The Palace Training Yard. Afternoon.
Grog stood alone in the center of the yard, his sword in his hand, his breath misting in the cold air.
The others were gone—the volunteers had finished their training, Aldric had limped off to the infirmary, Lira was somewhere in the palace. He had asked to be alone. He needed to understand what he had become.
The apple was fully absorbed now. He could feel it in his bones, in his blood, in the way his heart beat steady and strong even after hours of exertion. The wound on his chest was healed, the flesh pink and new, the infection gone. The berserker was quiet, but present. Waiting.
He raised his sword.
The blade caught the light, dark metal that seemed to drink the sun. It was lighter than it should be, faster than it should be, alive in a way that still unsettled him. It had chosen him. It had bound itself to him. He still didn't fully understand why.
He swung.
The blade cut through the air with a sound like tearing silk. Faster than before. Stronger than before. The practice dummy at the edge of the yard split clean in half, its wooden halves falling to the ground.
He hadn't aimed for the dummy. He hadn't even been thinking about it.
The sword had extended his will. Made his strike reach farther, hit harder, cut deeper.
He lowered the blade. Stared at it.
"You're getting stronger."
He turned. Mirena stood at the edge of the yard, her staff in her hand, her eyes on his face. She had been watching for a while, he realized. He hadn't heard her approach.
"The apple," he said.
She nodded. "The apple. The berserker. The sword." She walked to the bench, sat down. "All of it."
He moved to sit beside her. His body felt different—lighter, faster, more responsive. The aches that had plagued him for weeks were gone. The stiffness in his shoulder had faded. He was healing faster than he should. Stronger than he should.
"The rings," he said. "The one I gave you. The poison."
Mirena reached into her pocket, pulled out the ring. It was warm, pulsing faintly, the same dark silver as the others.
"It's still in there," she said. "The infection. The thing the creature left behind. It's contained. But it's not gone."
Grog looked at the ring. "Can it be destroyed?"
Mirena shook her head. "I don't know. The rings were made to hold things. That's what they do. I don't know if they can be emptied." She paused. "Or if they should be."
He tucked the ring back into his pocket. "The others?"
"The other eleven? They're warm. They're not empty." She met his eyes. "But I don't know what's in them."
Grog was quiet for a moment. "Something from me. From the infection."
"Maybe." Mirena leaned back. "Or maybe something else. The rings have been with you for a long time. They've been exposed to the apple, to the berserker, to the creature's poison. They've changed."
He looked at the rings in his pocket. Eleven of them, plain silver, warm. He could feel them—not the metal, but something inside them. Something that had been in him.
"I don't know what they are anymore," he said.
Mirena nodded slowly. "Neither do I."
---
They sat in silence for a while.
The sun moved across the sky, the shadows lengthened, the yard grew quiet. Grog thought about the apple, about the berserker, about the thing inside him that had saved them and almost destroyed him.
"The berserker," he said. "I can feel it. When I'm angry. When I'm scared. When I'm fighting." He looked at his hands. "I can direct it. Focus it. But I can't stop it. Not completely."
Mirena watched him. "Does it frighten you?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes."
She nodded slowly. "Good."
"Good?"
"Fear means you're paying attention. Means you know what it can do." She paused. "The berserker is part of you. It's not going away. You need to learn to work with it, not against it."
Grog looked at the practice dummy, split clean in half. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
---
Ken watched from the shadows.
He had been there for a while—long enough to see Grog split the dummy, long enough to see Mirena join him, long enough to hear their quiet conversation. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just watched.
Grog was different. Stronger than he should be. Faster than he should be. The sword was different too—alive in a way that weapons shouldn't be.
Ken had seen a lot of things. He had killed a lot of things. He had never seen anything like Grog.
He stepped out of the shadows.
Grog's hand went to his sword. Ken didn't flinch.
"You're quiet," Grog said.
Ken moved to the edge of the yard. "I've had practice."
Grog studied him. The young man's wounds were healing—faster than they should, maybe, but not as fast as Grog's. His face was still pale, his hands still bandaged, his eyes still sharp.
"What do you want?" Grog asked.
Ken was quiet for a moment. "To see what you can do."
Grog raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Ken met his eyes. "Because if I'm going to fight beside you, I need to know what you're capable of."
Grog stood. Picked up his sword. "Then watch."