Dawn. The Wanderer's Rest.
Grog didn't sleep.
He lay on the bed, fully clothed, axe within reach, staring at the ceiling while light slowly filled the room. The rings were cool against his hip. The stone was warm. His mind refused to stop moving.
The figure in the clearing.
The gesture.
The way they'd melted into darkness without a sound.
Who?
He had no answer.
When the first real light touched his window, he rose. Splashed water on his face from the pitcher. Ran his hands through his hair. Checked his gear—axe, pouch, rings, stone. Everything in place.
He went downstairs.
---
The common room was busier than last night.
Farmers and traders, mostly. A few travelers. The kind of morning crowd that gathered for breakfast before starting the day's work. Smoke from the fire mixed with the smell of bread and meat.
Grog found a table in the corner. Back to the wall. View of the door. View of the room.
The innkeeper's daughter appeared within minutes. Same girl as last night—fourteen, silent, efficient.
"Breakfast?"
"Yes."
She nodded. Disappeared. Returned with bread, meat, ale. Set it before him. Left.
Grog ate slowly.
Listening.
---
The room hummed with conversation.
Farmers talking about crops—or rather, complaining about crops. The winter had been hard. The ground was frozen later than usual. Prices were rising.
Traders discussing routes. Which roads were passable. Which villages had goods to sell. Which were best avoided.
And beneath it all, the low murmur of gossip. The real currency of small towns.
"—heard the old Grant place finally sold."
"To who?"
"Outsider. From the south. Paid in gold."
"Gold? For that wreck?"
"Must want the land. Or maybe—" A pause. Lowered voice. "Maybe he knows about the tree."
Grog's hand stilled on his bread.
The tree.
He didn't look up. Didn't react. Just kept eating, listening.
"What tree?"
"The old one. Before your time. Before mine, really. But my grandfather used to talk about it. Said it was special. Said people came from miles around just to look at it."
"What happened to it?"
"Cut down. Years ago. By who, no one knows. Just—one day it was gone. Stump left behind. Nothing else."
Silence at that table.
Then: "Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
The conversation moved on. Crops. Weather. Someone's cow that had wandered off.
Grog filed the information away.
People came to look at it. Special. Then cut down by persons unknown.
He thought about the tree in the clearing. The split trunk. The rings.
Connected?
Probably.
---
He finished his breakfast. Drained his ale. Sat for a moment, watching the room.
The old man from last night wasn't there.
Grog noted it. Said nothing.
He stood. Walked to the bar.
The innkeeper was there, wiping cups, watching the room with the same sharp eyes as last night. She looked at him as he approached.
"Room good?"
"Fine."
"Need anything else?"
"Information."
She raised an eyebrow. "What kind?"
"The kind that costs." He placed another silver coin on the bar. "Someone in this village makes weapons?"
The innkeeper looked at the coin. At him. At the coin again.
"Henrik. The smith. At the far end of the main road." She pocketed the silver. "He's good. Quiet. Doesn't ask questions."
Grog nodded. Turned to leave.
"Stranger."
He paused.
"The tree. The one in the forest. You'll hear stories about it." Her voice was low. "Don't go looking. People who go looking don't always come back."
Grog met her eyes.
"Noted."
He walked out.
---
The village looked different in daylight.
Smaller, somehow. The houses were weathered, patched, held together by the kind of repairs that came from limited resources. Children played in the road. Women carried water from the well. Men loaded carts or mended fences.
Ordinary.
Grog walked slowly toward the far end of town.
Counting again. Not houses this time—people. Faces. The way they looked at him. Some nodded. Some ignored him. Some watched too long before looking away.
He noted them all.
---
The smithy stood at the end of the main road.
Larger than the other buildings. Open front. Fire glowing inside. The ring of hammer on metal carrying through the morning air.
Grog stopped across the street.
Leaned against a fence.
Watched.
---
Henrik was big.
Not Grog-big, but big enough. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The kind of build that came from decades of swinging hammers and lifting hot metal. His face was hidden in shadow, but his movements were precise—economical, practiced, the result of years of repetition.
He was working on a horseshoe.
Simple job. Ordinary. But he did it with focus, with care, with the attention of someone who took pride in small things.
Grog watched for a long time.
Not just Henrik—the shop itself. The layout. The tools hanging on walls. The racks of finished work. Swords, mostly. A few axes. Knives in every size.
Good work. Not great, but good. Solid. Reliable.
The kind of work that saved lives.
---
A customer approached.
Farmer, by the look of him. Needed a plowshare repaired. Henrik listened, nodded, gestured for him to leave it. The farmer did. Left.
Henrik went back to his horseshoe.
Grog kept watching.
---
Why was he waiting?
He wasn't sure. Part of him wanted to go in. Ask questions. See the work up close. Maybe buy something—a knife, a small axe, something that wouldn't raise suspicion.
But another part held him back.
The smith was connected. Everyone in a village this size was connected. Henrik would know things. About the tree. About the stranger who'd bought the old Grant place. About the figure in the forest.
But asking too soon, too directly—that would raise questions. And questions in a place like this traveled fast.
So Grog waited.
Watched.
Learned.
---
The morning wore on.
Henrik finished the horseshoe. Started another. Paused to drink water. Sharpened a blade someone had left. Talked briefly with a passerby—just a few words, nothing important.
Grog catalogued it all.
The way Henrik moved. The way he interacted. The rhythm of his work.
By midday, he knew more than he'd started with.
Not enough. But more.
He pushed off from the fence.
Walked back toward the inn.
Behind him, the smithy continued its work. Hammer on metal. Fire in the forge. The ordinary sounds of a man doing ordinary things.
Grog didn't look back.
But he noted the direction. The layout. The faces of everyone who passed.
Tomorrow, maybe, he'd go inside.
Tonight, he'd think.