The old man held the apple in his hand, turning it slowly under the dim light.
Alistair, still on the floor and barely able to move, watched as the golden sheen of the apple began to shift.
The glow dimmed.
The smooth gold skin grew darker, patches of black veins spreading across its surface like rot.
Within seconds, the entire fruit had changed, what once looked divine now resembled something corrupted, wrong.
It no longer radiated purity. It pulsed with something heavier.
The old man knelt beside him again, his glowing eye fixed on Alistair's face.
"Now, while you are not like my dear Thor," he said, voice calm, "I believe you have something we can use."
Alistair didn't answer. He couldn't. His body was still recovering, barely holding together after what the apple had done to him the first time.
The man smiled faintly. "Your intelligence. Your position. Your reach. That matters more than brute strength. You don't need to swing a hammer to move nations."
