Sunset. The Camp.
The column prepared for war.
Everywhere Grog looked, soldiers moved with purpose—sharpening blades, checking straps, saying quiet words to friends they might not see again. The usual chaos of camp had shifted into something else. Something heavier.
Grog stood at the edge, watching.
The sword pulsed against his hip. Warm. Ready.
He thought about tomorrow. About the Vargr. About the black tent and whatever waited inside it.
He thought about Aldric.
The boy was somewhere in the camp, probably doing the same thing Grog was—thinking, preparing, trying not to show fear. He'd grown so much in the past years. But tomorrow would test him in ways training never could.
He's ready, Grog told himself. He has to be.
---
Lira found him first.
She looked tired—dark circles under her eyes, cheeks chapped from wind. But her gear was ready, her knives sharp, her bow strung.
"You're brooding," she said.
"Thinking."
"Same thing." She sat beside him on a fallen log. "I scouted the valley again. Took a different route. Got closer than this afternoon."
Grog looked at her.
"And?"
"The Vargr still aren't moving. Just sitting there. Waiting." She shook her head. "But that tent—the black one. There's something wrong about it. I felt it from a hundred yards out. Cold. Wrong. Like the Grove."
Grog's jaw tightened.
"The hunters?"
"Maybe. Or something else." She met his eyes. "Grog, I couldn't see inside. But I felt like something was watching me. Not from the tent—from everywhere. Like the air itself had eyes."
Grog absorbed this.
"We attack at dawn," he said.
"I know." Lira paused. "Voren's plan is good. Hit hard, hit fast, don't give them time to react. But if that tent holds what I think it does—" She stopped.
"What?"
"Some of us won't come back."
Grog said nothing. Because she was right.
Lira stood.
"I'm going to eat. Sleep. Try to pretend tomorrow isn't happening." She looked down at him. "You should too."
She walked away.
Grog stayed on the log, watching darkness fall.
---
Mirena appeared next.
She moved quietly for someone who spent most of her time with books. Grog heard her footsteps anyway—the apple's gift sharpened everything.
"You should be resting," she said.
"So should you."
"Different reasons." She sat where Lira had been. "I've been reading Kevin's journals all day. Trying to understand what we're facing."
Grog waited.
"There's so much I don't know yet," Mirena continued. "The way he writes about the enemy—it's different from anything I've studied. He calls them 'the watchers.' Says they're always there, always watching, but you can't see them unless they want you to."
Grog frowned. "The hunters?"
"Maybe. Or something like them." She paused. "Kevin mentions that some of them can't touch the world directly. They need something—someone—to act through. But they can watch. Always watch."
Grog thought about the red eyes in the forest. The way they appeared and disappeared. The way they never attacked, never interfered—just watched.
"They've been watching us for years," he said.
"Yes." Mirena looked toward the east. "The question is: what are they waiting for?"
Grog didn't have an answer.
---
They sat in silence for a while.
The camp settled around them—fires burning low, voices fading, the slow drift toward sleep. Tomorrow, they'd wake to war.
"Grog." Mirena's voice was quiet. "The berserker. Have you felt it since the monster?"
He considered the question.
"It's there. Sleeping. Waiting." He touched his chest. "I can feel it when I'm angry. Or scared. Or—" He stopped.
"Or what?"
"Or when I think about losing them." He looked toward the tents where Aldric and Lira slept. "It wants to protect them. Even more than I do."
Mirena nodded slowly.
"That's good. That's the connection Kevin talked about." She paused. "Tomorrow, if things go badly—if you need it—let it out. Don't fight it."
Grog looked at his hands.
"I don't know if I can control it."
"You don't need to control it. You need to trust it." She stood. "It's part of you. The part that refuses to let the people you love die."
She walked away.
Grog sat alone, thinking about her words.
---
He found Aldric an hour later.
The boy was sitting outside his tent, staring at the sky. His new armor was laid out beside him, gleaming faintly in the starlight. His sword rested across his knees.
"Can't sleep?" Grog asked.
"Would you?"
Grog sat beside him.
Aldric was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"I'm scared."
Grog nodded. "Good."
Aldric looked at him. "Good?"
"Being scared means you're paying attention. Means you know it's real." Grog met his eyes. "The soldiers who aren't scared tomorrow? They're the ones who'll die."
Aldric absorbed this.
"What if I freeze? What if I can't move when it matters?"
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
Grog thought about the past years. About all the training, the falls, the bruises. About the way Aldric had kept getting up, every time.
"Because I've watched you," he said. "You don't stay down. Ever. That's not who you are."
Aldric was quiet.
Then: "The sword. It feels—" He struggled for words. "Alive. Like it knows me."
"It does. It was made for someone like you. Waiting centuries."
Aldric looked at the blade. Dark metal. Curved edge. Faint symbols along the length.
"What if I'm not worthy of it?"
Grog almost smiled.
"That's exactly why you are."
---
They sat together as the night deepened.
The camp grew quiet around them. Sentries walked their rounds. Fires burned low. The ordinary sounds of sleep replaced the chaos of preparation.
Aldric spoke once more.
"Grog."
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow—if something happens to me—"
"Nothing's going to happen."
"Listen." Aldric's voice was firm. "If something happens, I need you to promise me something."
Grog waited.
"Don't let the darkness win. Don't let it use my death to break you." Aldric met his eyes. "Keep fighting. Keep protecting them. Lira. Mirena. Everyone."
Grog's chest tightened.
"Nothing's going to happen," he repeated.
"Promise me."
A long moment.
"I promise."
Aldric nodded. Stood. Picked up his armor.
"See you at dawn."
He walked into his tent.
Grog sat alone, staring at the sky, the weight of the promise heavy on his shoulders.
---
He didn't move for a long time.
Thought about the hunters. About the way they watched. About what Mirena had said—they can't touch the world directly. They need something—someone—to act through.
The Vargr.
The Vargr were acting. Moving. Fighting. Maybe they were the tools. The hands and feet of things that couldn't touch the world themselves.
And the black tent?
He didn't know. But he'd find out tomorrow.
---
Dawn came too soon.
Gray light. Cold air. The camp stirring to life.
Grog was already awake. Already dressed. Already ready.
He found his unit. Found his place. The column formed with practiced efficiency—soldiers in rows, officers at their posts, the whole machine of war grinding into motion.
Voren rode past on his horse. Stopped when he saw Grog.
"Ready?"
Grog nodded.
Voren studied him for a moment. Then nodded back.
"Good. Stay alive. I need people like you."
He rode on.
Grog looked east. Toward the valley. Toward the Vargr. Toward the black tent and whatever waited inside it.
The sword pulsed against his hip.
Ready, it seemed to say.
Grog walked forward.
The column moved with him.
Toward war.