The Eastern Mountains. Midday.
Grog worked quickly.
The man's wounds were deep—claw marks across his chest, his arms, his side. The same kind of wounds the creatures left behind. The same kind Grog had carried. The flesh around them was pale, not blackened—no infection, not yet—but the blood was still seeping, the edges still raw.
He cleaned them with water from his flask. Ripped strips from his own shirt. Bound them tight.
The man didn't move. Didn't speak. Just lay there, his eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow. His hands were still on his knife, even now. Even dying.
Grog sat back. Looked at him.
Young. Younger than Aldric. His face was sharp, angular, the kind of face that had seen too much too early. His hands were calloused, scarred—the hands of someone who had held weapons for a long time. His clothes were dark, practical, designed for movement. A sword lay on the ground beside him, its blade stained with dark blood. A bow leaned against the wall, its string broken. A quiver lay beside it, empty.
He had been fighting. He had been winning. But he had lost too much blood.
Grog reached for his pack. Found dried meat, hard bread, the last of his water. He set them beside the man.
"Eat," he said. "When you can."
The man's eyes opened. Dark, sharp, aware. He looked at the food. At the water. At Grog.
"Why?"
His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
Grog met his eyes. "Because you're still alive."
The man was quiet for a moment. Then he reached for the water. Drank. Ate. Slowly. Carefully. His hands shook, but they didn't drop anything.
Grog watched him. "What's your name?"
The man didn't answer.
"Where did you come from?"
Silence.
"How long have you been hunting them?"
The man's eyes flickered. Just for a moment. Then they went still again.
Grog leaned back. "You don't have to tell me. Not now. But you're coming with me."
The man's jaw tightened. "No."
"You're dying."
"I've been dying before."
Grog was quiet for a moment. "You killed the creature in the cave."
The man didn't answer. But he didn't deny it.
"Alone," Grog said. "You killed it alone."
The man's eyes met his. "It wasn't alone."
Grog felt the cold settle in his chest. "How many?"
The man was quiet for a long moment. "More than you've seen."
---
They rested for an hour.
The man slept—or tried to. His body was exhausted, his wounds were deep, his blood was still seeping through the bandages. Grog sat by the entrance, his sword across his knees, his eyes on the mountains.
He thought about the creature in the cave. The one the man had killed. The wounds on its body—clean cuts, precise angles. Professional. The man had known what he was doing. He had killed things like this before.
He thought about the portal. About the trail that kept shifting. About the creatures that kept coming.
He looked at the man. At the weapons beside him. At the scars on his hands.
"More than you've seen," the man had said.
Grog believed him.
---
The man woke as the sun began to set.
His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. He looked at Grog. At the sword across his knees. At the entrance of the cave.
"You're still here."
Grog nodded. "I'm still here."
The man sat up slowly. Winced. Pressed his hand against his side. The bandages were red, but the bleeding had slowed.
"Why?"
Grog was quiet for a moment. "Because you're still alive."
The man stared at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
They left the cave as the stars came out.
The man couldn't walk—his legs were too weak, his wounds too fresh. Grog helped him to his horse, lifted him into the saddle, tied him in place. The man didn't complain. Didn't thank him. Just sat there, his hands on the reins, his eyes on the mountains.
Grog mounted his own horse. Led the way down the trail.
The man spoke as they rode. His voice was quiet, hoarse, but steady.
"They're not all dead," he said. "The creatures. There are more. In the mountains. In the forest. In the hills." He paused. "More than you've seen."
Grog looked back at him. "How do you know?"
The man met his eyes. "Because I've been hunting them. For weeks. Months, maybe." He looked at the mountains. "They keep coming."
Grog was quiet for a moment. "From the portal."
The man nodded. "The portal moves. I've been tracking it. Following the residue. But it's always ahead of me. Always somewhere else."
Grog absorbed this. "You've been doing this alone."
The man didn't answer. He didn't have to.
---
They rode through the night.
The mountains were dark, the trail narrow, the cold biting. Grog's horse was tired, his own body was tired, but he didn't stop. The man didn't speak. Just rode, his hands steady on the reins, his eyes on the road ahead.
They reached the base of the mountains as the sun began to rise.
The palace was still hours away. The road was long. But they were alive. They were moving.
The man looked at Grog. "What's your name?"
Grog met his eyes. "Grog."
The man was quiet for a moment. Then: "Ken."
Grog nodded. "Ken."
They rode on.