The cursed artifact help desk stood beneath a cracked green awning in the far corner of the Elmridge Market, between the apothecary who didn’t label his jars and the tailor who insisted wool was comfortable in summer. The help desk was a booth in name only—three rickety crates stacked into a counter, a ledger balanced on top, and a rusted placard that read:

Curse Inquiries, Returns, and Reassignments
“You break it, we still don’t take it back.”

Behind the desk sat an older man with a carved jaw and a polished monocle, despite the fact he hadn’t used the eye beneath it in years. His name was Thomlen, and he had the deeply furrowed brow of someone who had once tried to explain to a goose farmer why a sentient hat could not be “retrained.”

This morning, he was nibbling a peppered biscuit and pretending to review warranty parchments when the latest customer arrived, dragging a canvas-wrapped bundle the size of a hearthstone.

The customer slammed it onto the desk with a thud, tugged off the cloth, and squinted against the immediate, blinding light.

The artifact—an orb of polished amber—glowed with the ferocity of high noon on a cloudless midsummer day. Its golden glare cast hard shadows across the stall, highlighting every speck of dust on the ledger and bleaching Thomlen’s beard nearly white.

The customer, a young man in a soot-smeared vest and deep eye bags, leaned over the desk.

“I want a refund.”

Thomlen didn’t flinch. He turned a page in his ledger without looking up.

“And what seems to be the trouble?”

The man blinked furiously, shielding his face with a gloved hand. “It glows.”

Thomlen raised an eyebrow. “Indeed it does.”

“No, I mean—it glows. All the time. Like the sun. In my tent. At night. I haven’t slept in four days. The raccoons think it’s morning. My horse walked into a pond. Twice.”

“I see,” said Thomlen mildly, as he flipped to the section labeled Glow-Based Disruptions (Moderate to Severe). “And did you, perchance, read the inscription carved into the base of the orb?”

“I—what? No. There wasn’t any—”

Thomlen reached under the desk and produced a brass magnifying lens, then leaned over the orb. With a practiced twist, he turned the orb slightly. Carved in a neat script, nearly invisible beneath the brilliance, were the words:

“May the Light of Gildros never fade.”

“See?” said Thomlen, tapping the rune with a fingernail. “Perpetual. No dimming. No interruptions. Technically not a curse, but a blessing—depending on your line of work.”

The man stared at the glowing orb. Then at Thomlen. “I’m a chimney sweep.”

“Well then,” said Thomlen with a shrug, “perhaps not ideal.”

“I need sleep.”

“Have you considered a very deep hole?”

“What?”

“Burying it. Temporarily, of course. Or storing it beneath several layers of lead. I believe the seller recommended a sunstone vault or an obsidian-lined trunk.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “The seller was Edrick.”

Thomlen looked up for the first time, his monocle flashing. “Ah. Edrick.”

The man nodded grimly.

“Did he, by chance, tell you it would brighten your life?”

“And that it was perfect for lighting rooms.”

Thomlen sighed and closed his ledger. “Look, I can’t offer you a refund, not unless the artifact is defective—and I assure you, this one is operating precisely as advertised. But I can offer you an exchange.”

The man straightened. “Really?”

Thomlen reached under the desk and pulled out a shoebox wrapped in ash-brown twine. It trembled slightly.

“This one emits darkness.”

“Darkness?”

“Absorbs light like a sponge. Very popular with the spelunkers. One moment you’re in a sunlit room, next moment—pitch black.”

The man considered it. “Would it cancel out this one?”

“Unclear. We’ve never tested them side by side. But I’d recommend keeping them apart. Last time someone paired opposites, the artifacts argued.”

“…argued?”

“Philosophically.”

There was a long pause.

“I’ll take the darkness box,” said the man, pulling a coin pouch from his belt.

“No charge,” Thomlen said, pushing it forward. “You’ve suffered enough. But if you end up with a hole in the world, do come back.”

The man muttered something halfway between thanks and a curse, tucked the glowing orb back under the canvas, and left with the box.

Thomlen leaned back, eyes adjusting slowly to the relative dim. He reached again for his biscuit, only to find it glowing faintly gold.

He frowned, turned it over.

Etched into the bottom, just visible under a dusting of pepper:

“May the Light of Gildros brighten your breakfast.”

“…Edrick,” he muttered.