The Northern Border. Duke Marcellus's Keep. Morning.
The hunters were dead.
William stood on the ramparts, watching the pass. The morning light was thin, pale, filtering through clouds that hung low over the mountains. The Vargr camp was still there—tents, fires, figures moving between them. But something had changed. The tension that had gripped the border for weeks was gone. The waiting was over.
Ben joined him, his boots silent on the stone. He had been up since before dawn, walking the walls, studying the enemy. His sword was at his hip, his blessing quiet but alert.
"They're pulling back," Ben said, pointing to the eastern ridge. "Look."
William followed his gaze. Vargr soldiers were moving—not toward the keep, but away. Small groups, scattered, heading into the mountains. Their formation was loose, disorganized, nothing like the disciplined ranks that had faced them before.
"They're retreating?"
"Or regrouping." Ben shook his head slowly. "Without the hunters, they're leaderless. Scattered. Whatever hold Vorlag had on them is gone."
William was quiet for a moment, his hands resting on the cold stone. The wind moved through the pass, carrying the smell of smoke and snow. "Then we press the advantage."
Ben nodded. "But carefully. Scattered enemies are still dangerous."
---
Edward called a council in the war room.
Duke Marcellus spread the map across the table, his thick fingers tracing the lines of the pass, the mountains, the Vargr positions. The markers had shifted since the last meeting—the eastern camp was empty, the northern camp was thinning, the main force was still in the pass but their formation had loosened.
"The eastern camp is abandoned," Marcellus said. "Our scouts report that the northern camp is withdrawing in good order. The main force is still in the pass, but they're disorganized. No clear command structure."
William leaned over the map. "We attack now. Hit them hard. Break them before they can regroup."
Marcellus nodded, his scarred face grim. "I agree. The soldiers are restless. They want to fight."
Edward hesitated. He stood at the head of the table, his hands flat on the wood, his eyes moving from the map to his brother's face. "The soldiers are tired. We've been on alert for weeks. They've been standing watches, manning walls, waiting for an attack that never came."
"Then we rotate fresh troops from the reserve." Marcellus met his eyes. "Your father would have attacked by now."
Edward's jaw tightened. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
"My father is dead," he said quietly.
The room went quiet. The officers shifted, uncomfortable. Marcellus held Edward's gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly.
Edward straightened. "We wait one more day. See if the retreat continues. Then we decide."
---
Lira found Ben in the courtyard after the council.
He was sitting on a wooden crate, his sword across his knees, a whetstone in his hand. The blade gleamed in the pale light, each stroke of the stone smooth and practiced. His blessing hummed softly, barely perceptible, a vibration in the air around him.
"You're restless," Lira said, leaning against the stable door.
Ben didn't look up. "The hunters are dead, but the Vargr are still there. The border is quiet, but it won't stay that way. We're winning battles, but the war isn't over."
Lira crossed her arms. "That's always how it is. There's always another fight. Always another enemy."
Ben set down the whetstone. "I know."
He looked at the pass, at the mountains, at the sky. "I've seen worlds where the fighting never stops. Where the war consumes everything. I don't want this world to become like that."
Lira was quiet for a moment. "Then we make sure it doesn't."
---
The portal camp was quiet.
Mirena stood in the pavilion, the artifact before her on the stone table. Its surface was dark, still, but she could feel the energy inside it—coiled, waiting, ready. The refined stones were arranged in their circle around the table, thirty of them, glowing faintly in the dim light. The crystals were calibrated, the wards tested, the circles drawn. Everything was ready.
Alistair entered, his back still bandaged, his face tired but focused. He had been working through the night, double-checking the calculations, ensuring the containment spells were strong.
"The final test is complete," he said. "The portal will open on schedule."
Mirena nodded without turning. "Three days."
"The Vargr?"
"William will handle them."
Alistair was quiet for a moment, watching her work. She was adjusting one of the crystals, her hands steady, her eyes intent.
"And Grog?" he asked.
Mirena paused. "What about him?"
"He's been restless. Distracted. I've seen him looking east."
Mirena resumed her work. "He's thinking about his axe. He left it in a village a smith. He mentioned it once, weeks ago."
"Will he go back for it?"
Mirena shook her head. "Not until after the first portal. He won't leave until Ken has searched at least one world."
Alistair nodded slowly. "He's changed. Since the canyon. Since Aldric."
"We've all changed, War changes people."
"It does."
---
Grog walked the perimeter of the camp.
The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and red. The adventurers were at their posts—some on the north ridge, some on the south, some patrolling the forest edge. The camp was secure. The portal was ready.
But something was missing.
His axe. Henrik's forge. The village where he had found the rings, eaten the apple, killed the monster. He had been meaning to return for months, but there had always been something else, more urgent, getting in the way—the strangers, the hunters, the portals.
He had time now. The hunters were dead. The border was quiet. The portal wouldn't open for three more days.
He could ride to the village and back in two. Maybe less, if he pushed hard.
Ken appeared beside him, silent as smoke.
"You're thinking about leaving," Ken said.
Grog nodded. "The axe. I need to go get it. Thought of going after your first jump but... I'll be leaving in a few hours"
"The portal opens in three days."
"I'll be back before then."
Ken studied him. "The village is east right? Past the hills?"
Grog looked at the eastern horizon. "Yeah."
"Okay. Take the rings. Fill them with supplies. Don't travel alone."
Grog almost smiled. Almost. "I don't need all that, it'll only be a few days not a week."
---
That night, Grog prepared to leave.
He packed the rings—food, water, and a few extra things. He checked his sword, his armor, his horse. The animal was rested, fed, ready for a long ride.
Mirena came to see him off. She stood at the edge of the camp, her staff in her hand, her face calm.
"The first portal opens in three days," she said. "Ken will go through as soon as it's stable."
Grog mounted his horse. "I'll be back before then."
"Be careful. The hunters are dead, but the creatures are still out there. And the cult is still hiding."
Grog nodded. "I know."
Alistair appeared beside Mirena. "The axe—is it worth the journey?"
Grog looked at the eastern hills. "It's part of me. I left it behind once. I won't leave it again."
He turned his horse toward the gate.
Ken walked to stand beside Mirena.
"The Vargr?"
"William will handle them."
"The portal?"
"Will open on schedule."
Ken watched Grog ride through the gate, into the darkness.
"He'll come back," Ken said.
Mirena nodded. "He always does."
---
Grog rode through the night.
The road was empty, the fields dark, the sky full of stars. He pushed the horse hard, stopping only when the animal needed rest.
He thought about Aldric. About the portal closing. About the look on his face when he stepped through.
He thought about the axe. Henrik's forge. The village where everything had changed.
He would go and get the axe, return to the camp, and help Ken search the worlds.
And he would find Aldric.
He had to.