Grog's Room.
Grog closed the door behind him.
Locked it.
Moved to the window—checked that it was still closed, still secure. The street below was quiet. No one watching. No one waiting.
He sat on the bed.
The rings were cool against his hip. A dozen of them. A dozen secrets.
He'd been carrying them since last night without looking inside. Without knowing what he actually held. The weight of them had pressed against him all morning—through breakfast, through watching the smith, through the slow walk back to the inn.
Now it was time.
---
He pulled the first ring from his pouch.
Plain silver. Faint markings around the band. He held it in his palm, focusing the way Mirena had taught him—not magic, just attention. Just asking.
The ring responded.
Space opened in his mind. Not physically—he couldn't see it with his eyes. But he felt it. A pocket of something else, attached to the ring, waiting to be accessed.
He reached in.
---
Books.
Dozens of them. Stacked neatly, bound in leather, their pages yellowed with age. Grog pulled one out.
The cover was blank. He opened it.
Words in a language he didn't recognize. Diagrams of hands making gestures. Symbols that looked familiar—the same kind of markings on the rings themselves.
Magic books.
He set it aside. Reached in again.
More books. Different sizes. Different languages. Some in scripts he'd never seen, angular and strange. A few with illustrations—plants, stars, human anatomy drawn in careful detail.
He pulled out a handful, stacking them on the bed.
Beneath them, at the bottom of the ring's space—
A smaller stack. Different binding. Newer, maybe. Or just better preserved.
He pulled one out.
Opened it.
Froze.
---
The illustrations were explicit.
Not instructional. Not medical. Just... explicit. Men and women in various combinations, drawn with more attention to detail than any magic book in the stack. The expressions on their faces left nothing to the imagination.
Grog stared for a moment.
Then, despite himself, he almost smiled.
Someone had interesting tastes, he thought.
He set that stack aside too. Not useful—but not nothing. Books were books. Information was information. Even this kind.
He reached into the ring again.
---
Herbs.
Dozens of small bundles, wrapped in cloth, tied with string. He pulled one out. Sniffed it.
Nothing. No smell. No life.
He crushed a leaf between his fingers. It crumbled to dust.
Expired. Years old, maybe decades. Whatever power they'd held was long gone.
He set them aside. Maybe Mirena could identify them. Maybe not.
---
The next ring held different things.
Weapons.
A shield first—small, round, made of dark metal that seemed to drink the light. Grog pulled it out. Held it.
The moment his fingers touched it, he felt it.
Humming.
Not sound—vibration. A deep thrum that traveled up his arm, into his chest, settling somewhere behind his heart. The shield was alive. Or wanted to be.
He set it against the wall. Carefully.
Next: a sword.
Long. Straight. Plain in design but perfect in execution. The blade seemed to glow faintly in the dim room—not light, but something else. Presence.
Grog touched the hilt.
The humming intensified.
The sword knew him. Was judging him. Testing.
He held it for a long moment.
Then set it beside the shield.
---
The third ring held stones.
Glowing stones.
Not bright—just faint luminescence, like moonlight captured in crystal. Dozens of them, in different colors. Blue. Green. Red. A few that seemed to shift as he watched.
Magic stones. The kind mages used for... something. Grog didn't know what. But Mirena would.
He set them carefully on the bed.
---
The fourth ring held gold.
Lots of gold.
Coins, mostly—different sizes, different markings, from places he'd never heard of. Bars stacked neatly. A few small ingots that fit in the palm.
Grog stared at it.
Enough gold to buy a small army. Enough to fund a war. Enough to—
He stopped that thought.
Later, he told himself. Worry about that later.
---
The fifth ring held more books.
Different from the first set. Older. More fragile. He handled them carefully, afraid they'd crumble.
One caught his attention.
Leather binding. No title. But when he opened it—
Diagrams of trees. The Grove? Similar, at least. Markings that matched the symbols on the rings. Text in the same angular script.
This was important. He didn't know why. But he felt it.
He set it with the other books.
---
The sixth ring held food.
Not much—just a few wrapped packages. But when he opened one, the bread inside was still fresh. Still warm, almost.
Preservation magic, he thought. The rings keep things from aging.
He bit into the bread.
Good. Really good. Better than anything he'd eaten in weeks.
He ate the whole piece. Then another.
---
The seventh ring held—
A single apple.
Golden. Perfect. Shining with its own light.
Grog picked it up.
It was warm. Not hot—just warm, like it had been held. The skin was smooth, almost liquid-looking. The smell made his mouth water.
He stared at it.
A golden apple. In a ring full of treasure.
What did it do?
He didn't know.
He was hungry.
He bit into it.
---
The juice flooded his mouth.
Sweet—the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. Warm and rich and alive. He chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite.
The apple was gone in moments.
He sat there, licking juice from his fingers, feeling—
Something.
Warmth. Spreading from his stomach through his whole body. Not painful. Not alarming. Just... warmth. Like stepping into sunlight after years in shadow.
He felt good.
Better than good. Strong. Alive. Right.
He looked at his hands.
They looked the same. But they felt different. More. More connected. More present.
What did I just eat?
He didn't know.
But he felt amazing.
---
He looked at the remaining rings.
Still five left. More treasures. More secrets.
But his head was swimming now—not badly, just... pleasantly. Like good ale after a long day.
He set the rings down.
Leaned back against the wall.
Closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.