The rain in Naples always arrived without warning. At midnight, Mount Vesuvius faded into the curtain of rain, while the distant lights of Sant'Elmo Castle flickered like ghostly flames in the mist—blurred and eerie.
Seventeen-year-old Giovanni Russo stood by the window, gazing at the churning Tyrrhenian Sea, his inner gloom surpassing even the weather's melancholy. Just a week ago, at the funeral of his archaeologist father, Marco, he had received a cold urn of ashes. His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the urn's surface, and the memory of his father's final smile flashed through his mind—the warmest light in his recollection, now swallowed by endless darkness. Now, he lived alone in this dilapidated apartment in the old town, where even the aroma of tomato sauce wafting from old Mrs. Salvatore's kitchen downstairs failed to bring him the slightest comfort.
"If Dad hadn't insisted on going to that cursed Troy excavation…" Giovanni stared at the nearly blank calculus homework on his desk, his grip tightening on the pencil until it creaked between his fingers, nearly snapping. He had always had a knack for math, but since his father's disappearance, his grades had plummeted, like a rudderless ship adrift in boundless fog.
Before vanishing, Marco had been part of a secretive archaeological project in northwestern Turkey. During their last video call, his father's eyes had shone with unusual brightness, his voice brimming with barely contained excitement: "My son, we've uncovered something astonishing this time! It could rewrite the entire history of the Trojan War…" His words were cut off as the screen abruptly went black. Three days later, Giovanni received the news—his father had died in an "accident" at the dig site.
"Ding-dong!"
The shrill doorbell sliced through the midnight silence, sharp as a blade piercing his thoughts. Giovanni walked slowly toward the door, the old wooden floor creaking beneath his feet, each step laced with unease. Peering through the peephole, he saw a deliveryman in a DHL uniform standing outside, head bowed as he examined a package. A delivery at this hour? In a city like Naples, shrouded in shadows, such a visitor often spelled trouble.
"Mr. Giovanni Russo?" The deliveryman's voice was low, tinged with a thick Sicilian accent, yet carried an oddly calm undertone. His uniform was soaked through, water dripping from the brim of his cap, his face pale as though he'd just crawled from a grave, exuding a faint stench of earth and blood.
"Yes?" Giovanni's voice came out hoarse, his heartbeat quickening involuntarily.
"A package of your father Marco Russo's belongings. Requires your signature." The deliveryman handed over an old box wrapped in damp parchment, its surface emitting a musty blend of rust and mold, as if unearthed from some subterranean depths.
Giovanni cautiously unlatched the door, his fingers trembling slightly as he took the box. He glanced down at the receipt, but when he looked up, the deliveryman had vanished into the shadows of the corridor, his footsteps fading into the rain, leaving only a vague silhouette that melted into the night like a phantom.
Back in his room, Giovanni unwrapped the package with care, a swirl of emotions rising within him—anticipation tinged with dread. Inside was a simple bronze box, its lid engraved with a scene from Greek mythology: beneath the walls of Troy, Prince Paris offered the golden apple to Aphrodite, the details so intricate they felt unsettling. Nestled within was a finely crafted bronze ring, its surface bearing the profile of a young woman, her expression solemn and sorrowful. Even as a mere engraving, her eyes seemed imbued with a strange magic, impossible to look away from.
Most striking was a letter at the bottom of the box, its yellowed paper charred at the edges, as if scorched by fire. His father's haphazard handwriting stabbed at his heart:
"Dear Giovanni,
If you've received this package, then I've been betrayed. This was no accident—it was murder. The secret we uncovered at the Troy ruins is more astonishing than anyone could imagine. This ring is not just an artifact; it's a key to fate itself. Beware the 'shadows' of the Vatican—they covet not only it but the fate of the entire world. Trust no one among them. On the night of the full moon, when the shadow of Vesuvius blankets Naples Bay, you will…"
The writing stopped there, the rest consumed by the charred edges, leaving an unresolved enigma hanging in the air.
Giovanni's hands shook violently, his eyes welling up unconsciously. He murmured under his breath, "Dad, what were you trying to tell me…" The ring's inner band bore a line of ancient Greek script. Though he'd studied basic Greek in school, these older symbols eluded him.
Outside, the rain eased, the clouds parting to reveal a pristine full moon. Giovanni stood by the window, moonlight bathing the ring in a faint blue glow. As if guided by some unseen force, he slipped it onto his right middle finger.
In an instant, the room's temperature plummeted, a chill stabbing into his bones like needles. The Roman wall clock, salvaged from Pompeii, began spinning wildly, its ticking a shrill cacophony. A murmur filled the air, a blend of ancient strings and a girl's soft whispers. Giovanni felt a wave of dizziness, his vision blurring into double images.
When he came to, he was seated at his desk. Everything seemed as it was, save for the ring, now unnaturally warm, the faint whispers still lingering in his ears. "Maybe I miss Dad too much…" He shook his head, trying to dispel the hallucination, and decided to take a shower to clear his mind.
In the bathroom, hot steam quickly fogged the mirror. Giovanni wiped it clean, only to freeze at the sight reflected within—a young woman hovered behind him.
She wore a white chiton robe in the ancient Greek style, her silver hair flowing like moonlight, her emerald eyes deep and mournful. Her features matched the ring's engraving perfectly, yet she was more vivid, more real, though tinged with an ethereal blue glow, as if she'd crossed over from another realm.
"Ah! Holy heavens!" Giovanni yelped, spinning around instinctively, only to slip on the wet floor and crash down with a muffled thud.
"Three thousand years…" The woman whispered in ancient Greek, her voice echoing from a distant time, laced with an irresistible allure. "I've finally found you, my master."
To his shock, Giovanni realized he could understand this ancient tongue. Stammering, he asked, "You… who are you?" The words slipped out in Greek without him realizing it.
"I am Arethia, guardian of the Apollo Temple in Troy," she said, drifting closer, her gaze filled with sorrow. "And you, Giovanni Russo, are the master I've chosen in this era."
Her voice surged into his mind like a tide: "A new war is about to begin, and this time, the battlefield is not Troy—it's here, Naples."
Giovanni sat dumbfounded on the bathroom floor, his mind blank, staring at this spirit who had crossed three millennia to reach him. Dimly, he recalled that his calculus homework was due tomorrow, but clearly, his life was no longer just about math exams.
Outside, the full moon hung high, the wisps of smoke from Vesuvius' peak glowing eerily in its light. In a shadowy corner of the old town, a figure in a black priest's robe dialed a phone, whispering, "Master, the ring has found its heir…"