The Mages' Tower. Morning.
Mirena stood at the window, four rings in her hand.
Plain silver, unremarkable. They had been empty once—waiting, patient, hopeful. Now they were warm, pulsing faintly, but empty again. She had removed the monster bodies, distributed them to the other mages for study. She had given out some of the mana stones too—enough to fund research, to buy supplies, to keep the mages' guild operational.
But she had kept some for herself. Hidden in her desk. Waiting.
The other eight rings were with Grog. He had insisted on keeping them. She hadn't argued.
The door opened. Grog stepped inside.
"You wanted to see me."
Mirena turned. Held out the rings.
Grog took them. Looked at them. They were warm, but empty. "You removed everything?"
"The bodies are with the other mages. Some of the stones too." Mirena paused. "I kept some for myself. For the ritual."
Grog nodded slowly. "The rings?"
Mirena walked to the table, spread out her notes. "The mages think they can make more. Copies. Or something like them."
Grog's eyebrows rose. "More rings?"
"Lord Alistair has been studying spatial magic for decades. He thinks he can replicate the craft." Mirena met his eyes. "He's brilliant. But cautious. He won't move forward until he's certain."
Grog looked at her notes. Diagrams, formulas, sketches of the rings' internal structure. "When can you start?"
Mirena shook her head. "We've already started. But it's slow. Spatial magic is dangerous. If we make a mistake—"
"The rings could explode."
"Worse." Mirena met his eyes. "They could tear a hole in reality. Open a portal to somewhere we don't want to go."
Grog was quiet for a moment. "Like Vorlag's world."
"Like somewhere we can't come back from."
---
Lord Alistair was old.
His hair was white, his face was lined, his hands were steady. He had been the King's senior mage for thirty years. He had seen fads come and go, theories rise and fall, young mages burn bright and fade away.
He was not easily impressed.
He was impressed by the rings.
"They're remarkable," he said, turning one over in his fingers. "The craftsmanship, the magic, the way they bend space without breaking it." He looked at Grog. "Where did you say you found them?"
Grog met his eyes. "I didn't."
Alistair smiled. It was a thin smile, not unkind. "Fair enough."
He set the ring on the table. "The theory is sound. Spatial magic is rare, but not impossible. We have the knowledge, the resources, the talent. What we don't have is time."
Grog frowned. "Time?"
"The King is dying. The creatures are spreading. The cult is active." Alistair's voice was flat. "We need these rings. We need them soon."
Mirena stepped forward. "Rushing could be dangerous."
"I know." Alistair met her eyes. "But we don't have the luxury of patience."
---
They worked through the morning.
Alistair explained the theory—the way the rings bent space, the way they created pockets that existed outside reality, the way they held things without weight or time.
Mirena took notes. Asked questions. Challenged assumptions.
Grog watched.
He didn't understand most of what they were saying. The words were too technical, the concepts too abstract. But he understood the stakes.
If they succeeded, they could make more rings. They could store more supplies, more weapons, more monster parts. They could fund the guild, support the mages, prepare for whatever came next.
If they failed—
He didn't want to think about that.
---
The first attempt failed.
Alistair drew the circle, placed the silver blank in the center, channeled his magic. The air shimmered. The ring glowed. Then it cracked, split, fell apart.
Mirena sighed. "Too much power."
Alistair nodded. "Too much too fast."
Grog picked up the pieces. The silver was warm, still pulsing faintly. "Can you try again?"
Alistair shook his head. "Not today. We need to study the failure, understand what went wrong." He looked at Mirena. "Tomorrow. Same time."
Mirena nodded. "Tomorrow."
---
Grog walked her to the guild hall.
The streets were crowded, the merchants loud, the soldiers watchful. Lira was in the yard, training the recruits. Ken was on the roof, watching the horizon.
"You're worried," Mirena said.
Grog shook his head. "I'm impatient."
Mirena almost smiled. Almost. "Same thing."
He was quiet for a moment. "The rings. The ritual. The portal. How long?"
Mirena shook her head. "I don't know. Weeks. Months. Maybe longer."
Grog's jaw tightened. "I can't wait that long."
"You have to."
Grog met her eyes. "Aldric can't wait that long."
Mirena was silent for a moment. "We don't know if Aldric is even alive."
Grog's hand tightened on his sword. "He's alive."
"How do you know?"
Grog looked at the sky. The clouds were moving, gray and heavy. "Because I'd feel it if he wasn't."
---
They stopped at the guild hall gates.
Mirena turned to him. "I'll keep working. On the rings. On the ritual. On the portal." She paused. "But I need you to be patient."
Grog nodded slowly. "I'll try."
Mirena studied him for a moment. Then she turned and walked into the guild hall.
Grog stood at the gates, watching her go.
The rings were on his belt—eight of them, warm and pulsing. The four he had given Mirena were empty now, but she still had them. The mana stones she had kept for herself were hidden in her desk. The ritual was still untested.
He didn't know what the future held.
But he knew one thing: he wasn't going to give up.