Here is a scene about one ring, two tempers, and a young woman who is appallingly candid.
“I do not value gifts from dead men.”
She had said it. She meant it, too, with all her dark and hardened heart. His crippled body was in a wheelchair, wrapped from the waist down in a blanket. He would never survive an attack from the ogres. It tired her to look at him, knowing the burden he was to others, the healer whose time could be better spent elsewhere wasted in making a dead man comfortable.
At her statement, Aryn squinted at her. “Why not take gifts from a dead man? Are you afraid you might care for him if you do?”
Merris snorted. She held the iron ring for him to take. “It’s also ugly,” she said, “if that helps.”