The wooden case Aaron handed Joan was small, heavy, and smelled faintly of brine. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay the target of her first solo mission: a simple, solid black ring. It was utterly unremarkable. There were no demonic traces, no pulsing aetheric energy, and no hidden mechanisms. It was merely a plain, cold band of black metal.

  Joan spent the next forty-eight hours pounding the cobbled streets of the city's trade districts. Her assignment was simple: find the source, meaning, or maker of the design.

  To protect the artifact, she carried a meticulous drawing and specification sheet drafted by Jai, not the ring itself.

  She went to the most prestigious guilded shops first—the jewelers who catered to the noble class.

  "A crude, simple band, miss," the first expert sniffed, holding the drawing at arm’s length with distaste. "Looks like a newbie blacksmith made it. No gemstone setting, no hallmark, no value. Certainly not the work of anyone respectable."

  She tried the pawnshops near the docks, thinking it might be a common criminal signifier.

  "Black metal, simple geometry," a greasy-haired trader said, shrugging. "Worth maybe two silvers for the scrap weight. Common, utterly common. Doesn't belong to any gang I know."

  Even a renowned weapons smith, Captain Reno's frequent supplier, dismissed it. "It's not designed for combat, Agent. It’s too soft, too plain. If there's a hidden power in it, I can’t tell. Its design is remedial."

  The pattern was frustratingly consistent: the ring was too simple to be valuable and too ordinary to be noticed. It confirmed Joan’s own observation: it was devoid of any supernatural signature. Does it really do anything? she wondered, tapping the cold case. It’s my task to find out.

  Joan's last stop, late on the second day, was a small, dusty workshop tucked away in a district known for its honest metalworkers and minor artisans. The shop specialized in custom jewelry and minor mechanical repairs.

  The owner, a muscular man with a thick leather apron, looked over the drawing under the weak gas lamp light.

  "Hm. Yes, I see," the owner said, scratching his chin. "Simple. Very simple. I’d say this is a beginner's practice piece. No special quality, no rare alloys, nothing to suggest power. We certainly didn't make it."

  He paused, glancing toward the back of the workshop where a furnace glowed faintly. "Well, I can't really tell more than that, but I have a guy who might have some weird input about this. Be warned, though: he is weird."

  Joan raised an eyebrow, weary but intrigued by the first promising lead. "Weird how?"

  "He works here for free, wanting to learn how to create jewelry. He's got a different way of seeing things," the owner, Dan, continued, leading Joan past mounds of wire and half-finished amulets. "I can't tell you anything else about this ring, so try your luck with him. A different perspective might help."

  Dan coughed loudly to get the boy's attention.

  "Ahem, boy! Someone here to see you. This is Agent Joan; she works for the Empire, so assist her with whatever she needs."

  The object of Dan's attention was tiny and incredibly slim, maybe thirteen years old. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn't flinch at the sound of Dan's voice. He was sharpening the edge of some delicate jewelry using a small motorized stone, then smoothly switched to carefully cutting a section of chain for an amulet. Then, without missing a beat, he turned and blew expertly on a ladle of molten metal, shaping it into a perfect heart resting in a mold. His wide, intense eyes showed he absolutely loved what he was doing.

  "Oh, okay, Boss," the boy said, still focused on his task. "Hi, umm, miss. I'm kind of busy, give me a minute."

  The boy went back to the molten heart. He carefully placed the now-formed metal heart into a nearby pot of liquid for finishing. "There, there," he muttered to the object. "You look better."

  He quickly but neatly arranged his tools to give his full attention to the guest. He wiped his hands on a towel hanging from his leather apron, which was far too large for his slight frame.

  "Okay, my hands are clean. Now I’m ready to attend to you, miss. Please have a seat there." He paused, thinking aloud as he tried to recall the proper procedure. "Um, what else do I have to do here?" He snapped his fingers. "Right, introduce myself. Right, right, that’s right. Oh! My name is Smithsen. Pleasure to meet you, miss... ummmm..."

  Joan offered a genuine, small smile. "It's Joan. Just Joan. Pleasure to meet you too." Joan thought Smithsen was a weird name, but fitting for his craft.

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  Joan took the paper with the image of the ring—simple, bold, and black—and pushed it across the small, cluttered workbench.

  "Do you think you can provide any information about this design?" Joan asked.

  Smithsen took the black ring's image and immediately pulled a small, brass-cased magnifying glass to the drawing. He pressed the lens right up to the image, his already large, focused eyes seeming to bulge behind the glass, making his face look strange and intense as he stared into the simple lines of the design.

  He didn't speak for a long moment, the only sound the flickering gaslight and the faint mechanical whir of the cooling metal heart.

  Then, Smithsen took a piece of charcoal and quickly sketched the exact image onto a piece of cloth, capturing the dimensions perfectly. He held up his sketch.

  "This looks good," Smithsen thought aloud, nodding. "The work is almost the same as mine. I would say, the guy who made this is a genius. Clearly, this ring is a rare type. I would wear one and give my friends this. It would represent our friendship." He chewed on his lip, calculating. "I’d give three coin for that ring."

  Friends? A thought clicked sharply in Joan's mind, a realization she hadn't gained from any expert. That was it. The ring's simplicity itself was the symbol of a group. Its very ordinariness was the best disguise, ensuring it would avoid any suspicion; it was not an object anyone would waste time stealing. This boy, in his strange way, had truly given her a unique perspective.

  "I’m not here to sell," Joan said, leaning forward. "I need to learn more about the ring—about what it would do. Tell me, Smithsen, if you had many of these, what would it mean if you gave it to people you trust? Say, your friends, let's start there. To tell you the truth, this ring holds a special meaning and power, I don’t know how, but it's really important. Maybe you can tell me anything about it, absolutely anything."

  Smithsen's large eyes seemed to grow even larger at the idea that the ring held power. "Mysterious power? Oh, so do you have that ring?" he asked, excitement making him fidget.

  Joan, teasing him slightly, replied, "Well, it’s the Red Empire’s property, so I can't casually hand it over to you."

  "Ah, that's too bad."

  "Well, if you can keep a secret, then I can show you the real one."

  The boy's face broke into a wide, honest smile. "Yes! I can keep a secret!" He held a tiny, grimy hand over his heart, pronouncing solemnly, "In the name of the Red Empire, I won’t tell anyone. Not even Boss Dan!"

  "Good," said Joan. She carefully retrieved the wooden case from her satchel and opened it. "Here. Be careful. It may be cursed."

  "Right, right!" Smithsen took the ring with reverent caution, holding it with a clean piece of cloth to avoid direct contact.

  Like an excited craftsman, he gently rolled the ring across the wooden table, observing its momentum. Then he carefully inserted the ring onto a slender stick, holding both ends. His eyes, already magnified by his inherent focus, examined the ring as if they were built-in lenses. Joan remembered what the shop owner said about the boy being weird; this must be it.

  Smithsen was too focused to notice her scrutiny. He measured it precisely with a small, brass caliper. No one, based on Joan’s insistence and questioning of different craftsmen, had done what Smithsen was doing right now.

  He continued his inspection, directing a beam of light onto its surface to check for any hidden glow or shadow. He looked at Joan as if seeking approval before he dropped a pinch of powder onto it. Joan nodded, giving approval for his action.

  Smithsen continued, dropping a pinch of pale, hygroscopic powder onto the black metal, which instantly darkened, proving it wasn't coated in anything common. Then, he dipped the ring briefly into a small vial of clear, dark brine, looking again at Joan for approval before he proceeded. Joan nodded again, fascinated.

  He weighed it carefully in his palm. "Hmm. Too light."

  He next suspended the ring from a single hair—a hair of a grey mare, it looked like—and struck it gently with a tiny silver hammer. A normal iron ring would produce a faint, dull 'tink'.

  This ring produced a 'thud'. Not a sound, but the absence of one. It didn't just make a dull note; it consumed the vibration instantly.

  Smithsen touched his chin, his expression shifting from excitement to clinical concern. "Corrupted."

  He looked at Joan, his wide eyes serious. "It's not cursed. Curses are like graffiti; they're painted on. This... this is the wall itself remembering it was once part of a prison. The memory festered. This ring doesn't do anything. It just is wrong. And given time, it will convince everything around it to be wrong, too. It's a whisper that tells order to become chaos. A very, very patient whisper."

  Joan felt a chill run down her spine, partly from the strange diagnosis and partly from the truth she felt in his words.

  The boy carefully wrapped the ring back into the cloth and placed it gently in her hand.

  "It's just an ordinary black ring," Smithsen declared, sighing and dusting his hands on his apron.

  Joan stared at him, momentarily stunned by the switch back to banality. "Come again? You just described it as a prison wall and a whisper of chaos, and now it's just ordinary?"

  Smithsen shrugged, his intense focus instantly gone. "Oh, the history is corrupted, yes. But the materials are common. The design is basic. From a purely practical standpoint, it has zero value, Miss Joan. Unless you want me to try and melt it down? I bet I could get a lovely heart out of it."

  The shift was jarring. He had extracted the horrifying truth, yet to him, the object was now dismissed, the mystery solved. The Black Ring's power was not in what it was made of, but the corruption it contained—a truth only someone obsessed with making things could see.

  "Well, to a normal eye, it's normal. To a crafter's crafty eye, it's normal," Smithsen insisted, shrugging. "No matter what, it's just normal. But—and let me tell you something—a weird person, certainly not me, will find this a treasure. Then it is for a purpose."

  He leaned forward, his focus clicking back into place. "Tell me, does this ring hold special meaning to the person who created it? Let me answer that: No. It is clear to me now. You want to know the purpose of it? If I’m someone who can corrupt a ring, this is just some available ring I can use."

  He held up his hands, ticking off points. "It means, if it’s the only one, then it is truly special. But if there are more of these, then it is something I can easily mass-produce. If it has some magical properties, it is easily distributable. This ring, if it truly holds some power, is not the source. It’s just some knock-off copy."

  He chewed his lip. "If the power is easily accessible through this ring, then it must be a fake power or a small boost. Oh well, that’s just me. Forgive me for going overboard."

  Joan gently placed the ring back into its case. The ring was a tool, not a unique artifact. That was the key. "No, no," she said, offering a genuine smile. "You haven't gone overboard at all. You have given me a very valuable insight. Thank you, Smithsen. Definitely do not try to melt it down."

  Securing the wooden case back into her satchel, Joan realized the scope of her assignment had just widened: she wasn't hunting a powerful treasure, but tracking down a massive, organized effort.