The lock clicked into place. It was a heavy sound in the quiet room.
Yoren leaned against the door for a moment. He listened to the hallway outside. Footsteps passed by. They faded into the distance. Only then did he move away from the entrance.
The room was small. A bed, a table, a chair, and a mirror. The walls were thin. He could hear the neighbors arguing through the plaster.
He walked to the table. A single oil lamp sat in the center. He struck a match and lit it. The flame flickered, casting long shadows against the walls.
Yoren said, Out.
The darkness in the corners shifted. The three shadows peeled away from the walls. They floated into the light of the lamp.
The Thornmaw shadow was the largest. It paced silently on the wooden floor. It made no sound. Its paws left no marks.
The Bloodfang shadow hovered near the ceiling. It was lean and sharp. It watched the door.
The Nullkin shadow curled near Yoren's feet. It was small and jagged. It looked like a broken doll made of smoke.
Yoren sat on the chair. He rested his elbows on the table. He held his hands out over the flame.
The rings glinted in the firelight. The black ring on his left hand was dull metal. It looked like old iron. The silver ring on his right hand was polished. It looked new, though he had worn it for years.
Yoren said, Show me.
The Thornmaw shadow bared its teeth. It was a silent gesture. There was no sound.
Yoren nodded. The shadow was stable. It had not degraded since the harvest. Usually, shadows faded after a few days. These had lasted weeks.
He looked at the Nullkin. It twitched. It reacted to his thoughts.
Yoren said, Hold.
The Nullkin froze. It became still as a statue.
Yoren leaned closer to the rings. He turned his left hand over. The black metal felt rough against his skin. There were engravings on the inside band. He had never been able to read them.
They looked like scratches. Random and chaotic.
Tonight, they looked different.
Yoren frowned. He brought the ring closer to his eye. The engravings seemed to shift. They moved like worms under the skin of the metal.
He pulled his hand back. The movement stopped.
Yoren said, What are you?
The rings did not answer. They were metal. They were tools. They were not alive.
But the heat was rising.
He could feel it spreading from the band into his finger. It was not the cold hum of activation. It was warmth. Like blood pumping through a vein.
Yoren stood up. He walked to the window. He looked out at the city. Verrath was alive at night. Lights blinked in the distance. Runes glowed on the wall.
He looked at his reflection in the glass. His eyes were dark. The red lines on his neck were faint. They pulsed in time with the heat in his rings.
Yoren said, Stop.
The heat did not stop. It grew stronger. It moved up his arm. It settled in his chest.
He sat back down. He needed to focus. Panic was useless. Panic killed hunters in the Shatter Zone.
He closed his eyes. He focused on the sensation. It was not painful. It was familiar. That was the problem. It felt like a memory he could not reach.
He remembered a voice. It was not his voice. It was deeper. Older.
It had said something to him once. Before he knew what words were.
Yoren opened his eyes. The lamp flame turned blue for a second. Then it returned to orange.
He looked at the shadows. They were watching him. The Thornmaw had stopped pacing. It stood still, facing him.
Yoren said, Did you feel that?
The shadows did not speak. They could not speak. But the Thornmaw lowered its head. It was a sign of submission. Or recognition.
Yoren took a breath. He exhaled slowly. The heat receded slightly. It did not leave. It waited.
He looked at the silver ring. The red line on the Obsidian Fang matched the heat in his blood.
He had found the rings in a ruin. Ten years ago. He had been a child. He did not remember how he got there. He only remembered waking up with the metal on his fingers.
People said he was lucky. People said he was cursed. Yoren said nothing. He used them. They kept him alive.
But tools did not warm up on their own. Tools did not change their engravings.
Yoren stood up again. He walked to the basin in the corner. He poured water from a pitcher. He splashed it on his face.
The water was cold. It shocked his skin. The heat in his rings dulled for a moment.
He dried his face with a rag. He looked in the mirror above the basin.
His pupils were dilated. They were wider than they should be in this light.
Yoren said, Not now.
He was working. He had potions to brew. He had rent to pay. He had Raith to protect. He did not have time for mysteries.
The rings cooled down. The warmth vanished as quickly as it had come.
Yoren flexed his fingers. They felt normal. The engravings were static again. Just scratches.
He walked back to the table. He sat down. He picked up a vial from his bag. It contained ground bone from the Thornmaw.
He needed to mix it with acid. The process was dangerous. One drop too much and the room would fill with toxic gas.
He uncorked the vial. The smell was sharp. It burned his nose.
He poured it into a bowl. He stirred it with a glass rod. The mixture turned gray.
Yoren said, Stable.
It was stable. For now.
He looked at his hands again. The rings were silent. They looked like ordinary jewelry.
But he knew better. Nothing in Veldrun was ordinary. Especially not things that survived the Fracture.
He capped the vial. He put it on the shelf. There were ten others there. All labeled. All dangerous.
Yoren stood up. He was tired. The fight with the Thornmaw had taken more out of him than he admitted.
He walked to the bed. He sat on the edge. The mattress squeaked.
The shadows moved to the corners. They resumed their watch. They did not sleep. They did not need to.
Yoren lay back. He stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in the plaster. It looked like a lightning bolt.
He raised his hand. He looked at the rings one last time before closing his eyes.
They were dark. They were cold.
But the memory of the warmth lingered. It was not the heat of magic. It was the heat of life.
Rings did not have life. Men had life. Beasts had life.
Yoren closed his eyes. He tried to sleep. The image of the shifting engravings stayed behind his eyelids.
He turned onto his side. He pulled the blanket up.
The room was quiet. The city humمed outside. The shadows stood guard.
The warmth had not happened before. He did not know what it meant.
He was not sure he wanted to know.
A/N Thank you for reading Chapter 3! The rings are waking up, and Yoren is running out of excuses to ignore them. What do you think the warmth means? Let me know in the comments! Don't forget to vote and add Ashes of the Twin Rings to your library. See you in Chapter 4!