Late Night. The Village.
Grog walked through empty streets.
The village was dark, its windows black, its people sleeping. Only a few lamps flickered—the inn's common room, one house near the well, a single candle in an upstairs window. Ordinary life, paused for the night.
He left bloody footprints on the frozen ground.
His hands had mostly healed—the berserker's gift worked fast—but they were still raw, still red, still wrong-looking. His clothes hung in shreds, soaked through with monster blood and his own. He must look like something out of a nightmare.
Lena was waiting on the inn steps.
She stood when she saw him. Her face went pale, then recovered. She'd seen terrible things before—living on the edge of wilderness did that.
"You're alive."
"Yes."
"The monster?"
"Dead."
She nodded slowly. Took in his appearance. The blood. The wounds. The strange calm in his eyes.
"You need a bath."
"Yes."
"Come on."
---
The inn was quiet.
Lena led him through the common room—dark now, the fire banked for the night—and into the back where the bathing room was. She moved efficiently, gathering towels, fetching water, building up the fire beneath the copper tub.
Grog stood in the corner, dripping blood on the floor.
"Sit," she said. "Before you fall."
He sat on a wooden bench. Watched her work.
Lena was sixteen, maybe seventeen. Young. But she moved with the confidence of someone who'd been handling things her whole life. No fear. No hesitation. Just... action.
"The water'll take an hour to heat," she said. "You want food first?"
"No."
"Rest?"
"No."
She looked at him. Her brown eyes took in everything—the healing wounds, the torn hands, the blood that wasn't all his.
"What happened out there?"
Grog considered the question. How to explain? The monster. The fight. The thing inside him that had taken over.
"I killed it," he said. "That's all."
Lena studied him for a moment. Then nodded.
"Good enough." She stood. "I'll get more water. Stay."
She left.
Grog sat alone in the warm room, watching his hands heal.
---
An hour later, he was in the tub.
Hot water. Real soap. The blood washed away in pink swirls, revealing wounds that were already closing, already fading. The berserker's gift worked faster than anything natural. By morning, he'd look almost normal.
Almost.
He closed his eyes. Let the heat soak into his muscles.
The red was quiet now. Sleeping. But he could feel it there, waiting. Aware. Like a beast in a cage, watching for the door to open.
I need to control it, he thought. Before it controls me.
A knock on the door.
"Grog?" Lena's voice. "Someone's here to see you."
He frowned. "Who?"
"The village elder. Yoren. He wants to thank you."
Grog sat up. Water sloshed.
"Tell him no."
A pause. "He's not going to like that."
"Don't care. Tell him I'm resting. Tell him I leave at dawn. Tell him whatever you want. I'm not coming out."
Another pause. Then: "Fine. I'll handle it."
Her footsteps faded.
Grog sank back into the water.
---
He stayed in the bath until the water cooled.
When he finally climbed out, dried, dressed in clean clothes Lena had left, he felt almost human again. The wounds were pink lines now, barely visible. His hands looked like hands again, not shredded meat.
He walked upstairs to his room.
The rings were still there. Nine untouched. The armor and weapons for Aldric still bundled in the corner. The shield—the big one, the one with the glowing core—waited at Henrik's.
Everything ready.
He sat on the bed.
Stared at nothing.
The red stirred. Just a little. Curious why he wasn't moving, wasn't fighting, wasn't doing something.
Quiet, he told it.
It listened. For now.
---
Another knock.
Grog's hand went to his sword. Then relaxed.
"Who?"
"Lena."
He stood. Opened the door.
She stood in the hallway, holding a tray. Bread, cheese, a pitcher of water. Her brown hair was loose now, falling past her shoulders. She'd changed clothes—a simple shift, nothing fancy, but different from her work dress.
"You didn't eat," she said.
"No."
"You should." She pushed past him into the room. Set the tray on the table. Turned to face him.
They stood there for a moment. Close. The room small, the night quiet.
"The elder's gone," she said. "He wasn't happy, but he's gone. Told me to tell you you're welcome here anytime. That the village owes you."
Grog nodded.
Lena didn't leave.
She looked at him. At the scars. At the eyes that had seen too much. At the hands that had killed a monster hours ago.
"I saw you when you came back," she said quietly. "Covered in blood. Looking like death. And all I could think was—" She stopped.
"What?"
"He's alive. He came back." She stepped closer. "I've lived here my whole life. Watched people leave and never return. Watched monsters take them. Watched the forest swallow them whole." Another step. "You went out there alone. Fought something that killed a dozen men. And you came back."
Grog said nothing.
Lena reached up. Touched his face. Her fingers traced the line of a healing wound.
"You're different," she said. "Not just strong. Different. Something in you." She met his eyes. "I want to feel it."
Grog's breath caught.
The red stirred.His blood boiled.
---
He took her.
Not gently. Not the way he'd been with Cora—slow, careful, human. The berserker was still close to the surface, still hungry, still needing.
Lena met it with her own fire.
She wasn't gentle either. She clawed, bit, demanded. Her body was young but strong, and she gave as good as she got. The bed creaked. The headboard banged against the wall. Neither of them cared.
Skin to skin.Her breasts, perked and soft against his hard chest.
When it was over, they lay tangled in sweat and sheets.
Lena laughed. Soft and breathless.
"That was—" She paused. "Different."
Grog said nothing.
She propped herself on an elbow. Looked at him in the darkness.
"You okay?"
No.
"Yes."
Lena studied him. Then nodded.
"Good." She lay back down. "I'm staying. Don't argue."
She curled against him. Fell asleep within minutes.
Grog stared at the ceiling.
The red was quiet now. Satisfied. For now.
---
Morning came gray and cold.
Grog woke to find Lena already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him.
"You snore," she said.
"I know."
"You talk in your sleep too. Names again. Aldric. Lira. Someone called Kevin."
Grog sat up. Ran a hand through his hair.
"Anything else?"
"Growled once. Scared me." She smiled. "You're weird."
He didn't respond.
Lena stood. Stretched. She moved differently this morning—looser, more comfortable. Like something had shifted between them.
"I should go," she said. "Mother will wonder where I am." She paused at the door. "You're leaving today?"
"Yes."
"For real this time?"
"Yes."
She nodded. "Good. You've been here long enough." She opened the door. "Come back sometime. If you want."
She left.
Grog sat alone in the quiet room, feeling strange. Awkward. Like he'd done something he shouldn't have, even though she'd wanted it as much as he had.
She's sixteen, a voice whispered.
She's a woman, another answered. She chose.
He didn't know which was right.
---
He dressed. Gathered his things. Strapped on the sword.
The rings went into his pouch. Aldric's armor and weapons into his pack. Everything ready.
He walked downstairs.
Lena was behind the bar, as always. She looked up when he entered. Smiled.
"Breakfast?"
"No time."
She nodded. "Then go. Henrik's waiting. He's been up since dawn."
Grog paused at the door.
"Lena."
"Yes?"
"Last night—"
She held up a hand. Stopped him.
"I wanted it. You wanted it. We're both alive this morning." She shrugged. "That's enough."
Grog looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded. Walked out.
---
The smithy was loud.
Henrik's hammer rang against metal. Ben's smaller hammer answered. The rhythm of work.
Grog pushed open the door.
Henrik looked up. Grinned.
"Heard you killed it."
"Yes."
"Good." He gestured at the corner. "Shield's ready. Been ready for days."
Grog walked to the shield.
It sat on its workbench, core pulsing steadily. The light within it seemed brighter than before—more alive. When he touched it, warmth spread through his fingers.
For Aldric, he thought. This is for Aldric.
He lifted it. Light. Perfect.
"Thank you."
Henrik waved. "Just doing my job." He glanced at the axe pieces on his workbench. "The other one's coming. Slow, but coming. Give it time."
Grog nodded.
"The gold I left—"
"Enough. More than enough." Henrik grinned. "Ben's been eating like a king. Won't stop talking about you."
Grog looked at Ben. The boy was focused on his work, but his ears were red.
"Tell him—" He stopped. Shook his head.
Henrik waited.
"Tell him to keep learning. He's got talent."
Henrik's grin widened. "I'll tell him. Now go. You've got people waiting."
Grog nodded. Walked out.
---
The village was waking.
Shutters opening. Smoke rising. Ordinary life.
Grog walked to the edge of town. The place where the old tree had stood. The path into the forest.
He stopped. Looked back.
Lena was on the inn steps, watching. She raised a hand.
He raised his.
Then he turned and walked into the trees.
East. Toward the column. Toward his friends. Toward war.
The sword pulsed against his hip.
The shield was strapped to his back.
He walked.