The Next Morning.
Grog woke slowly.
Not the sudden alertness of danger—the slow, heavy pull of someone who could have slept another six hours. His body felt good. Too good. Like it was still adjusting to whatever the apple had done.
He lay still, taking inventory.
Muscles: relaxed. Joints: loose. Energy: high, despite the drowsiness. A strange combination—tired and wired at the same time. His heart beat steady and strong. His lungs filled deeper than usual. Even his thoughts seemed clearer, sharper.
Need more sleep, he thought. Tonight. Early. Before I do anything else.
He sat up.
The rings sat on the table. Twelve of them. Still waiting. The sword leaned against the wall, its dark blade catching the morning light. The shield rested beside it, its core pulsing gently, steadily, like a heart that had been beating for centuries.
He needed a smith.
---
The common room was quiet at this hour.
A few travelers eating breakfast. Locals nursing cups of something warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, fighting back the winter chill that seeped through every crack.
Grog sat at an empty table near the corner. Back to the wall. Watching.
A girl appeared moments later.
Lena.
She was younger than he'd thought yesterday—sixteen, maybe. Seventeen at most. Brown hair pulled back in a practical tail, escaping in small curls around her temples. Brown eyes, warm and curious, that seemed to miss nothing. A spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks that spoke of time spent in sun despite the winter.
Her body was slight but not fragile—the kind of lean strength that came from years of carrying trays and hauling water and helping with work too heavy for her frame. Her hands were red from cold, nails short and practical. She wore a simple wool dress, patched at the elbows, with an apron tied around her waist.
She moved like someone who'd been working since she could walk.
"You're up early," she said, setting down bread and cheese. "For someone who slept two days."
Grog grunted.
"Tea?" she asked.
"Yes."
She poured from a small pot. The liquid steamed in the cold air.
"Anything else? We have porridge. Eggs, if you want to wait. Hen just laid this morning."
"Bread's fine."
She nodded. Didn't push. That was good—he was starting to like this girl.
Grog ate. The bread was dense and good, still warm from the oven. The cheese was sharp, crumbly, exactly what his body needed.
Lena hovered nearby, wiping tables, refilling cups, doing the endless small tasks that kept an inn running. She glanced at him occasionally but didn't stare.
He finished. Wiped his mouth.
"Where's the smith?"
Lena paused. "Henrik? Other end of town. Big stone building with the smoke stack. Can't miss it." She tilted her head. "Need something fixed?"
"Work. On weapons."
She nodded. "He's grumpy with strangers. Especially ones who show up with fancy swords thinking he can work miracles." She grinned suddenly. "He'll probably yell at you. Don't take it personal. He yells at everyone."
Grog stood. Placed a copper on the table.
"Tell him I'm coming?"
Lena laughed. It was a good sound—warm, genuine. "I'll tell him to be nice. Won't help, but I'll tell him."
Grog almost smiled. Almost.
He walked out.
---
The smithy was easy to find.
Smoke rose from the stone stack, visible from anywhere in the village. The building itself was larger than the houses—stone at the base, wood above, with wide doors thrown open despite the cold. The sound of hammer on metal rang out as Grog approached, a steady rhythm that spoke of years of practice.
He stopped at the entrance.
Inside, a man worked at the forge.
Short. Barely five feet, if that. But broad—shoulders like boulders, arms thick as tree trunks, chest like a barrel. His beard was a wild tangle of red and gray, streaked with soot, reaching nearly to his belt. His face was red from the heat, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cold.
He was hammering a horseshoe, shaping it with quick, precise strikes. Each blow landed exactly where intended. The metal glowed orange, then faded as he worked.
Grog stepped inside.
The hammering stopped.
---
The smith looked up.
Small eyes, sharp and assessing, took Grog in from head to toe. Took in the axe. The size. The hardness. The way he stood—balanced, ready, the stance of someone who'd seen real fights.
"You're not here for horseshoes," the smith said.
His voice was loud. Not angry—just loud, like he'd spent years shouting over the ring of metal.
Grog shook his head.
"Didn't think so." The smith set down his hammer. Wiped his hands on a leather apron that had seen better decades. "Lena sent word. Said you were coming. Said to be nice." He snorted. "I'm never nice. But I'll look at your weapon."
"Henrik?"
"That's me." He gestured at the forge. "Been at this since I was tall enough to reach the anvil. Which wasn't long, as you can see." He laughed—a loud, booming sound that filled the smithy. "What'd you bring me?"
Grog reached into his pack. Pulled out the sword.
---
Henrik's reaction was immediate.
His eyes went wide. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He reached out instinctively, then stopped, looking at Grog for permission.
"May I?"
Grog handed it over.
Henrik held it like it was made of glass. Turned it slowly in the light. His fingers traced the blade, the hilt, the faint markings along the crossguard.
"That's—" He stopped. Started again. "I've never seen anything like this. The metal—look at this grain. This isn't just folded steel. This is something else." He held it up to the light. "And the colors. See how they shift? That's not paint. That's the metal itself. Something in the forging process."
He looked at Grog.
"Where'd you get this?"
Grog said nothing.
Henrik waited. When no answer came, he shrugged.
"Fine. Don't tell me. Probably better I don't know." He looked back at the sword. "What do you want done with it?"
"Turn it into an axe."
Henrik blinked.
"An axe."
"Yes."
"This blade—this beautiful, impossibly well-crafted blade—you want me to melt it down and reshape it into an axe?"
"Yes."
Henrik stared at him.
Then he burst out laughing.
Not mocking laughter—genuine, delighted laughter. The kind that came from deep in the belly.
"You're insane," he said, wiping his eyes. "Absolutely insane. I love it." He held the sword up again. "This is going to be the most ridiculous, wonderful project of my entire life. Do you know how hard it is to reforge enchanted metal? How carefully I'll have to work to preserve the properties? This could take months!"
"However long it takes."
"And the materials—I'll need special alloys, binding agents, things I don't keep in stock. This isn't horseshoes and plow blades."
Grog reached into his pouch. Pulled out a handful of gold coins. Set them on the workbench.
Henrik's eyes bugged.
"That's—" He counted quickly. "That's more than I make in a year."
"Materials. Payment. Whatever you need." Grog set more coins beside the first pile. "More where that came from."
Henrik looked at the gold. At the sword. At Grog.
"Who are you?"
Grog didn't answer.
Henrik stared for a moment. Then he shrugged.
"Fine. Don't tell me. Keeps things interesting." He picked up the sword again. "You want this as an axe. Same metal. Same properties. Anything else?"
Grog pulled out the shield.
---
Henrik actually squeaked.
Not a manly sound. Not a sound Grog expected from someone built like a barrel with limbs. But a genuine, high-pitched squeak of pure amazement.
"That's—" He set the sword down carefully and took the shield. "That core. It's glowing. It's actually glowing." He held it close to his face, studying the pulsing light inside. "There's something in there. Moving. How is that possible?"
"Don't know."
"This is alive. Not alive like you and me, but alive like—like something that's been waiting." He looked at Grog, eyes wild with excitement. "I've heard stories about things like this. Ancient craft. Before the kingdoms. Before everything. They don't exist anymore."
"This one exists."
Henrik laughed again. Louder this time.
"You're going to kill me," he said. "You're going to give me so many interesting things to work on that my heart will just give out from excitement." He set the shield beside the sword. "What do you want with this one?"
"Functional. Keep the core intact. Make sure it works."
"Works how?"
"If someone hits it, they don't die."
Henrik snorted. "That's what shields do."
"Then do that."
Henrik looked at the sword. The shield. The gold. Back at Grog.
"Two weeks," he said. "Maybe three. I need to study them first. Figure out what I'm dealing with. The sword I can probably start sooner—I have ideas already. The shield..." He shook his head. "The shield is going to take time. I don't even know what that core is made of."
Grog nodded.
"I'll be at the inn."
"Lena's place. Good girl, that one. My sister's daughter." Henrik grinned. "She tells me you're mysterious. Grunts a lot. Pays in silver."
Grog said nothing.
Henrik laughed again.
"I like you. You don't talk too much. Refreshing." He picked up the sword one more time, looking at it with pure joy. "This is going to be fun."
Grog turned to leave.
"Hey."
He paused.
Henrik held the sword up. Light played across its surface—blues and purples shifting like oil on water.
"You know this thing is special, right? Whatever magic is in it—it's not going away just because I reshape it. It'll be in the axe too. Maybe stronger, if I do it right."
Grog met his eyes.
"That's the point."
He walked out.
---
Back at the inn, he climbed the stairs to his room.
Sat on the bed.
Looked at the remaining rings.
Eleven of them. Plus the one he'd already opened. More treasures waiting. More secrets. Books and coins and who knew what else.
His body hummed. His mind raced. But underneath it all, a bone-deep tiredness pulled at him.
Need more sleep, he thought again.
He lay back.
Closed his eyes.
The apple still worked in him. He could feel it—a warmth that never quite faded, a strength that hadn't been there before. Whatever that golden fruit was, it had changed him.
Changed him for the better.
He slept.