Somewhere in the Deep Forest. Four Days After Leaving the Column.
The forest had changed.
Not gradually, like terrain shifting from hills to mountains. Something deeper. The trees here were older—centuries old—their trunks thick as houses, their branches twisted into shapes that felt deliberate. The light barely reached the ground. Shadows lived permanently between roots.
Grog moved through it like he'd been born here.
Silent. Watchful. Patient.
Three days of travel rations were gone. His stomach had been growling since morning, a persistent emptiness that sharpened his senses rather than dulling them. Hunger focused the mind. He'd learned that long ago.
His eyes scanned constantly.
The forest offered little. A few winter birds. Squirrels too quick and too small to bother. Nothing that would feed a man pushing hard through unknown territory.
Then he caught the scent.
Boar.
Strong. Close.
He stopped. Breathed deep through his nose, filtering the forest smells—pine, snow, frozen earth—until he found it again. Boar. Male. Mature.
Close.
He moved.
---
The boar was feeding in a small clearing, forty yards ahead.
Grog saw it through the trees. Massive animal—two hundred pounds, maybe more—with tusks that curved like daggers and shoulders thick with muscle. It was rooting in the frozen ground, grunting with satisfaction, utterly unaware.
Grog assessed.
Wind in his face. Good. The boar wouldn't scent him.
Ground between them clear of brush. Good. No noise to give him away.
Boar facing away. Good. It would die without ever seeing what killed it.
He dropped low. Moved forward.
---
The first step was silent.
The second, third, fourth—all silent. His feet found soft ground, avoided loose stones, slipped through shadows like they were part of them. Forty yards became thirty. Thirty became twenty.
The boar's ears twitched.
Not at him. At something else. A bird. A falling branch. It didn't matter.
Twenty became fifteen.
The boar shifted, still rooting, still unaware.
Fifteen became ten.
Grog's axe was already rising.
Ten became five.
The boar's head came up. Nostrils flared. It caught something—not scent, but instinct. The sense of danger too close to ignore.
Too late.
---
The first strike landed behind the shoulder.
Grog's axe bit deep—not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to cripple. The boar screamed. A horrible sound, high and raw, that tore through the forest quiet.
It twisted.
Fast. Faster than something that size should move. Tusks slashed where Grog had been a heartbeat before. He was already moving, already flowing around the animal's flank, already raising the axe again.
The boar turned to face him.
Blood poured from its side, dark and steaming in the cold air. Its eyes were small and mad with pain. Its tusks pointed directly at his guts.
Grog didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward.
Not away. Not around. Forward.
The boar lunged. Tusks aiming for his stomach. Grog twisted—not dodging, just redirecting—and the tusks passed inches from his hip. His axe came down.
Behind the ear.
Deep into the skull.
The boar dropped.
Lay still.
Grog stood over it, breathing hard. Blood covered his arms. His chest. His face. It dripped from his chin, warm and thick.
He looked down at the animal.
Four seconds. Maybe five.
"Good eating," he muttered.
---
He worked quickly.
Field dressing was automatic—he'd done it hundreds of times across two lifetimes. The boar opened. Organs removed. Meat separated from bone. Blood soaked into the snow, turning it dark and slushy.
He saved the tusks. Cut them free with careful strokes, cleaned them, tucked them into his pack. Trade goods. Or trophies. Either way, useful.
The work took over an hour.
By the time he finished, the sun had moved. Late afternoon now. He'd need to find shelter soon, process the meat before it spoiled, rest before pushing on.
But first—
He cut a strip from the loin. Raw. Fresh. Held it up.
The forest watched.
He didn't care.
He bit into it.
---
The meat was warm.
Not cooked—he hadn't built a fire yet, wouldn't until he found the right spot—but alive with the taste of the kill. Blood ran down his chin, into his beard. He chewed methodically, swallowed, took another bite.
This was who he was.
Not the soldier who trained with Aldric. Not the friend who sat by campfires with Lira. Not the strategist who planned for a future only he remembered.
Those were real. Those mattered.
But underneath them, deeper, older—this.
Hunter. Killer. Barbarian.
The old timeline had softened him, in some ways. Years of civilization, of fighting beside mages and knights and diplomats. He'd learned their ways, their rules, their careful politeness.
Out here, alone in the deep forest, covered in blood and eating raw meat—
He was himself again.
---
He built a fire at dusk.
Found a hollow between rocks, sheltered from wind, hidden from casual eyes. The boar meat roasted on a spit of green wood. Fat dripped into flames, sizzling, sending up smoke that disappeared into the darkening sky.
The smell made his stomach clench.
He waited.
---
The hunters came with darkness.
He felt them before he saw them. The weight of watching eyes. The subtle shift in the forest's mood. The way the shadows seemed deeper in certain places.
Grog didn't react.
Kept turning the spit. Kept tending the fire. Kept being exactly what he was.
After a long moment, he spoke.
"Come closer if you're going to stare. The fire's warm."
Silence.
Then, movement. A shape at the edge of the light. Not quite human. Taller. Wrong in ways that were hard to name.
Red eyes.
One of them. The same one that had smiled at him months ago.
Grog looked at it directly.
"You're still following."
The thing didn't answer. Just watched.
"Getting boring," Grog continued. "All that patience, and what have you done? Followed. Watched. Let my friend go." He shook his head. "Starting to think you're not as dangerous as you pretend."
The red eyes flickered.
Just for a moment.
Grog saw it.
Good, he thought. Let them be annoyed. Let them be angry. Angry things make mistakes.
He turned back to his meat.
"If you're not going to fight, at least go away. You're spoiling my meal."
The shape didn't move for a long moment.
Then, slowly, it faded back into darkness.
Grog ate his dinner alone.
---
The meat was good.
He ate until his stomach protested, then ate a little more. The boar had died well. Its flesh would fuel him for days.
When he finished, he sat back against the rock.
Four more days to the village.
Assuming the map was right. Assuming he hadn't gotten turned around in the deep forest. Assuming the hunters didn't decide to stop watching and start acting.
He looked toward the darkness where they'd stood.
Empty now.
But not gone.
Never gone.
He lay down by the fire, axe in hand.
Slept.