An Hour Before Sunset. The Whole Camp.
Something was different.
The soldiers felt it before they understood it—a shift in the air, a tension that had been building for days finally reaching its peak. Word had spread through the ranks like fire through dry grass: tomorrow, they marched.
Not patrols. Not scouts. The whole camp. East. After the Vargr.
The news landed differently on different people.
Some went quiet, retreating into themselves, preparing in silence. Others laughed louder than usual, joked harder, filled the evening with noise that pretended not to be fear. A few just sat and stared at nothing, processing in their own ways.
The camp hummed with it. The last night before everything changed.
---
At the main cookfire, someone started singing.
An old marching song, generations old, about a soldier who lost his boots and won a war anyway. Rough voices joined in, tone-deaf and enthusiastic. By the second verse, half the camp was singing.
Aldric stood at the edge, listening.
"You know the words?" Lira appeared beside him, holding two bowls of stew.
"Some."
"Sing then."
"I'm terrible."
"Everyone's terrible. That's the point."
She pushed a bowl into his hands. He took it. Ate. Watched the fire and the faces around it.
Soldiers he'd trained beside. Fought beside. Eaten beside for years. Tomorrow, they'd march into unknown country after an enemy that shouldn't exist.
Some of them wouldn't come back.
He knew that. They all knew that. That's why they were singing.
---
Grog sat apart.
Not completely apart—he was never completely apart anymore. But separate enough to watch, to think, to carry what only he carried.
The singing washed over him. Familiar. He'd heard it before, in the old timeline, on the nights before other marches. The same songs. The same faces. The same desperate joy.
They don't know, he thought. Not really. They think this is just another campaign. Another enemy. Another war.
They didn't know about the Grove. The symbol. The thing waiting in the dark.
Maybe that was a gift.
"Grog."
Mirena sat beside him. Silent as always.
"They're singing," she observed.
"Yes."
"Strange. To sing before walking toward death."
Grog looked at her. "That's why they sing. Because they're walking toward death. Because tonight they're alive."
Mirena considered this. Nodded slowly.
"I don't understand people," she said.
"No. You understand different things."
She almost smiled. Almost.
---
Across the fire, a group of scouts had gathered.
Fenris was among them, holding court with stories of past campaigns—embellished, probably, but no one cared. They laughed at his exaggerations. Groaned at his puns. Threw pieces of bread when he got too ridiculous.
Lira drifted over. Sat at the edge.
Fenris noticed. Paused mid-story.
"Ah! Our newest hero. The one who found the army." He gestured grandly. "Come, sit closer. Tell us what you saw."
Lira shook her head. "You're doing fine."
"But I'm running out of lies. You have real stories."
The scouts laughed. Lira felt her face warm, but not unpleasantly.
"Maybe later."
Fenris grinned. Turned back to his audience. Launched into another tale, even more ridiculous than the last.
Lira stayed at the edge, listening. Letting the warmth of the fire and the laughter wash over her.
This, she thought. This is what we're fighting for.
Not survival. Not victory. This.
---
Sergeant Borin moved through the camp like a father checking on his children.
He stopped at cookfires, at tents, at groups of soldiers preparing gear. A word here. A clap on the shoulder there. Small things, but they added up. His soldiers knew he saw them. Knew he cared.
He found Aldric and Lira by the main fire.
"You two." He gestured. "Come."
They followed him to a smaller fire, quieter, where a handful of veterans sat in comfortable silence.
"Sit. Eat. Listen."
They sat.
The veterans didn't talk much. Just exchanged quiet words about equipment, terrain, the mood of the men. Practical things. The kind of conversation that came from years of experience.
Aldric listened. Learned.
After a while, one of the veterans—a scarred woman named Hilda—looked at him.
"You're the one training with the mage."
"Yes."
"She working you hard?"
"Yes."
Hilda nodded. "Good. Hard keeps you alive." She glanced at Lira. "You're the scout who found them."
Lira nodded.
"Good work. Saved lives. Maybe lots." Hilda lifted her cup. "To the scout."
The veterans raised their cups. Lira felt her face warm again.
Aldric bumped her shoulder. "Hero."
"Shut up."
But she was smiling.
---
Later, much later, the fires burned low.
Soldiers drifted toward tents, toward sleep, toward whatever dreams waited. The singing faded. The laughter quieted. The camp settled into the strange stillness of a last night.
Grog hadn't moved.
Mirena had gone to her research. Aldric and Lira sat nearby, close to sleep but not quite there. The fire crackled softly.
"Grog," Aldric said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You think we'll win?"
The question hung in the air. Simple. Impossible.
Grog considered it. Not the easy answer—the real one.
"I think we'll fight," he said finally. "I think we'll make them pay for every step. I think we'll surprise them." He paused. "Winning? I don't know. But I know we won't quit."
Aldric nodded slowly.
"That's enough," he said. "For now."
They sat with that.
The fire crackled.
The camp slept.
Tomorrow, they marched.