Spring, Year Two
The camp woke before dawn.
Always. Every day. The rhythm was as constant as the sun—first the cooks, stumbling toward the fire pits with sleep in their eyes. Then the guards, shuffling in from night duty, too tired to talk. Then the rest, pulled from sleep by bells or habit or the simple knowledge that the world didn't wait for stragglers.
Grog was always awake before the bells.
He sat outside his tent now, axe across his knees, watching the sky lighten from black to gray. The stone was warm against his hip. It was always warm.
Always.
Behind him, his tentmates stirred. Yawns. Muttered complaints. The rustle of blankets and the thump of boots on frozen ground.
Another day.
---
Training started at first light.
Grog walked to the edge of the training ground, where the others were already gathering. Lira, stretching her arms over her head, her breath misting in the cold air. Mirena, wrapped in a blanket, watching with sharp eyes—she didn't train with them, but she never missed a session. And Aldric, already running laps around the perimeter, pushing himself before anyone told him to.
He'd been doing that since the collapse. Running extra. Training extra. Like he could outrun the thing inside him if he just went fast enough.
Grog didn't stop him.
Some things you had to learn yourself.
---
The morning routine never varied.
Laps first. Until legs burned and lungs screamed and the world narrowed to nothing but the next step, the next breath, the next heartbeat.
Then forms. Sword work for Aldric. Axe work for Grog. Lira practiced both, switching between weapons with the fluid grace of someone who'd never quite decided what she wanted to be.
Then sparring.
Then more laps.
Then breakfast.
"You're getting faster," Lira said to Aldric, midway through a water break. Sweat dripped down her face, but she wasn't even breathing hard. Annoying.
Aldric grinned through his exhaustion. "You're not."
"Rude."
"True."
They drank. Stretched. Prepared for the next round.
Grog watched them from a few feet away, saying nothing. This was the part he'd almost forgotten, in the old timeline. The ordinary moments. The stupid conversations. The way friendship grew not from grand adventures but from a thousand small interactions, piled one on top of another until they became something solid.
This is what we're fighting for, he thought. Not survival. Not revenge. This.
The thought felt almost peaceful.
Then Aldric's eyes flickered red.
Just for a moment. Less than a heartbeat. Gone before Grog could be sure he'd seen it.
But he had.
He always saw.
---
Breakfast was chaos.
The cookfire served whoever got there first, and getting there first meant fighting through a crowd of hungry soldiers with sharp elbows and no patience. Grog used his size. Lira used her speed. Aldric used his smile, which worked disturbingly often.
They found a spot at the edge of the chaos, bowls balanced on knees, spoons moving fast.
"The supply run tomorrow," Lira said between bites. "I'm on it. Three days to the town and back."
Grog nodded. "Take someone."
"Was planning to. Fenris said he'd come."
Fenris. The scout who'd take an arrow through the throat in three years. Grog hadn't figured out how to prevent that yet.
"Good. Stay safe."
Lira snorted. "When am I not?"
"I can think of times."
She punched his arm. Not hard. Just enough.
Aldric laughed. It was a good sound—open, unguarded, the laugh of someone who hadn't yet learned to be careful.
Grog held onto it.
---
The afternoon was for chores.
Every soldier had them—maintenance, supply organization, camp upkeep. Grog drew latrine duty, which was exactly as pleasant as it sounded. He dug. He hauled. He tried not to think about the fact that twenty-five years from now, none of this would matter if they failed.
But he thought about it anyway.
He always thought about it.
---
Evening brought the cookfire again.
More chaos. More elbows. More of Aldric's smile working its magic on the cooks, who always gave him slightly more than everyone else.
Lira noticed. "You're cheating."
"I'm charming. Different thing."
"You're annoying is what you are."
"And yet you keep sitting with me."
Lira opened her mouth. Closed it. Scowled.
Aldric's grin widened.
Grog watched them argue. Watched Mirena appear from nowhere, as she always did, settling onto a log with her own bowl and her own sharp silence. Watched the firelight play across their faces.
This, he thought again. This is what matters.
The stone pulsed against his hip.
Warm.
Always warm.
He ignored it.
---
Night fell.
The camp quieted. Soldiers drifted toward tents, toward sleep, toward dreams they wouldn't remember. Grog sat outside his tent, as he always did, watching the darkness.
Lira found him there.
"Can't sleep?"
"Don't need much."
She sat beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"He's getting worse," she said quietly. "The flashes. The forgetting. It's more frequent now."
Grog nodded.
"Three times today. That I saw." She paused. "He doesn't notice. Or pretends not to."
"Probably both."
They sat in silence.
"He's still Aldric," Lira said after a while. "Most of the time. Still annoying. Still trying too hard. Still—" She stopped.
Still what?
Still themselves. Still the people they'd always been.
But for how long?
Grog didn't have an answer.
So they just sat there, watching the darkness, waiting for morning.
---
The next day was the same.
Training. Chores. Meals. Stupid conversations. Red flashes that came and went like secrets.
Ordinary.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Because the more ordinary it felt, the easier it was to forget what was coming. To let the days blur together. To stop watching, stop preparing, stop fighting.
Grog couldn't afford that.
None of them could.
So he watched. Trained. Waited.
And when Aldric's eyes flickered red during a stupid joke, Grog noted it. Counted it. Added it to the pile.
Seven flashes that day.
Seven too many.