perfect replica of the journal my father had given me: the same dimensions, the same dark binding.

“This belonged to my great-great-grandfather,” Mr. Caldwell said. “A private journal.”

“And you found a reference to the ring in there?”

He opened the cover. The vellum inside was thick and yellowed, the ink faded to a rusted brown. He turned a handful of pages before stopping and rotating the book across the table.

A detailed sketch dominated the parchment. The band matched the structure of mine perfectly, the engraved symbol unmistakable in its precision. Beneath the drawing, several paragraphs flowed in a dense, looping script.

“This was drawn over a century ago,” Caldwell said quietly. “The entry suggests the ring was already considered an artifact of myth by then.”

“Do his notes explain its function?”

“They describe a covenant.” His pale eyes lifted to meet mine. “And that same word appears repeatedly. Love. Only here, it isn't treated as an emotion.”

“How is it treated?”

“As a compulsion,” he replied. “A mechanism designed to subjugate. It doesn't comfort. It binds.”

The stillness of the back room seemed to press inward.

“I am willing to part with the journal,” he continued. “I cannot guarantee clarity. Much of the phrasing is obscure and archaic. But it remains the only documented reference to the ring I have uncovered in all my family's records.”

I stared down at the inked sigil, its cursed geometry identical to the one branded into my bloodline.

“Name your price.”

Caldwell closed the book. “One hundred dollars.” It was shockingly low for an antique of this nature. I pulled out my wallet, counted out the bills, and doubled the amount, sliding the stack across the table.

“For the research,” I told him. “And the discretion.”

He studied the cash for a moment before sweeping it into a drawer. “I didn't pursue this solely for profit, Ms. Hart. Morbid curiosity has always been my family’s inherited vice.”

“That curiosity might just keep me alive.”

He wrapped the journal in brown paper, tying it securely with a length of twine before placing it in my hands.

“Whatever force forged that ring,” he said, “it has endured for centuries. Endurance of that scale is never an accident. It requires intent.”

The book settled into my palms.

“I know,” I murmured.

I thanked him and walked out.