Three Days. Lira Gone.
The morning without Lira was quieter.
Not silent—the camp still woke with its usual chaos, its shouts and clatter and endless movement. But the particular noise of Lira—her sharp comments, her sudden laughs, her way of filling space without trying—that was missing.
Aldric felt it first.
"She's only been gone one day," he said at breakfast, poking at his porridge. "Why does it feel like a week?"
Grog shrugged. "You're used to her."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Aldric frowned. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Went back to poking his porridge.
Mirena watched them both with those sharp eyes. Said nothing.
The meal ended. Training began.
---
Grog led them to the equipment shed first.
Small building at the edge of the training ground. Full of weapons in various states of repair—swords with nicks, axes with loose heads, practice equipment worn smooth from use. The quartermaster kept it organized, mostly. Grog kept it known.
"Pick one," he said to Aldric. "Not yours. Something different."
Aldric blinked. "Why?"
"Because your sword is comfortable. You know its weight, its balance, its every flaw. That's good. But if you ever lose it, or break it, or can't reach it—" Grog gestured at the racks. "You need to be able to fight with whatever's in your hand."
Aldric looked at the weapons.
Then at Grog.
Then back at the weapons.
"This is about the thing, isn't it? Vorlag. The future." His voice was quiet. "You're planning for the worst."
Grog met his eyes. "Always."
Aldric held his gaze for a moment. Then nodded slowly.
Walked to the racks.
---
He picked a sword first. Standard issue, slightly longer than his usual, the grip wrapped in worn leather. He swung it experimentally. Frowned. Set it aside.
Next, an axe. Hefted it like he'd seen Grog do a thousand times. Tried a basic swing. The blade caught the air wrong; he stumbled, corrected, tried again.
"No," Grog said. "You're thinking too much. An axe isn't a sword. Don't swing it like one."
Aldric reset his stance. Tried again.
Better. Not good. Better.
"Again."
Again.
"Again."
Again.
By the time they stopped, Aldric's arms were shaking and the axe had carved deep gashes into the practice dummy. Not elegant. Not graceful. But effective.
"It's heavier," Aldric said, breathing hard. "Slower. But when it hits—" He looked at the ruined dummy. "It really hits."
Grog nodded. "Different tools. Different purposes. You'll need both."
Aldric looked at the axe in his hands. Then at Grog.
"You really think we can win?"
Grog was quiet for a moment.
Then: "I think we have to try."
---
Mirena joined them after lunch.
She carried a bundle wrapped in oilcloth—long, narrow, obviously a weapon. Aldric looked at it with curiosity.
"What's that?"
"Something I've been working on." She unwrapped it carefully. Revealed a staff. Dark wood, slightly longer than her arm, with metal caps at both ends. Simple. Elegant. Dangerous.
"A staff?"
"A focus." She spun it once, casually, the movement fluid and practiced. "I'm a mage, remember? I don't swing things at people. I channel through them."
Aldric stared. "You can fight with that?"
"I can do a lot of things with that." Her eyes glinted. "Want to see?"
Aldric glanced at Grog.
Grog shrugged. "Go ahead."
Mirena moved.
Fast—faster than Aldric expected. The staff became a blur, spinning, striking, moving in ways that seemed impossible. She didn't just hold it; she danced with it, every motion flowing into the next, the staff an extension of her body rather than a separate thing.
She stopped as suddenly as she'd started.
Not even breathing hard.
Aldric blinked. "That's—"
"Useful." She set the staff across her knees. "Magic isn't always subtle. Sometimes you need to hit something. Hard. This lets me do that without exhausting my deeper reserves."
Grog watched her with new respect.
In the old timeline, he'd never seen her fight like this. She'd always hung back, casting, supporting. Had she hidden this skill? Or developed it later?
Didn't matter. It was here now.
"Teach him," he said.
Mirena raised an eyebrow. "Staff fighting? He's a swordsman."
"Teach him anyway. Different tools. Different purposes."
She looked at Aldric. Assessed him the way she assessed everything—quick, sharp, thorough.
"He'll be terrible at first."
"I'm used to that."
Aldric scowled. "I'm right here."
"We know." Mirena stood. "Come on. Let's see how long it takes you to bruise your own face."
---
The afternoon passed in pain.
Aldric bruised his face. His arms. His ribs. His pride. The staff seemed to have a personal vendetta against him, slipping from his grip, catching him in unexpected places, generally making him look like he'd never held a weapon in his life.
Mirena was merciless.
"No. Again."
"Your feet are wrong. Again."
"You're thinking. Stop thinking. Again."
By sunset, Aldric could barely stand. His body was a map of small injuries. His hands shook with exhaustion.
But he could hold the staff without dropping it.
Could move through the first three forms without tripping.
Could, maybe, if he squinted, see a future where this made sense.
"Not bad," Mirena said. Which from her was practically a standing ovation.
Aldric grinned through his exhaustion. "High praise."
"Don't get used to it."
He didn't.
---
That night, Grog sat alone.
Lira was still gone. Aldric was asleep—genuinely asleep, too tired even for nightmares. Mirena had retreated to her tent with books and notes and the endless research that consumed her.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
Wrong.
Grog's hand found the stone at his belt. Warm. Always warm. He'd stopped hoping it would cool.
He thought about weapons.
About swords and axes and staves. About the weight of steel in untrained hands. About the difference between knowing how to fight and knowing how to win.
Aldric was learning. Getting stronger. Building skills he'd need in the years ahead.
But would it be enough?
The stone pulsed.
No answer. There was never an answer.
Just warmth.
Just waiting.
Just the slow, steady passage of time toward a future Grog had already lived once.
He looked toward the trees.
Dark. Silent. Empty.
But somewhere in that darkness, red eyes watched.
They always watched.
Grog stood. Walked to his tent. Lay down.
Didn't sleep.
But he rested. That was enough. That had to be enough.