Night, Same Day
The snow stopped sometime after midnight.
Grog lay in his tent, eyes open, staring at the canvas above. His tentmates slept around him—quiet breaths, occasional murmurs, the small sounds of living men who didn't know what lurked in the dark.
The stone rested against his hip.
Warm.
Always warm.
It's been changing me.
Mirena's words echoed in his mind. Eight months of carrying a piece of the enemy against his skin. Eight months of letting it seep into him, whatever that meant. Eight months of being prepared without knowing it.
He should throw it away.
He knew that. Logically, he knew that keeping the stone was dangerous. Maybe stupid. Maybe exactly what Vorlag wanted.
But he couldn't.
Not because he was attached to it. Not because it was useful. Because—
Because—
He couldn't explain it. Even to himself.
That's the problem, he thought. That's exactly the problem.
He sat up slowly. Listened.
Nothing.
He rose. Pulled on his cloak. Strapped on his axe. Moved toward the tent flap.
Outside, the camp was silent.
Snow covered everything—tents, supply carts, the cold remains of cookfires. The world looked new. Clean. Like nothing bad had ever happened here.
Grog walked.
Past the sleeping tents. Past the supply area. Past the training ground where he'd spent so many hours destroying his body and rebuilding it. Toward the edge of camp, where the trees began.
He didn't know why he was walking. He just... was.
The stone guided him. Not with warmth this time—with something else. A pull. A direction. A knowing.
He stopped at the edge of the tree line.
Looked into the darkness.
Three figures stood among the trees.
---
They didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just stood there, half-hidden in shadow, watching him with eyes that caught the starlight.
Red eyes.
Grog's hand found his axe. His heart hammered. But he didn't run. Didn't call for help. Just stood there, meeting their gaze, waiting.
One of them moved.
Stepped forward. Just one step. Enough to be seen more clearly.
Human-shaped. Dressed in dark clothing that absorbed what little light existed. Face—if it had a face—hidden in shadow. But the eyes. Those eyes burned red, and they were fixed on Grog.
On the stone at his hip.
Grog looked down. The stone glowed faintly through the leather pouch. Responding to them. Calling to them. Recognizing them.
He looked back up.
The figure tilted its head. A gesture almost like curiosity. Almost like recognition.
Then it smiled.
Grog saw the smile even in darkness. Too wide. Too white. Wrong in ways he couldn't articulate.
The figure raised one hand.
Pointed at Grog.
Then slowly, deliberately, pointed past him. Toward the camp. Toward the tents where Aldric slept.
We know where he is, the gesture said. We know. And there's nothing you can do.
Grog's grip tightened on his axe.
The figure smiled wider.
Then, one by one, the three figures melted back into the trees. Not walking—just fading, like mist in sunlight, until the forest was empty again.
Grog stood alone at the edge of camp.
The stone pulsed against his hip.
Once.
Twice.
Then settled back to its normal warmth.
---
He didn't sleep that night.
Just stood at the edge of the trees, watching the darkness, waiting for red eyes to reappear.
They didn't.
But he felt them. Out there. Watching. Waiting.
Patient.
---
Morning came gray and cold.
Grog hadn't moved. His feet were numb. His face was stiff. But he'd stayed. Couldn't make himself leave.
Lira found him at first light.
"You look like shit," she said. Then saw his face. Stopped. "What happened?"
Grog told her.
When he finished, Lira was quiet for a long moment.
"They showed themselves," she said slowly. "Deliberately. They wanted you to see them."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Grog had been thinking about this all night.
"To scare us. To show us they're here. To make us—" He stopped. Thought. "To make us do something stupid."
Lira nodded slowly. "Fear makes people rush. Makes mistakes. If they're patient, they want us to stop being patient."
"So we don't rush."
"We don't rush." She looked toward the trees. "But we also don't ignore them. They're here. They know about Aldric. They're waiting for something."
"The full moon?"
"Maybe." Lira frowned. "Or maybe they're waiting for us to react. To tell Voren. To move Aldric. To do anything predictable."
Grog thought about the smile. That too-wide, knowing smile.
"They're enjoying this," he said quietly. "The waiting. The watching. The—" He gestured vaguely. "The game."
"Then we don't give them a game." Lira's voice was firm. "We do nothing. We act normal. We wait them out."
"For how long?"
"I don't know." She met his eyes. "But we have twenty-five years, remember? We can be patient too."
Grog looked at the trees.
Empty now. Peaceful. Ordinary.
But somewhere in that darkness, red eyes watched.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
---
Mirena found them an hour later.
She'd slept—actually slept, which Grog envied—and looked better for it. Less exhausted. More dangerous.
"You saw them," she said. Not a question.
Grog nodded.
"And?"
"And nothing. They showed themselves. Smiled. Left."
Mirena's eyes narrowed. "They wanted you to see them. To know they're here."
"So we figured."
"Did they speak?"
"No."
"Touch anything? Leave anything?"
Grog shook his head.
Mirena was quiet for a moment. Then: "They're herding us."
Lira frowned. "Herding?"
"Making us look one direction while something else happens somewhere else." Mirena's gaze swept the camp. "Where's Aldric?"
Grog's blood went cold.
He ran.
---
Aldric was at the cookfire.
Sitting on a log. Eating porridge. Talking to a soldier about something unimportant.
Alive. Fine. Normal.
Grog stopped ten feet away, breathing hard, feeling like an idiot.
Aldric looked up. Saw him. Grinned.
"Grog! You look terrible. Late night?" He patted the log beside him. "Sit. Eat. The porridge is terrible, but it's hot."
Grog stood there. Staring.
Aldric's grin faded slightly. "You okay?"
No, Grog thought. No, I'm not okay. There are things in the woods with red eyes who want to kill you or worse, and I've been carrying a piece of the enemy against my skin for eight months, and your future is already written and I don't know how to change it.
"Fine," he said. "Didn't sleep well."
Aldric's brow furrowed. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then Aldric did what Aldric always did—he smiled, shrugged, and moved on. "Well, sit anyway. The porridge won't eat itself."
Grog sat.
Lira and Mirena arrived a moment later, slightly out of breath. They saw Aldric. Saw Grog sitting beside him. Exchanged glances.
Aldric looked up at them. "Everyone's staring today. Is there something on my face?"
"No," Lira said. "Just hungry."
She sat. Mirena sat. They ate terrible porridge in the gray morning light, four people pretending everything was normal.
Aldric talked about nothing. The weather. A funny dream he'd had. A soldier who'd fallen in the mud yesterday.
Grog listened. Nodded. Pretended.
But beneath the pretending, his mind raced.
They showed themselves. They wanted us to run here. To check on him. To prove they could make us dance.
While we were dancing, what were they really doing?
He looked toward the trees.
Empty.
But somewhere out there, red eyes watched.
And smiled.