Late Afternoon. The Inn Room.
Grog sat on the bed, staring at the letter.
They're moving. Soon.
Lira's handwriting. Three words that changed everything.
The column was marching. The war was coming. His friends were walking toward danger while he sat in a quiet village, surrounded by treasure he hadn't finished exploring.
He should leave tomorrow.
He knew that. Every instinct told him to pack, to saddle up, to ride east as fast as the roads would carry him. Aldric needed him. Lira needed him. Mirena needed him.
But—
He looked at the rings.
Nine still untouched. Nine treasures waiting. If he left now, he might never know what they held. Might never find the thing that could make a difference in the battles ahead. Kevin's order had hidden these for centuries—for this moment, for someone like him. Walking away felt like betraying that trust.
One more week, he thought. One more week to finish what I started.
He stood. Strapped on the sword. The blade pulsed against his hip—warm, reassuring, present. It had been with him for days now, and he'd grown used to its company. More than used to it. He'd come to rely on it.
He headed downstairs.
---
The common room was quiet at this hour.
Late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. A few travelers sat at tables, nursing cups and speaking in low voices. The fire crackled in the hearth, fighting back the winter chill.
Lena was behind the bar, polishing cups with a cloth. Her brown hair was pulled back as usual, small curls escaping around her temples. She looked up when Grog approached.
"You look serious," she said.
"Thinking."
"Dangerous." She set down a cup and picked up another. "Want advice?"
Grog waited.
"Don't think too hard. It never helps." She grinned—that warm, mischievous expression he'd come to recognize. "Do what feels right. That's what my father always said."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead." She shrugged, still polishing. "But he was right about a lot of things before that. The thinking too hard part, especially. He used to sit for hours, staring at nothing, trying to solve problems that hadn't happened yet." She glanced at Grog. "You do that too. I've seen you."
Grog didn't deny it.
"My mother would always snap him out of it. Drag him outside, make him look at the sky, remind him the world was still there." Lena's smile softened. "You need someone like that."
Grog thought about Aldric. About Lira. About the way they pulled him back from the edge, again and again.
"I have people," he said.
"Good." Lena set down the cup. "Then go find them. Soon. But not tonight."
Grog almost smiled.
"I need to visit Henrik first. Then Nelly's."
Lena raised an eyebrow. "Business or pleasure?"
"Both."
She laughed—a warm, genuine sound. "Go then. I'll keep your room warm."
---
The walk to the smithy was short.
Grog took it slowly, letting the village settle around him. He'd been here for weeks now. Long enough to know the streets, the faces, the rhythms. Long enough to feel almost at home.
That was dangerous. Getting attached meant leaving hurt more.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe that was what the apple had been teaching him all along.
---
The smithy was quieter than usual.
Just one hammer—Ben's. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of someone working with care rather than force. Grog pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The heat hit him first, as always. Then the smell of coal smoke and hot metal. Then the sight of Ben at his small anvil, focused entirely on the piece of metal in front of him.
The boy didn't look up. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His thin arms moved with a precision that hadn't been there weeks ago. The metal glowed faintly under his touch—responding to him, accepting him.
Henrik sat at a nearby table, sharpening tools. He glanced up as Grog entered.
"Grog." He nodded. "Ben's doing well. The metal likes him more every day."
Grog watched the boy work.
Ben's strikes were gentle but sure. Each one landed exactly where intended, shaping the metal gradually, patiently. The fragment he worked on was noticeably different from the last time Grog had seen it—curved now, thinner at the edges, starting to look like part of an axe head.
"How long?" Grog asked quietly.
"For the axe?" Henrik set down a blade. "Weeks. Maybe more. The metal's cooperating now, but it's slow work. You can't rush something like this."
Grog nodded.
"The shield's different." Henrik gestured at the corner. "It's ready whenever you are."
Grog looked at the shield.
It sat on its workbench, core pulsing steadily. The light within it seemed brighter than before—more alive. And when Grog approached, the pulses quickened. Recognized him.
"It knows you," Henrik said. "Definitely knows you. Does that with Ben too, but stronger with you."
Grog reached out. Touched the shield.
Warm. Alive. Welcoming.
Not for me, he thought again. For Aldric.
He pulled his hand back.
"It'll wait," he said. "Until I'm ready to take it."
Henrik nodded. "It's been waiting a long time already. What's a few more weeks?"
---
Grog reached into his pouch. Pulled out more gold—more than he'd brought before. He set it on the table beside Henrik.
The dwarf's eyes widened.
"That's—" He counted quickly. "That's more than you've given before. Much more."
"For the work. For both of you." Grog looked at Ben, still focused on his anvil. "He's earned it."
Ben looked up, startled. His face reddened under the soot.
"I—thank you." He glanced at the gold, then back at his work. "I wasn't—I mean, I just—"
"You worked," Grog said. "Metal doesn't lie. It knows who treats it right."
Ben stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yes. It does."
He turned back to his anvil. Resumed his tapping.
Henrik grinned. "You've made a friend for life, you know. No one's ever given him anything before."
Grog said nothing. Just nodded once and walked out.
---
The walk to Nelly's was longer.
Not in distance—just in feel. The village seemed different in the fading light. Softer. More peaceful. The kind of place you could stay forever, if you let yourself.
Grog didn't let himself.
---
Nelly's was quiet tonight.
No traders. No music. Just the regulars—a few locals nursing drinks at tables, a couple of women chatting in the corner by the fire. The building with red shutters felt almost sleepy compared to its usual energy.
Nelly was behind the bar, arranging bottles. She looked up when Grog entered and smiled.
"Early for you."
"Leaving soon. Wanted to say goodbye."
Her smile softened. "Cora will be sorry to miss you. She's not working tonight—her night off." She tilted her head. "You want me to send for her? She only lives two streets over."
Grog shook his head. "Just wanted to say it. To you."
Nelly nodded. Poured him an ale without being asked.
He sat at the bar. Drank.
"You're different from when you arrived," Nelly said after a while. "Hard to explain. Just... different."
Grog considered this. "The apple," he said.
Nelly raised an eyebrow.
"Long story."
She shrugged. "Keep your secrets. Everyone has them." She leaned on the bar, forearms resting on the worn wood. "But for what it's worth—you're welcome here anytime. You're good for business. Good for Cora." A pause. "Good for me too, if I'm honest. Not many men come in here and just... sit. Be normal. Treat everyone like people instead of... you know."
Grog knew.
He finished his ale. Set down the cup.
"Tell Cora I said goodbye. Tell her—" He stopped. Searched for words.
Nelly waited.
"Tell her I'll remember her."
Nelly smiled. "That's more than most men say." She reached across the bar, touched his hand briefly. "Safe travels, Grog. Come back when you can."
He stood. Walked out.
---
The village was fully dark now.
Lamplight in windows. Smoke from chimneys. The distant sound of Henrik's hammer, finally silent for the night. Ordinary life continuing.
Grog walked the streets slowly.
Past the smithy—dark now, Henrik and Ben gone home. Past the well, frozen and silent. Past the houses he'd come to know by sight, the faces he'd come to recognize.
He stopped at the edge of town.
Looked east.
Somewhere out there, his friends were marching toward war. Aldric, training every day, getting stronger. Lira, scouting ahead, watching for danger. Mirena, researching, planning, preparing.
They needed him.
But they also needed him to come back with something worth bringing.
He touched the sword at his hip. Felt its warmth.
Soon, he thought. Soon I'll come back.
He turned. Walked to the inn.
---
Lena was waiting on the steps.
Wrapped in a heavy cloak, breath misting in the cold air. She'd been waiting for him.
"You're back early."
"Decisions made."
She tilted her head. "Leaving?"
"Soon. A few more days. Need to finish something first."
She nodded slowly. "Good. You should stay as long as you can." She stood, brushing snow from her cloak. "My mother says you're the most interesting guest we've had in years. Henrik says you're the most frustrating customer he's ever worked for. Ben says you're the first person who ever looked at him like he mattered."
Grog said nothing.
Lena smiled. "I say you're just a man trying to do something hard. That's worth respecting." She moved toward the door. "I'll have breakfast ready early. Whatever you need."
She went inside.
Grog stood alone in the darkness for a long moment.
Then he climbed the stairs to his room.
---
The rings waited on the table.
Nine still untouched. Nine treasures waiting to be discovered.
He sat on the bed. Looked at them.
Kevin's ring glinted on his little finger—the one he'd found in the third ring's box. He'd worn it every day since. It felt right. Connected.
He picked up the fourth ring.
Held it in his palm.
One more, he thought. One more before I go.
He reached inside.