Three Days Later. Evening.
Grog was bored.
Not the ordinary boredom of waiting—the restless, crawling boredom of a man with nothing to do while his weapons were in someone else's hands. Henrik had shooed him away that morning with a wave and a gruff "come back in a week, stop hovering."
So here he was.
Sitting in the common room. Drinking ale that was too weak. Watching the same faces he'd watched for three days. Listening to the same conversations about crops and weather and someone's missing cow.
His body hummed. The apple's gift still pulsed through him, demanding action, demanding something.
Ale wasn't enough.
---
Lena appeared at his elbow.
"You've been sitting there for four hours."
"Yes."
"Same spot. Same expression. Same cup." She tilted her head. "Are you brooding? You look like you're brooding."
Grog looked at her.
"I'm waiting."
"For what?"
He didn't have an answer.
Lena studied him for a moment. Then she grinned—that same warm, mischievous grin he was starting to recognize.
"You need to get out."
"I'm out."
"Out out. Not the inn." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "There's a place. Other end of town. Past the smithy, down the lane, big building with red shutters."
Grog raised an eyebrow.
Lena's grin widened. "They serve better ale than we do. And other things." She shrugged. "Might loosen you up. You're too tense."
Grog considered this.
"Other things?"
"Go see for yourself." She straightened. "Ask for Nelly. She runs the place. Tell her Lena sent you. They'll treat you right."
She walked away, tray balanced perfectly.
Grog sat for another moment.
Then he stood.
---
The walk was short.
Past the smithy—dark now, Henrik gone for the night. Past the last houses. Down a lane that curved between bare trees. And there, exactly as Lena described, a building with red shutters.
Light spilled from every window. Laughter drifted out, muffled by walls but unmistakable. The sound of people enjoying themselves.
Grog pushed open the door.
---
The warmth hit him first.
A fire roared in a massive hearth. Candles burned on every table. The air smelled of smoke and ale and something sweeter—perfume, maybe, or incense. The floor was swept clean, the tables polished, the whole place having a cared-for feel that spoke of someone who took pride in their establishment.
The room was crowded.
Men at tables, drinking. Women moving between them, laughing, touching shoulders, filling cups. A few couples in corners, engaged in conversations that seemed private despite the noise. The atmosphere was comfortable—not desperate, not seedy. Just... warm.
Grog stood in the doorway.
A woman approached.
Older. Maybe forty. Gray streaking dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist. Sharp eyes that missed nothing—the kind of eyes that had been assessing people for decades and had gotten very good at it. Her dress was simple but fine, dark blue wool with silver buttons. She moved like someone who owned the place.
Which, presumably, she did.
"New face," she said. Her voice was warm but professional. "Lena sent word you might come. She's a good girl—knows what people need before they do." She extended a hand. "I'm Nelly. This is my place."
Grog shook. Her grip was firm.
"Drink first?" she asked. "Or something else?"
Grog considered.
"Drink."
She nodded. Led him to a table near the fire. Waved at a serving girl. "Ale for the gentleman. The dark one from the back barrel."
The girl nodded. Disappeared.
Nelly sat across from him.
"You're the stranger. The one with the silver." It wasn't a question.
Grog didn't confirm or deny.
"Lena's mother mentioned you. Paying extra for the best room. Staying quiet. Keeping to yourself." Nelly's smile didn't waver. "That's smart. Small towns talk. You probably know that."
The ale arrived. Grog drank. It was better than the inn's—richer, smoother, with a depth that spoke of careful brewing. He nodded approval.
Nelly's smile widened slightly. "Good, isn't it? My father's recipe. He ran this place before me."
Grog set down the cup.
"I'm not here to talk," he said.
"No. You're here to drink. And maybe other things." Nelly leaned back. "That's fine. We have plenty of both." She gestured at the room. "Drink as much as you want. When you're ready for company, let me know. I'll find someone who suits you."
Grog nodded.
Nelly stood. Walked away, greeting other customers as she went, clearly in her element.
He drank.
---
Three cups later, the room had softened.
Not blurred—the apple kept his mind sharp, clearer than before. But the edges had smoothed. The noise had become music. The warmth of the fire had seeped into his bones. The ale was excellent—maybe the best he'd had in either timeline.
He watched the women.
They were good at what they did. Not just the obvious—though that was there too. They listened. Laughed at jokes. Made men feel seen, important, desired. It was work, but they did it well. Nelly had trained them well, or chosen them well, or both.
A woman approached his table.
Young. Maybe twenty. Red hair—not the bright red of fire, but a deeper shade, like autumn leaves. Green eyes that caught the candlelight. A spray of freckles across her nose that made her look younger than she probably was. She wore a simple dress of dark green that matched her eyes, cut in a way that flattered without being obvious.
She reminded him of someone—Lena, maybe, but older. More experienced. More sure of herself.
"Mind if I sit?" Her voice was low, pleasant.
Grog gestured at the chair.
She sat. "I'm Cora. Nelly said you might want company."
"Might."
She nodded. Didn't push. Just sat there, comfortable in the silence, watching the room with the easy patience of someone who'd learned not to force things.
Grog drank.
After a while, he asked: "How long have you worked here?"
"Three years. Since I was seventeen." She shrugged. "Good money. Better than the alternatives."
"Alternatives?"
"Marrying some farmer. Having ten kids. Dying at forty." She smiled. "No offense to farmers."
Grog almost smiled. Almost.
"You're not from here," she said.
"No."
"Didn't think so. You move different. Look different." She studied him—not in the way of assessment, but curiosity. "Soldier?"
"Something like that."
"Something like that." She repeated the words with a slight smile. "That's vague."
"Yes."
She laughed. It was a good sound—genuine, not practiced. "Fair enough. I won't pry." She leaned back. "Want to talk about something else? Or just sit?"
"Just sit."
She nodded. Settled in.
---
They sat.
It was strange—he'd come here for distraction, for oblivion, for something to quiet the restless hum in his blood. But sitting with Cora, not talking, not pushing, just being present—that helped more than he'd expected.
After a while, she spoke.
"Nelly says you paid in silver. Good silver. The kind that hasn't been clipped or shaved."
Grog glanced at her.
"She's curious about you. We all are. Strangers don't come through here often. Strangers with silver and good weapons and that look in their eyes—" She met his gaze. "Even less often."
"What look?"
"The look of someone who's seen things. Done things. The look that says you're not here to stay, just passing through." She shrugged. "Nothing wrong with that. Just... unusual."
Grog drank.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," he said.
"I know. Troublemakers don't sit quietly for three days drinking weak ale at the inn." She grinned. "Lena's mother makes terrible ale. Everyone knows it."
He almost smiled again.
"You're different," he said.
"Different how?"
"Not trying so hard."
Cora considered this. Then nodded slowly.
"Maybe. I've been doing this long enough to know that trying hard just makes people nervous." She leaned forward. "You're easy to be around. Quiet. Not grabby. Not trying to prove anything." She tilted her head. "That's rarer than you'd think."
Grog finished his ale.
"Another?" she asked.
He looked at her. At the firelight on her hair. At the easy way she sat, comfortable in her own skin.
"Something else," he said.
Cora's expression shifted. Not surprise—she'd known this was coming. But something softer. Curious.
"What did you have in mind?"
---
They went upstairs.
Small room at the end of the hall. Clean bed. Washstand with a pitcher of water. A candle burning low on the table. The shutters were closed against the cold, but the room was warm—Nelly kept her establishment comfortable.
Cora closed the door.
Leaned against it.
"You sure?" she asked.
Grog considered the question. Not whether he wanted this—that was obvious. Whether he should. Whether it would complicate things. Whether he'd regret it in the morning.
The apple hummed in his blood. The restlessness still demanded action.
This was action of a kind.
"Yes."
She smiled. Crossed the room.
---
Later, much later, Grog lay in the dark.
Cora slept beside him, breathing soft and even. The candle had burned out. The room was quiet—just the whisper of wind outside and the distant creak of the building settling.
His body was satisfied. Relaxed in a way it hadn't been since leaving the column. The hum was still there, but softer now. Content.
But his mind still raced.
The rings. The apple. The sword becoming an axe. Henrik working on the shield. Aldric and Lira and Mirena somewhere in the forest, marching toward war.
And the thing in the Grove. Waiting. Always waiting.
He turned his head. Looked at Cora in the darkness.
She'd been good. Kind. Warm without being false. She'd asked nothing of him except what he was willing to give.
That was rare.
He closed his eyes.
The apple hummed.
He slept.
---
Morning came too soon.
Grog woke to weak light through the shutters. Cora was already awake, dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. She'd pulled her red hair back, tied it simply. In the morning light, she looked younger.
"You're a heavy sleeper," she said.
"Was tired."
She smiled. "I noticed." She stood. "Nelly said to tell you—you're welcome back anytime. The silver you left covers a lot."
Grog sat up. Reached for his pouch. Cora shook her head.
"Already covered. More than covered." She tilted her head. "You really don't know how much things cost, do you?"
"Not really."
She laughed. "Stay that way. It's charming." She moved toward the door. Paused. "I hope whatever you're running toward—or from—works out."
Grog looked at her.
"Thanks."
She smiled once more. Then she was gone.
Grog sat alone in the quiet room, feeling more human than he had in weeks.
---
He walked back to the inn through cold morning air.
The village was waking—shutters opening, smoke rising from chimneys, the distant sound of Henrik's hammer already ringing from the smithy. Ordinary life continuing.
Lena was sweeping the steps when he arrived. She looked up. Grinned.
"Good night?"
Grog grunted.
"That good, huh?" She stepped aside to let him pass. "Nelly sent word. Said to tell you Cora says hello."
Grog paused.
"Tell her—" He stopped. Shook his head.
Lena waited.
"Tell her thanks. For everything."
Lena's grin widened. "I'll pass it along. Word for word." She tilted her head. "She'll like that. Cora's a good one. Deserves nice customers."
Grog nodded. Climbed the stairs to his room.
Sat on the bed.
His body hummed—but differently now. Satisfied. Ready. The restlessness had eased, replaced by something calmer.
One more week, he thought. Then the weapons.
He looked at the rings on the table. Eleven still untouched. One holding secrets he'd barely begun to explore.
Time enough for that later.
He lay back.
Closed his eyes.
Slept.