Page 98 of Ashen Souls

His gaze dropped to the image.

“Ah.” He tilted his head. “Yes. We still have that one.”

The tension drained from my shoulders. “You do?”

He nodded. “We’ve had it for quite a while. I’m mildly surprised you came in specifically for it. It’s a rather brutalist piece. Most of our walk-ins are looking for things that are a bit more... ornamental.”

“I’m a history student,” I lied. “I prefer things with a bit of weight to them. Can I see it?”

His silence stretched long enough to let me know he didn't believe a word of that.

“Certainly.”

Harper shot me a look that clearly communicated a bit of weight was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.

The owner stepped out from behind the counter and gestured for us to follow. “No one’s shown any real interest in it.” He retrieved a small key from his waistcoat pocket. “Which is unusual, in its own way.”

I kept pace with him as he approached one of the rigid glass display cases in the center of the room. “Do you happen to know anything about its origin? Where it came from, or who owned it before?”

“I wish I did.” He inserted the key into the lock of the case. “This shop used to belong to my grandfather. He acquired things for decades from private estates and closed collections. Unfortunately, he’s… not well anymore.”

I waited.

“Dementia.” He didn't look up from the lock. “These days he doesn’t remember what he had for breakfast, let alone where a ring came from thirty years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I took over the business when he couldn’t manage it anymore. His record-keeping was... nonexistent. I've spent the last three months painstakingly cataloging his inventory.”

That explained the clinical order of the place.

“So there's no paperwork for this specific piece?”

“None.” He slid the glass panel open.

Harper nudged closer, her shoulder bumping mine. “You’re trembling.”

“I know.” I clenched my free hand into a fist.

The owner reached into the case and retrieved a small jewelry box. He carried it back to the main counter, setting it down under the warm glow of his desk lamp.

“There we are.” He opened the lid.

The ring rested on the dark velvet, exactly like the photograph.

But seeing it in person was different.

The symbol caught the warm light of the lamp, the etched lines an exact mirror of the brand hidden under my sleeve. The metal was matte, almost pitch-black, its edges smoothed by time rather than design.

And it was old.

Not antique-shop old.

Ancient.

I reached for it instinctively and froze.

An abrupt, white-hot sting flared across my left wrist.