The ring settles back on my finger, familiar weight over fresh panic.
He's still standing too close. Close enough that I can see the darker ring of violet around his irises.
"I can count your eyelashes." I say.
He backs away immediately. The space between us opens up, and with it comes a strange, unhelpful urge to close it again. I file that away with everything else that doesn't make sense yet.
"Who are you really," I ask flatly.
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"I am Riven Wynn," he says. "You know me. We've worked together for years. You told me last week that if I don't stop drinking canned cold brew, you'll stage an intervention."
Heat crawls up my neck.
"To be fair, it's an irresponsible amount of caffeine."
"You threatened to replace it with weak break room coffee and a pamphlet about sleep hygiene," he continues. "Then you said you'd rather be haunted by ghosts than my caffeine withdrawals."
The exact wording crackles at the edge of my memory. I don't like hearing my own words thrown back at me.
"Look," I say. "I… believe that you're somehow Riven Wynn. But you're also… not really him, are you?"
After what I just saw, my brain shifts gears, trying to make the pieces line up instead of rejecting them outright. The ring acknowledges that my theory is correct but I want to hear it from him too.
He exhales—almost a laugh, not at all amused. His gaze keeps drifting to the corners of the room. The air vent. The space above the door. Like he's checking for something I can't see.
I gesture between us. "You just took the ring off my finger. And for about half a second, you looked familiar. Like the man I've known for years. Then—" I make a vague collapsing motion with my hand. "—you didn't."
"I am Riven Wynn," he says. "You've known me a long time. That part is true."
His eyes flick to my hand. To the ring.
"That thing doesn't just enforce truth," he continues. "It enforces coherence for the wearer."
I blink. "Explain."
"You saw me," he says. "Both versions. Because for the moment it was off, the ring wasn't interrupting the illusion."
The word lands between us.
"Illusion," I repeat. "You're going to have to be more specific than that."
He exhales slowly rubbing his face, like he's choosing words from a limited supply. "What you've been seeing is called a glamour. A projection shaped to fit this world's expectations. The person you recognize. The one who can exist here without… friction."
"And the other version," I say gesturing to all of him, "is what?"
"It's me without the glamour," he says. "As I see myself."
The ring pulses once. Warm. Steady.
I don't look at it. I don't need to. I felt the answer.
"Okay," I say slowly. "That actually makes sense."
Something like relief flickers across his face before he can stop it.
"Don't get comfortable," I add. "I'm still not trusting you. I'm just adjusting my working theory."
"Which is?"
"That you're telling the truth," I say, "from your perspective, from a position that benefits you."
I remember how I'd been able to tell that Ash believed the things he said about me. Whether or not they were true for me, they were true for him.
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"You're not wrong," he says.
"Love it when my instincts are validated in horrifying ways."
His eyes search my face. Then:
"The ring isn't dangerous," he says. "But it didn't end up on you randomly. And that is dangerous."
Heat blooms immediately. Stronger than before. Affirmative.
My breath catches despite myself.
The warmth fades.
I nod once. "Okay. That's creepy… but noted."
He watches me with open concern now. "You're taking this very calmly."
"Panic comes after classification." I say.
"Least surprising thing I've heard all day."
The dry comment slips out quick and unguarded. It sounds like Riven. Not the words—the rhythm. That same weary patience he uses when I won't let him carry priceless artifacts under one arm like grocery bags.
I smile a little to myself thinking about it.
"That ring shouldn't exist," he says, staring at my hand like it's a small, contained disaster. "It shouldn't be on anyone. It shouldn't be awake. And it definitely shouldn't be bonded to you."
"Add that to the list of things that aren't supposed to happen. Right under 'stranger takes shape of colleague' and 'personal space is a suggestion now.'"
He studies me, irritation threading with something sharper.
"You still don't trust me."
"I feel like I've been fairly transparent about that."
"It's not normal jewelry." He pauses. "I think you've figured that out by now."
My hand curls protectively around the ring. I've considered paranormal explanations. I'd just been hoping for something smaller. Like a curse. Or a very aggressive lie detector.
"Whether you want to or not," he says carefully, "You'll be able to tell whether it's something I believe, or something that is a fact."
The air feels still. My office shrinks.
I think, refusing to say it aloud: He cannot be trusted.
The thought has a constricting edge to it as if even thinking the thought goes against the rules.
My stomach dips.
I change the thought. I can trust him.
Heat blooms under the band immediately. A steady, deliberate pulse that feels unmistakably affirmative.
My breath leaves in a thin rush.
The warmth fades. The ring settles back into familiar, infuriating neutrality.
I don't look at it. I look at him.
"Fine. Then take it. You got it off once," I say. "Do it again."
His expression stills.
"For good this time," I add. "If it's dangerous, if it belongs to someone else, if it's all the terrible things you keep implying—take it. Now. Before this gets worse."
For a heartbeat, hope sparks in my chest.
Something dark and regretful crosses his face. "I can't."
"You just did."
"I removed it," he says. "That's not the same as unbinding it."
My heart sinks. "You're being pedantic."
"I'm being honest."
"You told me this thing shouldn't exist. You look at it like it might explode. And now you're saying you can't do anything about it?"
His jaw tightens. "It would just find its way back to you. I can take it off a thousand times, but I can't undo what's already in motion."
Silence stretches. My brain can't contain this information.
"If I'd found you sooner—" He looks genuinely guilty now. "If I'd reached you before it completed the bond, I could have severed the initial anchor. The mark it used to take root. But now it's not just attached."
"What is it now?" I say with growing concerned.
"It's… awakening?"
Cold spreads through my chest.
So it's not just on me. It's in me? Or becoming me?
"You're still you," he says quickly as if reading my thoughts. "It's complicated, but you're still you."
That is decidedly not reassuring.
"So what you're saying," I say slowly, "is that if you'd shown up earlier, this wouldn't be an issue."
"Yes," Then he adds "Maybe."
"But because you didn't—" I gesture at my hand, the faintest tremor visible now "—I'm stuck with it. Forever?"
"You're not stuck. You're bound. There's a difference."
"That's not better," I practically yell.
He hesitates. The concern is real now, unmasked. "Look, I didn't come here for you. If I'd known what was already in motion, I would've been here sooner. Trust me."
"In motion… So there's more to this than becoming a human lie detector."
Silence.
He moves to the chair across my desk. The space feels emptier without him looming, but I pull my chair back and sit too.
"It sounds like you believe me now. That's an upgrade at least," he says.
"Temporarily. You still need to answer my questions."
His gaze flicks to the door. The hallway beyond. The ceiling tile nearest the vent.
"This isn't the place," he says.
"This is my office," I shoot back. "Where you just removed bonded jewelry from my body without permission. So we're already past polite boundaries."
His mouth tightens. "Ms. Hale. If we could just—"
"No. You don't get to scare me and then decide the setting's inconvenient. You have to give me something."
The ring sits heavy between us.
His eyes drop to it.
I lift my hand slightly. "And you don't get to lie," I smile sarcastically.
For a moment, he just looks at me. Measuring. Then his shoulders shift—subtle surrender.
"It's a magical artifact," he says, like the words taste bad. "Created to be… functional. With a specific purpose. Very old. Older than anything that should exist on this side of things."
"And bonded to me."
"Yes."
"Why me?"
"That's all I can tell you in a building full of humans."
My jaw tightens, but I don't argue. The urgency in his voice is real.
He exhales and rubs his face. "Like I said, I didn't come here for you. I came for the donation your department acquired."
My stomach drops.
"The collection from last week," he continues.
My eyes widen before I can stop them.
He notices. Interest flickers across his face. "You have it here?"
"It's not that." I pause. "The ring came from that donation."
The air changes viscerally.
His posture goes rigid, sharpening his features. The careful concern spikes into something urgent.
"You're sure?"
"Obviously."
"What was it listed as?"
"It wasn't. It was in a misfiled lot."
His eyes flash. "I need to see the rest."
I hesitate.
This is how I get myself into trouble. I choose answers over ease.
I glance at the ring. Then at him.
"Stay here."
His mouth opens like he might argue.
I'm already grabbing my badge.
I'm gone less than five minutes.
When I return, he's exactly where I left him.
I set the gray archival box on my desk. "The ring came from this."
He stares at it like I've just placed a live grenade between us.
His hands hover over the lid. Not touching. Not quite pulling away either. After a moment, he lifts the lid with careful, reverent movements. The kind you'd use for something that might shatter. Or bite.
Then he goes very, very still.
I watch his face. Watch the way his expression shifts from guarded to something harder to name. Recognition, maybe. Or grief wearing recognition's jacket.
"What is it?" I ask.
He doesn't answer right away. His eyes move over the contents—the vessel of pale stone, the spiral of dark metal, the silver threads that rise and fall like breath. He touches nothing. Just looks.
When his gaze lands on the floating ribbon, something in his jaw tightens.
"These shouldn't be here," he says quietly.
"That seems to be a theme today."
He doesn't smile. "I'm serious. These items—" He stops himself. Starts again. "They're not supposed to exist anymore. They were destroyed. Centuries ago."
"Well," I say, gesturing at the box. "Surprise."
His fingers finally reach for the vessel. He lifts it the same way I did—carefully, like it might burn. The symbols along the rim pulse faintly under his touch, the same heartbeat glow they gave me.
"This is Vaethor work," he breathes.
The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it—like a prayer and an apology at once—makes my skin prickle. Again.
He sets it down and reaches for the small folded paper in the corner. The one I almost missed before.
His hands shake as he unfolds it.
I lean forward despite myself.
"'Witness what remains,'" he reads aloud.
The ring heats against my finger. Sharp and sudden, like recognition.
"What does that mean? I couldn't find any other markings on the page. Just those words."
Riven's eyes snap to mine. Then to the ring. Then back to the paper.
"This was meant for you," he says.
"How could it be meant for me? We didn't even know this collection existed until last week."
"Someone hiding the ring knew." His voice is tight now. Urgent. "It left this for you to find. But who…"
He trails off deep in thought.
"Witness rings don't just bond randomly." He's looking at the box again, running a hand through his hair. Searching each object like he's connecting something I can't see. "You have to find a candidate. "
The words hang in the air between us.
"So someone… knew I'd be a candidate?" I ask, getting more frustrated at this lack of any useful information.
He carefully places the paper back in the box. Closes the lid with the same reverence he used to open it.
When he looks at me, his expression is grim.
"Ms. Hale," he says. "I think we need to have a much longer conversation. And not here."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." He growls, glances at the door again. That same paranoid checking. "There are things I can't explain in a place full of people who don't know what you're wearing on your finger."
"And whose fault is that?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But right now, what matters is keeping you safe long enough to… contain it."
"You just said you couldn't unbind the ring."
"I can't," he says. "But I think I can teach you how to survive it."
The ring pulses once. Warm. Affirming.
I don't like the word 'survive' when discussing my future, and I don't like that the ring agrees with him.
"When?" I ask.
"Tonight. After you get off work." He straightens, and suddenly he looks less like someone cornered and more like someone preparing for battle. "There's a place we can talk. Somewhere private. Safe."
"I'm not going anywhere isolated with you. I don't know you."
"Then bring someone you trust," he says without hesitation. "Bring Monica or your new boyfriend if it makes you feel better. I don't care. But you need to understand what's happening before someone else figures it out."
"Boyfriend?" I say confused.
His expression darkens. "The one whose smell is all over you, suddenly. Or someone you trust with your life. I'm not the only one who can sense that ring, Ms. Hale. And not everyone who finds you will be as patient as I am."
Cold slides down my spine.
"Seven o'clock," he says. "I'll text you the address."
"Fine," I say. "Seven o'clock. But if this is some elaborate scheme to murder me in a warehouse, I'm going to be extremely annoyed."
"Noted." He stands, moving toward the door. Then pauses. "And Ms. Hale?"
"What?"
"Don't try to take the ring off, no matter what happens. Even if it feels uncomfortable. Even if it gets warm. Especially if it gets warm. It's trying to protect you."
"From what?"
He opens the door. Looks back at me one last time.
"From everything it's about to show you."
Then he's gone.
I sit alone in my office, staring at the gray archival box.
The ring sits heavy on my finger.
Waiting.