Gandahar Swayville stood at his steaming griddle counter, coat buttoned, fork in hand. He wanted one thing this morning: pancakes, hot and quiet, in his own castle. He cut a bite. He chewed. From the stone stairs below, a faint hum drifted up. The sound was thin, like a wet finger on glass. It crawled under the kitchen door. Gandahar set down his fork. He had ignored the package for three days. He would not ignore this. He walked down the interior stairs of his lava-ringed keep. The lower hall was cold. The box sat alone on the flagstones, glowing red between purple ribbons. The hum pulsed in time with the light. It was inside his walls. It was inside his morning. Gandahar did not open it. He lifted the box with both hands. He carried it up, across the courtyard, and out onto the narrow bridge above the moat. The lava snapped below. He held the glowing thing over the edge and let go. The box fell. The hum cut off mid-note. Fire swallowed the ribbons in one bright gulp. Gandahar turned back toward his kitchen, coat still on. Above the gate, three small cloud puffs with wide puppy eyes drifted closer, watching him. They had seen everything. And somewhere, whoever sent the box now knew he had answered.