The air pressed heavy, charged with whatever passed for ancient danger in this world. The gap behind the obsidian pillar whispered in a language neither man recognized but both felt—like cold wind threading through the spine.

  Sherlock peered into the dark. “The resonance shifted again. Whatever’s behind that seal... it's reacting to us.”

  Watson stood beside the hammer. “Why would it react to us? We’re not exactly locals.”

  “No. But we’re anomalies. Foreign variables in a closed system.”

  “Again,” Watson said flatly, “English, please.”

  Sherlock pointed to the runes. “This isn’t a prison. It’s a lock. And Thundergnash—”

  “Is the key.”

  The voice was not Sherlock’s.

  They turned. A figure stepped from the shadows—a tall elf with storm-grey eyes and robes that shimmered like moonlight over water. His presence was calm, but in the same way a blade is calm before it strikes.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Watson whispered, “I hate it when mysterious people show up mid-deduction.”

  The elf bowed slightly. “I am Vel’thir. Warden of the Hollow Seal. You should not be here.”

  “Neither should your hammer,” Sherlock replied coolly, “and yet here we all are, trespassing each other.”

  Vel’thir’s gaze moved to the pillar. “The dwarf who lost it… he did not forge it. He merely found it. She does not belong to him.”

  “You’re saying the hammer chose to leave?” Watson asked.

  “She is the last relic of the Hollow King. She remembers. She calls for the gate to open again.”

  Sherlock frowned. “Fascinating. Semi-sentient magical tool with abandonment issues. I’ve dated worse.”

  Vel’thir raised an eyebrow. “I do not understand.”

  “Don’t worry,” Watson muttered. “We barely do either.”

  ---

  They argued. Logic clashed with lore. But Sherlock, with all the arrogance of a man who once told a serial killer his tie was poorly knotted mid-chase, stepped forward and placed a hand on the hammer.

  Nothing exploded. No seals shattered.

  Instead, Thundergnash glowed—not red, not gold, but soft blue.

  “She's… quiet now,” Sherlock murmured.

  Watson took a step closer. “What did you do?”

  “I told her,” Sherlock said, voice calm, “that she wasn’t alone anymore.”

  The silence that followed was immense.

  Vel’thir nodded once. “Then the Hollow King will not rise. Not yet.”

  He stepped back into shadow. “You are not meant for this world, Sherlock Holmes. But perhaps this world is meant for you.”

  ---

  Back in the dwarf’s forge, the hammer now wrapped in layers of enchanted cloth, Watson leaned on the counter with a mug of something that tasted almost like tea.

  “You think we’re stuck here for good?”

  Sherlock adjusted his coat. “Possibly. Or until someone in our world solves the puzzle of our disappearance.”

  “You mean Lestrade?”

  “God, no. If he's in charge, we’ll die old and confused in a cabbage farm somewhere outside the Elven border.”

  They sipped in silence.

  “So,” Watson said eventually, “what do we do now?”

  Sherlock smiled. “We open a consulting agency. 'Strange mysteries solved. No dragons unless necessary.' I’ll handle the deductions. You handle the people.”

  “Same as London then.”

  Sherlock nodded. “Not quite Baker Street… but close enough.”