Night. The Inn Room.
Grog held the fourth ring in his palm.
Nine remained on the table, untouched, waiting. But this one felt different even before he opened it. Warmer. Heavier. More important, somehow. Like it knew it was being chosen.
He closed his eyes. Reached inside.
---
The space was vast.
Larger than any of the others. Not a room or a cave—a hall. Grand and open, with a ceiling he couldn't feel and walls too far to touch. The air inside felt old. Sacred. Like stepping into a temple.
The contents were arranged with care, spaced apart like exhibits in a museum. Each item had its own place, its own space. Whoever had packed this ring had done so with reverence.
Grog reached for the nearest object.
Metal. Long. Heavy. He pulled it out.
A spear.
Not like any spear he'd seen in either timeline. The shaft was dark wood, almost black, wrapped in supple leather where the grip would be. It was longer than a standard spear—meant for a taller warrior, or someone who wanted extra reach. The head was the same metal as his sword—light-drinking, impossibly sharp, with a faint edge that seemed to glow in the darkness. At the base of the head, just above the shaft, a small crystal was set into the metal. It glowed faintly, pulsing in a slow rhythm.
Grog tested its weight.
Balanced perfectly. The crystal pulsed faster when he moved it, like it was responding to him. He took a practice stance, lunged at nothing. The spear moved like it was part of his arm.
Magic, he thought. Of course it's magic.
He set it aside carefully. Reached again.
---
Armor.
But different from before. This wasn't the heavy plate he'd found in earlier rings. This was lighter, more flexible. Leather, but not ordinary leather—it was supple and strong, reinforced with plates of the same dark metal at vital points. Chest. Shoulders. Arms. Thighs.
The kind of armor that would let a warrior move fast while still protecting. The kind that wouldn't slow you down in a fight.
He pulled it out piece by piece. Breastplate. Pauldrons. Gauntlets. Greaves. Each one perfectly formed, each one light enough to wear all day without fatigue.
He set them beside the spear.
---
A shield.
Not like the one at Henrik's. That shield was massive, powerful, meant for standing firm and holding ground. This one was smaller. Rounder. Made of the same dark metal, but thinner, more curved. At its center, a crystal glowed—smaller than the other shield's core, but still present. Still alive.
Meant for someone who moved fast. Someone who needed protection but couldn't afford to be slowed.
He set it beside the armor.
---
More weapons.
A bow. Dark wood, recurved, the limbs curving forward at the ends for extra power. Metal reinforcements at the grip and tips, carved with the same faint symbols he'd seen on the sword. He drew it experimentally—the pull was smooth, powerful, effortless.
No arrows. But when he held the bow, he felt something. A connection. A promise.
A quiver. Empty leather, unremarkable. But when he held it, he felt space inside—more space than should exist. Dozens of arrows could fit in there. He'd need to find some to fill it.
A knife. Similar to the one from the third ring, but larger. Meant for fighting, not just utility. The blade was the same dark metal, the grip wrapped in leather. It balanced perfectly in his hand.
He laid them all out.
---
At the back of the space, he found something wrapped in cloth.
Carefully wrapped. Reverently. Layers of silk and leather, protecting whatever was inside. Grog unwrapped it slowly.
A sword.
But different from his.
His sword was built for power—heavier, broader, meant to cut through armor and bone. This one was lighter, the blade slightly curved—designed for speed rather than force. The metal was the same dark material, but it had been polished until it gleamed like a starless night. Along the blade, faint symbols caught the light—not just decoration, but meaning. Words, maybe. Or spells.
He held it up.
The sword pulsed. Not as strongly as his own—but it responded. Recognized him as friendly, as someone connected to its purpose. The crystal at the base of the blade glowed softly, warming to his touch.
This, he thought. This is for Aldric.
---
He set the sword with the other items.
Stepped back. Looked at the collection spread across his room.
Armor for speed. Shield for protection. Spear for reach. Bow for distance. Knife for close work. Sword for everything else.
A complete kit. Everything a young warrior needed to survive, to thrive, to become what he was meant to be.
Kevin's order, he thought. They prepared for someone like Aldric. Someone who would need to be fast, flexible, ready for anything. Someone who would face darkness and need to move like light.
He picked up the sword again.
Lighter than his. Faster. Meant for someone who relied on speed and precision rather than brute strength. Someone like—
Aldric.
Yes.
This was it. This was what he'd been searching for since he found the first ring. A hero's weapons for a hero who didn't know it yet.
---
He spent the next hour organizing.
The armor fit together—breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves. All in the same dark metal and reinforced leather. All light enough for someone Aldric's size to wear without slowing. He tested each piece, felt their quality, their magic.
The weapons lined up beside them. Spear. Bow. Knife. Sword. Shield. A small arsenal, perfectly matched.
He looked at the collection and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
---
Dawn came.
Grog hadn't slept. Didn't need to. The apple's gift hummed in his blood, keeping him alert, focused, ready. He'd grown used to it now—the constant low warmth, the heightened senses, the way his body responded faster than it ever had before.
He looked at the rings on the table.
Five opened. Seven still untouched. But he'd found what he needed. What Aldric needed.
Time to go home.
---
He dressed carefully.
Strapped on his sword. The blade pulsed against his hip—warm, reassuring, present. It had been with him for weeks now, and he'd grown to trust it like he trusted his own hands.
He gathered the new items. Armor folded into a compact bundle. Weapons wrapped in oilcloth. Everything tied into a manageable pack that he could carry for miles.
The fourth ring went into his pouch with the others. Kevin's ring glinted on his little finger.
He took one last look around the room.
Simple. Clean. Ordinary. But it had been home for weeks.
He walked downstairs.
---
The common room was quiet at this hour.
Early morning light filtered through the windows. A few travelers sat at tables, eating breakfast, speaking in low voices. The fire crackled in the hearth.
Lena was behind the bar, as always.
She looked up when he descended. Her brown hair was already escaping its tie, small curls framing her face. Her eyes took in the pack, the weapons, the set of his shoulders.
"You're up early."
"Leaving today."
She nodded slowly. No surprise. She'd known this was coming.
"I thought so." She set down her cloth. "Breakfast first?"
"Yes."
She moved behind the bar, gathering food. Bread, still warm from the oven. Cheese, sharp and crumbly. Dried meat, sliced thin. More than usual. A farewell meal.
He ate quickly. His body needed fuel for the journey ahead.
Lena leaned on the bar, watching him.
"You found what you were looking for?"
Grog paused. Looked at her.
"Yes."
She smiled. It was small but real.
"Good. I'm glad." She tilted her head. "Will you come back? After?"
Grog considered the question.
The village had become something to him. Not home—he wasn't sure he had a home anymore. But a place. A place with people who knew him, who'd accepted him, who'd asked nothing except that he be himself.
"Maybe," he said. "After."
"After what?"
He didn't answer.
Lena nodded like she understood anyway. She'd always been good at that—understanding without being told.
"Then I'll hope you do." She straightened. "I'll tell Henrik. And Ben. They'll want to know you said goodbye." A pause. "And Nelly. And Cora."
At Cora's name, something softened in Grog's chest.
"Tell her—" He stopped. Shook his head.
Lena waited.
"Tell her I'll remember her."
Lena's smile widened. "That's more than most men say." She reached across the bar, touched his hand briefly. "Safe travels, Grog."
He nodded. Stood. Picked up his pack.
Walked toward the door.
---
The village was waking as he stepped outside.
Shutters opening. Smoke rising from chimneys. The distant sound of Henrik's hammer, already ringing from the smithy. Ordinary life continuing.
Grog walked the streets slowly.
Past the houses he'd come to know. Past the well where women gathered. Past the spot where children played in the afternoons.
He passed the smithy.
The doors were open. Inside, Henrik stood at his anvil, hammer rising and falling in that rhythm Grog had come to recognize. Beside him, Ben worked at his smaller anvil, his strikes surer now, more confident.
Grog didn't stop. Just walked past. Let them work.
He passed Nelly's.
The building with red shutters was quiet at this hour. No music. No laughter. Just the ordinary stillness of a place that had been busy all night and was now resting.
He imagined Cora inside. Sleeping. Her red hair spread across a pillow. Her freckled face peaceful.
He kept walking.
---
He reached the edge of town.
The place where the old tree had stood. The path into the forest.
He stopped. Looked back.
The village lay small and peaceful in the morning light. Twenty-three houses. A smithy. An inn. A building with red shutters. People he'd come to know.
I'll remember this place, he thought. Whatever happens.
He turned. Faced the forest.
One step.
Then—
---
Hoofbeats.
Fast. Urgent. Coming up the road from the opposite direction.
Grog turned.
A rider. Young man, barely more than a boy, hunched over his horse's neck. The animal was lathered, exhausted, running on desperation. The rider's face was pale, streaked with tears or sweat or both.
He reined in at the edge of town. Almost fell from the saddle.
"Help," he gasped. "Please—need help—"
People were emerging from houses now. Drawn by the noise. Lena ran from the inn, her mother behind her. Henrik appeared in the smithy doorway, hammer still in hand.
The rider saw them. Swayed.
"Monster," he said. "In the forest. Attacked our caravan. Killed everyone—everyone except me—"
Grog's hand went to his sword.
The blade pulsed. Hot.
"Where?" Henrik demanded.
The rider pointed. Back the way he'd come. East, but south of the main road. Deeper forest.
"Half a day. Maybe less. It's still there. Feeding." The boy's voice broke. "I heard—I heard screaming when I left. It wasn't done."
Silence.
Grog looked at the forest. At the path he'd been about to take.
His friends needed him. The column was moving. War was coming.
But there were people dying now. Right now. While he stood here.
The sword pulsed again.
Choose.
Grog made his choice.