Late Morning. The Inn Room.
Grog woke to sunlight and the distant sound of Henrik's hammer.
He lay still for a moment, taking inventory. Body: rested. Mind: clear. The strange hum from the golden apple still present, but settled now—part of him, like his own heartbeat.
Three days since Nelly's. Three days of eating, sleeping, waiting. Three days of letting his body recover from the apple's changes.
He was ready.
He sat up. Looked at the table.
Ten rings remained. Ten treasures untouched.
He picked up the third one.
---
The space inside was different from the first two.
Where the first had been organized, military in its precision, and the second had been wild, haphazard—this one felt personal. Like someone's private storage, arranged with care. Things had their places. Order mattered here.
Grog reached in.
Fabric first. Soft. Folded. He pulled it out.
A cloak.
Deep blue, almost black. Heavier than it looked. When he held it up, light seemed to slide off the surface rather than illuminate it. The fabric was unlike anything he'd felt—smoother than silk, but with a weight that spoke of quality.
He draped it over his shoulders.
Immediately, he felt... different. Harder to see. Not invisible—he could still see his own hands—but less. Like the cloak was helping him blend into the background.
Magic. Had to be.
He took it off. Set it aside.
---
More fabric. Tunics, pants, all in the same deep blue. Practical clothes, well-made, clearly meant for someone who traveled.
He pulled them out. Stacked them neatly.
---
Boots.
Good boots. Sturdy leather, reinforced at the toes and heels. Warm lining inside. When he tried one on, it fit perfectly—like it had been made for him.
He set the pair beside the clothes.
---
A belt.
Plain leather, but when he held it, he felt the same magic as the cloak. Harder to notice. Easier to hide.
He set it aside.
---
A pouch.
Small, leather, unremarkable. He opened it. Inside—
More coins. Gold again, but different from the first ring's. These were older, stamped with symbols he didn't recognize. Ancient currency. Worth more as artifacts than as spending money.
He tucked it back.
---
A weapon.
Not a sword this time. A dagger. Short blade, dark like the sword, but smaller. Meant for close work. For situations where a sword was too much.
He held it.
The blade pulsed—not as strongly as the sword, but definitely present. Connected. Part of the same family.
He set it beside the sword.
---
Books.
Smaller than the others. Personal. Journals, maybe. He pulled one out, opened it.
Handwriting. Same as Kevin's journal—old common tongue, precise script. But this was different. More personal. Less about the order and more about... someone.
He read a few lines.
Day 47. Still following. Still watching. The door grows closer. I feel it in my bones. She says I'm imagining things. She's wrong.
Day 48. She left today. Couldn't take the waiting. I don't blame her. But I can't leave. Not yet. Not when I'm this close.
Day 49. Found it. The door. It's real. Everything we feared is real.
Grog's heart hammered.
Kevin's journals. More of them. Personal ones, not just the official record.
He tucked the book back carefully. There would be time to read later.
---
At the very bottom of the ring's space, he found something unexpected.
A box. Small, wooden, carved with the same symbols as before. He pulled it out. Opened it.
Inside, on a bed of velvet, sat a single ring.
Not a storage ring—too small for that. A finger ring. Gold, simple, unadorned.
He picked it up.
The moment he touched it, he felt... something. A presence. Old. Patient.
Kevin's, he thought. This was Kevin's.
He slipped it onto his little finger. It fit perfectly.
The presence didn't fade. It settled. Became background.
Grog looked at his hand. The gold ring glinted in the light.
I'll wear it, he decided. For now.
---
He spent the rest of the morning organizing.
Cloak, clothes, boots, belt, dagger, books, coins, ring. All laid out on the bed, the floor, the table. The third ring had been generous.
He looked at the remaining nine.
So much, he thought. So much to go through.
But not today.
Today, he needed to check on Henrik and Ben.
---
The smithy was loud as always.
Hammer on metal. Henrik's voice, raised in what might have been instruction. Ben's smaller hammer, finding its own rhythm.
Grog stepped inside.
Henrik looked up. Grinned.
"Good timing." He gestured at the workbench. "Come see."
The sword fragments had changed. They were fewer now—some had been merged, others reshaped. The beginnings of an axe head were taking form on the table.
Ben stood nearby, holding one of the pieces. The metal glowed faintly where he touched it.
"He's been working," Henrik said. "Slow. Careful. The metal's responding."
Ben looked up. His dark eyes were serious, but there was something else there now. Confidence. Pride.
"It's learning to trust me," he said quietly.
Grog nodded.
"Good."
---
He stayed for an hour.
Watched Ben work. The boy's strikes were surer now, more confident. He still made mistakes—Henrik shouted corrections regularly—but each mistake was followed by adjustment. Learning.
Henrik pulled him aside at one point.
"The shield," he said. "It's doing something."
Grog followed him to the corner.
The shield sat on its workbench, core pulsing steadily. But now, when Grog approached, the pulses quickened. Recognized him.
"It knows you," Henrik said. "Definitely knows you."
Grog reached out. Touched the shield.
Warm. Alive. Welcoming.
Not for me, he thought. For Aldric.
He pulled his hand back.
"Keep working," he said.
Henrik nodded.
---
Back at the inn, Lena was waiting.
She had a letter in her hand.
"This came for you," she said. "Bird arrived this morning. Never seen one like it."
Grog took the letter.
Small scroll, tied with leather cord. No markings. He opened it.
Three words.
They're moving. Soon.
Lira's handwriting.
Grog's heart hammered.
The column was on the move. The war was coming.
He looked at Lena.
"I need to leave soon."
She nodded. Didn't ask questions.
"How soon?"
"Few days. Maybe less."
She studied him for a moment. Then smiled.
"Then you should probably visit Nelly's one more time. Before you go."
Grog almost smiled. Almost.
"Maybe."
He climbed the stairs to his room.
The rings waited. Nine still untouched.
But time was running out.