The Eastern Mountains. Dawn.
Grog returned to the cave as the sun began to rise.
The body was still there—gray-skinned, wrong, killed by a blade. He had left it where it fell, not wanting to move it in the dark, not wanting to touch it more than necessary. Now the light was creeping through the entrance, touching the walls, illuminating the horror.
He knelt beside it. Studied the wounds again.
Clean cuts. Precise angles. The kind of wounds that came from someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who had killed things like this before.
He had seen wounds like this before. In the old timeline. On the border. On the bodies of things that had come through the door.
He stood. Looked at the tracks leading away from the cave.
Boot prints. Fresh. Leading deeper into the mountains.
He followed them.
---
The trail was hard to follow.
The terrain was brutal—steep slopes, loose rock, narrow passes that wound between peaks still capped with snow. The boot prints appeared at irregular intervals, sometimes clear, sometimes faded, sometimes lost entirely. Grog followed them as best he could, his eyes on the ground, his hand on his sword.
His chest ached. His arm was stiff. The wound was healed, the infection gone, but the muscles beneath were still weak, still tender. He ignored it. He had work to do.
The sun climbed higher. The shadows shortened. The air grew colder.
He didn't stop.
---
He found the second cave at midday.
It was smaller than the first, hidden in the side of a cliff, its entrance narrow, its interior dark. The boot prints led to it—fresh, clear, unmistakable.
Grog drew his sword. Moved to the entrance. Listened.
Nothing. Just silence.
He stepped inside.
---
The cave was small, dry, cold.
A fire pit sat in the center, its ashes cold, its wood untouched. A pack lay against the wall, its contents spilling out—clothes, rope, a hunting knife, a water flask. A bedroll was spread on the floor, its blankets rumpled, its pillow stained.
Someone had been here. Someone was here.
And then he saw him.
A man, lying in the shadows at the back of the cave, his body curled on its side, his clothes torn, his skin pale. His face was hidden, his hair dark, his hands still. A sword lay on the ground beside him, its blade stained with dark blood. A bow leaned against the wall, its string broken.
Grog moved closer. Knelt beside him. Turned him over.
He was young—younger than Aldric, maybe twenty, maybe less. His face was sharp, angular, his skin pale, his lips cracked. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
He was dying.
Grog reached for his wrist, felt for a pulse. It was there—weak, thready, but there. He was alive. Barely.
The man's eyes opened.
They were dark, sharp, aware. He looked at Grog—at his face, his sword, his hands. His body tensed, despite his weakness.
His hand moved. Found the knife at his belt.
"Don't," he said. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Don't touch me."
Grog didn't move. Didn't speak. Just knelt there, his hands visible, his sword sheathed.
The man's grip loosened. His eyes searched Grog's face, looking for something—threat, danger, a reason to fight.
He didn't find it.
His hand fell. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed.
Grog looked at his wounds. Deep gashes across his chest, his arms, his side. Claw marks. Recent. The same kind of wounds the creatures left behind.
He had been fighting. He had been winning. But he had lost too much blood.
He was dying.
Grog had a choice. Leave him. Or save him.
He pulled out his water flask. Pressed it to the man's lips.
"Drink."
The man's eyes opened. He looked at the flask. At Grog. At the water.
He drank.