Dawn. The Forest Path.
Grog walked east.
The village was behind him now—hours behind, then a full day, then more. The trees had changed again, shifting from ancient twisted things to ordinary forest. The kind of woods that didn't watch you back, didn't feel like they were holding their breath when you passed through.
He walked alone.
The sword pulsed against his hip. Steady. Comforting. It had been with him for weeks now, and he'd grown so used to its presence that he barely noticed it anymore—except when he needed it. Then it was there. Warm. Ready.
The shield was strapped to his pack, its core warm against his spine. Even through layers of cloth and leather, he could feel it pulsing. Alive. Waiting.
Aldric's gear—armor, weapons, everything—was bundled tight and secure. He'd checked it twice already this morning. Still there. Still perfect. Still waiting for its owner.
Five rings were open. Seven remained in his pouch.
Seven treasures untouched. Seven mysteries waiting to be solved.
He'd been walking since before dawn. The apple's gift kept him moving—no fatigue, no hunger, just the steady rhythm of one foot after another. His body hummed with energy in a way it never had before the golden fruit. He could walk for days like this. Weeks, maybe.
But his mind wandered.
To Lena. The way she'd looked at him that morning. The way she'd said come back sometime like it was easy. Like leaving wasn't what he did best. Like he was the kind of man who could have a place to return to.
To the monster. The fight. The way its claws had raked his chest, his arms, his face. The way he'd felt nothing.
To the red.
The berserker, sleeping in his blood.
He could feel it there, even now. A presence at the edge of his awareness. Not hostile—just... waiting. Watching. Seeing what he would do next.
I need to understand it, he thought. Before it controls me.
He stopped walking.
Sat on a fallen log.
Let the forest settle around him.
---
The path stretched east and west. He'd come from the west. The column was east. Somewhere out there, his friends were marching toward war.
But he needed a moment.
Just one moment.
He reached into his pouch. Pulled out the rings.
Five open. Seven closed. They looked identical—plain silver, unremarkable, the kind of rings a farmer might wear or a trader might sell. But he knew better now. Knew what they held.
He spread them on his palm. Let them catch the morning light.
Which one next?
He closed his eyes. Let his hand choose.
The sixth ring.
---
The space inside was different.
Smaller than the others. More intimate. Not a storage vault or a cavern or a hall—this felt like someone's private study. A place where real work had been done. Books lined invisible walls, stacked in neat rows that he could feel but not see. A desk sat in the center—solid wood, worn smooth by years of use. He could sense its presence even in the darkness.
Grog reached in.
Papers first. Loose sheets, bundled together with leather cord. He pulled them out carefully, setting them on the log beside him.
Maps.
Dozens of them, drawn on aged parchment that crackled when he touched it. Some showed places he recognized—the borderlands where he'd trained with Aldric, the forest near the village, the mountains to the east where the Vargr had marched. He traced the lines with his finger, following roads he'd walked, rivers he'd crossed.
Others showed places he'd never seen.
Strange coastlines. Unfamiliar cities. Mountain ranges that stretched for thousands of miles. Deserts. Jungles. Places with names he couldn't pronounce written in scripts he couldn't read.
Kevin's order had mapped everything.
He unfolded one map in particular. His hands shook slightly as he did.
The Grove was marked. Clear as day. A small symbol—a door, or maybe a gateway—drawn precisely at its center. Around it, the forest was marked with warnings. Red ink. Symbols he didn't recognize but understood instinctively.
Danger. Death. Do not approach.
But someone had approached. Someone had mapped it. Someone had gone right to the edge of that darkness and recorded what they found.
His heart hammered.
He set the maps aside carefully. Reached again.
---
A journal.
Different from Kevin's. Smaller, more personal, bound in worn leather that felt soft as skin. The pages were yellowed, the edges frayed, but the writing was clear—a woman's hand, by the look of it. Precise. Careful. Beautiful.
He opened it to the first page.
Day 1. We've decided to scatter the rings. Too dangerous to keep them all in one place. If one is found, the others might survive. If one is lost, the others might still reach worthy hands.
Day 3. I've been chosen to hide the maps. Elara says it's because I know the terrain best. I think it's because she trusts me not to read them. She's wrong about that. I've read every one.
Day 7. I don't know if anyone will ever read this journal. Probably not. But if you do—whoever you are—know that we fought. Know that we tried. Know that the darkness didn't win because we were weak. It won because we were alone. Because we couldn't find each other in time.
Day 12. I've hidden the maps in one of the rings. If you're reading this, you found them. Good. Use them. There are places—safe houses—scattered across the continent. We stocked them with supplies, weapons, knowledge. If you need shelter, go there. If you need answers, go there. If you need to prepare for what's coming—
The entry cut off. The next page was blank.
Then more writing, days later.
Day 19. I found one. A safe house. It's real. Everything we hoped for.
Day 20. I'm leaving this journal with the maps. If someone finds it—if you find it—know that the safe houses are still there. Some of them, at least. I've marked the closest one on the map. Go if you can. Take what you need.
Day 21. I'm going east. Toward the mountains. There's something there. Something Elara found before she—
The sentence ended. No explanation. Just ink blots where the pen had rested too long.
Grog turned the page.
Empty.
He set the journal down carefully.
---
He unfolded the maps again. Found the one the journal mentioned.
A safe house. Marked clearly. In the hills east of here—not far from his current position. Half a day's detour from the path to the column.
He traced the route with his finger. Through the forest. Up into the foothills. A small symbol—a house, or maybe a cave—marked the location.
What's there? he wondered. Supplies? Weapons? More rings?
The journal didn't say. Just that it held what was needed.
He looked east.
The column was that way. Aldric was that way. Lira, Mirena, the war—all waiting for him.
But the safe house was closer. And it held answers.
Answers, he thought. Or more questions.
He thought about Aldric. About the choice waiting for him. About the darkness that had been growing inside him since childhood.
If Kevin's order had prepared for this—if they'd left behind knowledge, weapons, anything that could help—
He couldn't walk past it.
He stood.
Gathered the maps carefully. Folded them, stacked them, tucked them into his pouch beside the rings. The journal went with them.
He looked at the path.
East led to his friends.
South led to the hills. To the safe house. To answers.
I'll be faster once I know, he told himself. A half day detour. Then back on track. They'll never know I was gone.
He turned south.
Walked into the trees.
---
The forest changed again as he walked.
Not the ancient wrongness of the monster's territory—something else. The hills rose gently at first, then steeper. The trees thinned. Rock replaced soil.
By midday, he was climbing.
The map was clear. Follow the stream. Look for a dead oak split by lightning. Then east to the cliff face.
He found the stream. Followed it.
Found the dead oak. Still standing, its white branches reaching toward the sky like bones.
Turned east.
The cliff face rose before him. Solid rock, hundred feet high, covered in moss and ancient cracks.
No cave. No door. No sign of a safe house.
Grog frowned. Checked the map again.
This was the spot. Marked clearly. But there was nothing here.
He walked along the cliff base. Looked for anything—a symbol, a marking, a crack that might be more than it seemed.
Fifty feet. Nothing.
A hundred. Nothing.
He almost turned back. Almost decided it was a mistake, a legend, a lie.
Then he saw it.
A symbol. Carved into the rock, low near the ground, half-hidden by moss. The same symbol that was on Kevin's ring. The same symbol that marked the Grove.
He crouched. Brushed away the moss.
The symbol glowed faintly under his touch.
He pressed.
---
Stone groaned.
A section of the cliff face shifted—slowly, massively—revealing a dark opening behind it. A cave. Hidden for centuries.
Grog stood at the entrance.
Felt warm air spill out. Smelled dust and age and something else. Something that made the sword pulse against his hip.
He stepped inside.