Unknown Time. Grog's Room.
Grog woke to darkness and weakness.
Not the ordinary weakness of hunger or exhaustion. Something deeper. His limbs felt heavy, disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. His head pounded. His mouth was dry.
He tried to move.
Couldn't.
Just lifting his arm took effort that left him breathing hard. His muscles trembled. His vision swam.
What happened?
He remembered the apple. The warmth. The feeling of strength and rightness.
Then nothing.
How long had he been out?
He looked toward the window. Darkness. Night again? Or still? He couldn't tell.
A sound.
Knocking. Soft. Hesitant.
"Stranger?" A voice through the door. Young. Female. "Stranger, are you in there?"
The innkeeper's daughter.
Grog tried to answer. His voice came out as a croak.
More knocking. "You haven't come down in a day. Mother sent me to check."
A day.
He'd been unconscious for a day.
---
The door creaked open.
She stood in the doorway, lamplight behind her, silhouetted for a moment before she stepped inside.
Lena. That was her name—he'd heard the innkeeper use it once. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Young. But there was something in her eyes that wasn't young at all.
She was pretty.
Not in the obvious way of court ladies or painted nobles. In a quieter way. Dark hair falling past her shoulders, slightly wild, as if she'd just run her fingers through it. Brown eyes that seemed to see too much. Skin pale from winter but warm in the lamplight.
She wore a simple dress—wool, practical, the kind that could survive kitchen work and carrying trays. But it couldn't hide the shape beneath. The curve of her hips. The swell of her breasts, pressed against the fabric. The way her waist narrowed before flaring out again.
She was young. Too young, maybe. But her body had other ideas.
Grog noticed.
Couldn't help noticing.
Then she moved closer, and the moment passed.
---
"You're awake." Relief in her voice. She set the lamp on his table, then turned to look at him properly. "You look terrible."
Grog managed a nod.
"When did you last eat?" She was already moving, checking the water pitcher—empty—the tray from yesterday—untouched. "You've been up here for a day and a half. Mother was going to send for the healer."
"A day and a half?"
"Almost two." She frowned at him. "Can you sit up?"
He tried.
Failed.
Lena moved closer. "Here." She slipped an arm behind his back, helping him rise. She was stronger than she looked. Her body pressed against his for a moment—warm, soft, solid—before she propped him against the headboard.
"There." She stepped back. "I'll get food. And water. Lots of water." At the door, she paused. "Don't die before I get back. Mother would never forgive me."
She left.
Grog sat in the darkness, breathing hard, wondering what the hell was happening to him.
---
She returned quickly.
Tray loaded with bread, meat, cheese, a whole pitcher of water. She set it on the bed beside him, then stood back, watching.
Grog reached for the water first.
Drank the entire pitcher without stopping.
Lena's eyes widened. "Thirsty."
He nodded. Grabbed bread. Ate.
The food helped. Almost immediately. Strength returned to his limbs in waves, starting from his stomach and spreading outward. He ate faster.
"Slow down," Lena said. "You'll make yourself sick."
He ignored her. Kept eating.
By the time the tray was empty, he felt almost human.
---
"You should bathe."
Grog looked up.
Lena was studying him with those too-old eyes. "There's a room in back. Heated water. Towels. Soap." She gestured at him. "You smell."
He probably did. Two days unconscious, plus whatever the apple had done to him.
"A bath," he repeated.
"Mother includes it with the room. For guests who stay more than three days." A slight smile. "You've been here long enough."
Grog considered.
A bath meant being vulnerable. Unarmed. In a strange place with people he didn't know.
But he also stank. And the thought of hot water—
"Fine."
Lena nodded. "I'll tell Mother. She'll heat the water. Come down when you're ready." At the door, she paused again. "Stranger?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever happened to you—" She met his eyes. "Be careful. This village isn't what it seems."
She left.
Grog stared at the closed door.
This village isn't what it seems.
He already knew that.
But hearing her say it—with that look in her eyes—made it feel different. Personal.
He stood. Slowly. His legs held.
He gathered clean clothes from his pack. Checked that the rings were secure. Moved to the door.
The bath waited.
---
The bathhouse was small.
Stone floor. Wooden tub big enough for one. Steam rising from water that someone had just finished heating. Soap on a shelf. Towels folded neatly.
Grog locked the door.
Stripped.
Looked at himself in the small mirror on the wall.
He looked the same. But different. His eyes seemed brighter. His skin seemed tighter. The old scar on his shoulder—from a Vargr axe in the old timeline—was faded. Almost gone.
The apple, he thought. It did something.
He stepped into the tub.
The water was perfect—hot enough to sting, not hot enough to burn. He sank into it, letting it cover him, letting the heat seep into muscles he hadn't realized were tight.
For the first time in days, he relaxed.
---
He stayed until the water cooled.
Washed away the sweat of two days unconscious. Scrubbed his hair. Let the heat work its magic.
When he finally climbed out, he felt better than he had since leaving the column.
Not just clean. Stronger. More present. More aware.
The apple had changed him. He didn't know how. But he could feel it.
He dried off. Dressed.
Left the bathhouse.
---
Lena was waiting in the common room.
She looked up when he entered. Smiled slightly.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Good." She gestured at a table. "I saved you food. Real food, not just bread." She'd already laid it out—meat, cheese, vegetables, more bread, a fresh pitcher of water.
Grog sat.
Ate.
Lena sat across from him, watching.
"You're not from around here," she said. Not a question.
"No."
"Where are you going?"
"North. Villages. People to see."
She nodded slowly. "You'll pass through Deepwood, then. About three days north."
Grog filed the name away.
"Anything I should know about Deepwood?"
Lena's eyes flickered. Just for a moment.
"Ask the smith," she said quietly. "He's from there. He'll tell you what you need to know."
Grog studied her.
"Why are you helping me?"
She met his gaze. Held it.
"Because you're not like the others who come through here. You're not looking for trouble. You're looking for something else." She stood. "And because my mother taught me to help strangers. You never know when you'll need one yourself."
She walked away.
Grog watched her go.
Then finished his meal.