Eight Months Later
The snow came early that year.
Grog stood at the edge of the training ground, axe in hand, watching white flakes dissolve against the mud. His breath misted in the cold air. His muscles ached from morning practice—a good ache now, not the screaming protest of eight months ago.
He'd changed.
Not just strength, though that had come faster than expected. His shoulders had widened. His arms had thickened. The soft sixteen-year-old body was gone, replaced by something harder. Leaner. Ready.
But the real change was in his head.
Eight months of knowing. Eight months of watching. Eight months of carrying the stone against his hip, always warm, always present, always reminding.
Eight months since he'd stood in the Grove and looked into those red eyes.
The entity hadn't appeared again. Not in dreams. Not in shadows. Not even during the full moons, when Grog and Lira still watched from a distance, noting every sleepwalk, every forgotten moment, every tiny slip in Aldric's perfect mask.
The pattern continued. Aldric walked. The eyes watched. Nothing changed.
It was almost worse than if something had happened.
"You're brooding again."
Lira appeared beside him, wrapped in a worn cloak, her breath misting like his. She'd grown too—taller, sharper, her face losing the last traces of childhood. Seventeen now. Still annoying.
"Thinking," Grog corrected.
"Same thing with you." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "Eight months. We're still alive. That's something."
Grog grunted.
"The entity hasn't done anything. Aldric hasn't changed. Maybe—" She hesitated. "Maybe we have more time than we thought."
"Or maybe it's waiting."
Lira sighed. "You're impossible."
"I'm realistic."
They stood together in the falling snow, watching the camp go about its morning routine. Soldiers trudged past with firewood. Cooks argued over supplies. Somewhere, someone was practicing sword forms badly.
Normal. Ordinary. Deceptive.
"Something's different today," Lira said quietly.
Grog looked at her. "What?"
"I don't know yet. Just a feeling." Her eyes scanned the camp, sharp and searching. "Something's coming."
Grog trusted Lira's feelings. She'd saved his life with them more times than he could count.
"Good or bad?"
"Can't tell."
They waited.
---
It came at midday.
A rider. Alone. Pushing a tired horse up the muddy road toward camp, her cloak plastered with snow, her hood pulled low against the weather.
Grog was at the gate when she arrived. Lira beside him. Captain Voren already striding forward, hand on his sword.
The rider reined in. Threw back her hood.
Young. Maybe eighteen. Dark hair plastered to her face. Exhaustion in every line of her body. But her eyes—her eyes were sharp and blue and furious.
"I need shelter," she said. Her voice was rough from cold. "And I need to speak to whoever's in charge."
Voren stepped forward. "You've found him. State your business."
The girl looked at him. Then at Grog. Then at Lira.
Her gaze lingered on Grog a moment too long.
"I'm being hunted," she said. "By men who want me dead. I've been running for three days." She straightened in the saddle, and despite her exhaustion, despite the cold, despite everything—she looked dangerous. "I'm a mage. A good one. And I have information your commander needs."
Voren's eyes narrowed. "What kind of information?"
The girl looked at him. Then at Grog again. That strange, lingering gaze.
"There's a boy in this camp," she said slowly. "Young. Brown hair. Too earnest for his own good. He's going to be important someday." A pause. "Important enough that people are already trying to kill him."
Grog's blood went cold.
Lira's hand found his wrist. Squeezed hard.
Voren frowned. "What boy? What are you talking about?"
The girl—the mage—swung down from her horse. Her legs nearly gave out; she caught herself on the saddle, breathing hard.
"His name," she said, "is Aldric. And the people hunting me work for something that wants him dead. Or worse." She met Grog's eyes again. "I don't know which. I just know they're coming."
Grog stared at her.
Eight months. Nothing.
And now this.
Mirena.
In the old timeline, she hadn't joined them for another two years. Hadn't found them until long after the border wars ended.
But here she was. Early. Changed. Looking at Grog like she knew something.
The stone burned against his hip.
"Bring her inside," Voren ordered. "Get her warm. Food. Then she talks." He strode off, barking orders at nearby soldiers.
Lira grabbed Grog's arm. Pulled him aside.
"That's her," she whispered. "Mirena. The mage from your story."
"I know."
"She's early. Two years early."
"I know."
"And she looked at you like—" Lira stopped. Swallowed. "Grog, does she know? Could she know?"
Grog had no answer.
The stone burned.
And somewhere in the camp, Aldric laughed at something, oblivious to the stranger who'd just ridden in with news of his own death.