The Mages' Tower. Morning.
The air in the tower was different.
Mirena felt it as soon as she entered—a charge, a hum, a vibration that hadn't been there before. The crystals on the walls were glowing brighter. The instruments on the tables were pulsing faintly. Something had changed.
She found Alistair in the laboratory, standing over the workbench, his hands steady, his eyes bright.
"We did it," he said.
Mirena walked to the table. Looked down.
Three rings lay on the surface. Plain silver, unremarkable. But they were warm. Pulsing. Alive.
She picked one up. Reached inside.
Space. Vast, empty, waiting.
"You made a storage ring," she said.
Alistair nodded. "We made three."
Mirena set the ring down. "How?"
Alistair gestured to the notes spread across the table—diagrams, formulas, equations that Mirena had been studying for weeks.
"The spatial magic works by folding reality," he said. "Imagine a piece of paper. You fold it, crease it, and the two points that were far apart are now close together. The rings do the same thing with space—they fold it, create a pocket, anchor it to the silver."
Mirena studied the diagrams. "And the anchor?"
"The silver is the key. It's not just a container—it's a conduit. The magic flows through it, bends around it, holds the fold in place."
Alistair picked up one of the rings. Turned it over in his fingers.
"The mana stones provide the power. Without them, the fold would collapse. The pocket would collapse. The ring would be just a ring."
Mirena nodded slowly. "So the stones are the fuel."
"The stones are the fuel. The silver is the vessel. The mage is the craftsman." Alistair set the ring down. "All three are necessary."
---
Grog arrived an hour later.
Lira came with him, her bow across her back, her eyes on the rings. Ken followed behind, silent, watchful. They had been hunting all morning—another pack of creatures, another haul of mana stones.
Mirena met them at the door.
"We did it," she said.
Grog's eyes went to the table. To the rings.
"You made more."
Alistair stepped forward. "We made three. They work."
Grog walked to the table. Picked up one of the rings. Reached inside.
Space. Vast, empty, waiting.
He set it down. "How many can you make?"
Alistair shook his head. "That depends on the stones. Each ring requires a significant amount of power to create. To maintain. To use."
Grog reached into his belt. Pulled out a ring—one of his own, full of mana stones. "Take what you need."
Alistair's eyes widened. "This is—"
"The creatures are breeding faster than we thought. We need more rings. More storage. More capacity."
Alistair nodded slowly. "We'll need time."
Grog met his eyes. "We don't have time."
---
Mirena pulled Grog aside.
The laboratory was busy now—mages in blue robes, scribes with quills, assistants carrying crystals and silver blanks. The breakthrough had brought them all running.
Grog stood by the window, his arms crossed, his face still.
"You're not happy," 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 much longer?"
Mirena shook her head. "I don't know. Weeks. Months. Maybe longer."
Grog's jaw tightened. "Aldric doesn't have weeks."
Mirena met his eyes. "We don't know if Aldric is—"
"He's alive." Grog's voice was low, steady. "I know it."
Mirena was silent for a moment. "Then we keep working."
---
They spent the rest of the morning in the laboratory.
Alistair explained the mechanics—the way the silver was forged, the way the mana stones were integrated, the way the spatial fold was anchored. Mirena took notes, asked questions, challenged assumptions.
Grog listened.
He didn't understand most of what they were saying. The words were too technical, the concepts too abstract. But he understood the implications.
The mages could make more rings. They could store more supplies, more weapons, more monster parts. They could fund the guild, support the research, prepare for whatever came next.
And Grog was no longer the only one who could carry the spoils of their hunts.
The adventurers could carry their own. The guild could stockpile resources. The kingdom could prepare for war.
It was a breakthrough.
It was not enough.
---
The first ring went to the guild.
Mirena handed it to Lira at the evening briefing. The great hall was crowded—adventurers sitting at tables, drinking ale, sharpening their weapons.
"For the guild," Mirena said. "For storage."
Lira took the ring. Turned it over in her fingers. "How does it work?"
"Reach inside. Will the space to open. It responds to intent."
Lira closed her eyes. Reached inside.
Her eyes opened. "It's empty."
"For now." Mirena nodded. "The adventurers will fill it. Carcasses, mana stones, materials from the creatures. The mages will study them. The craftsmen will use them. The merchants will sell them."
Lira slipped the ring onto her belt. "And Grog?"
Mirena looked at the window, where Grog was standing alone, looking out at the city.
"He'll keep hunting," she said. "He'll keep supplying. He'll keep waiting."
Lira was quiet for a moment. "Same as always."
Mirena nodded. "Same as always."
---
That night, Grog sat alone in his room.
The rings were on the table—seven of his own, plus the three the mages had made. Ten rings now. Ten storage spaces. Ten chances to carry more, hunt more, prepare more.
He picked up one of the new rings. Turned it over in his fingers.
The silver was warm, alive, waiting. The magic was there, folded into the metal, anchored by the mana stones. He could feel it—the potential, the power, the promise.
The mages had done it. They had replicated the craft.
Now they needed to scale it. Now they needed to produce more. Now they needed to prepare for whatever came next.
Grog set the ring down. Stood. Walked to the window.
The city was dark, the streets empty, the stars bright. Somewhere out there, creatures were breeding, spreading, preparing. Somewhere out there, the cult was hiding, plotting, waiting. Somewhere out there, Aldric was alive.
He had to believe that.
He had to.