Dawn. The Edge of the Valley.
The column moved before first light.
Not the full army this time—just a strike force. Two hundred of the best soldiers, hand-picked by Voren. Fast. Quiet. Deadly. Men and women who'd survived a dozen campaigns, who knew how to kill without thinking, who could look at death and spit in its face.
Grog walked at the front.
His sword pulsed against his hip—warm, alert, ready. The berserker stirred in his blood, not yet awake but aware. Paying attention. Waiting to see what the day would bring.
Beside him, Aldric moved in near-silence. His new armor was a marvel of Kevin's craft—it dampened every step, every shift, every breath. The boy had trained for this his whole life without knowing it. Now he walked into battle like a ghost.
Lira was somewhere ahead, scouting the path. She'd left before dawn, moving through the forest like smoke, finding the safest route through the Vargr patrols. Grog trusted her with his life. He'd done it before.
Mirena stayed close to the center, surrounded by soldiers who didn't understand why a mage was coming but trusted Voren's judgment. Her staff was ready, its crystal glowing faintly. The shrinking staff from the second ring—she'd barely put it down since Grog gave it to her.
The valley opened before them.
Gray light. Frozen ground. The Vargr camp sprawled across the distance, still sleeping—or so it seemed. Tents by the hundreds. Fires burned low. Figures moved between them, but slowly, drowsily, the way sentries moved when they thought no one was watching.
Grog knew better.
Nothing slept when the hunters watched.
He could feel them already. Those red eyes. Those patient smiles. That endless, crushing patience that had waited centuries and would wait centuries more.
Waiting for what?
For them.
---
They reached the first ring of tents without alerting anyone.
Lira's work. She'd found a path through the sentries, a gap in their patrols, a way to slip inside like ghosts. The Vargr soldiers slept on, unaware that death stood twenty feet away.
Grog paused at the edge of the first tent.
Listened.
Nothing. Just breathing. Just sleep. The slow, heavy rhythm of creatures who thought themselves safe.
He gestured forward.
The strike force moved deeper.
---
The second ring.
Closer now. Close enough to see the black tent at the center. It loomed against the gray sky, wrong in ways that hurt to look at. The fabric seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it—darkness given form, woven into something that shouldn't exist. The air around it shimmered faintly, like heat haze, except this was cold. Bitter cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and whispered give up.
Aldric stared at it.
His face was pale beneath the helmet. His hand gripped his sword so tight the knuckles showed white.
"It's worse today," he whispered. "Stronger."
Grog nodded. "They're preparing."
"For what?"
"Us."
---
They reached the third ring.
And the Vargr were waiting.
They rose from the ground like ghosts—hundreds of them, emerging from tents, from shadows, from places they couldn't possibly have been hiding. Axes raised. Teeth bared. Red eyes gleaming with something that might have been joy.
An ambush.
Perfectly timed. Perfectly executed. They'd known exactly when the strike force would arrive, exactly where they'd be, exactly how to surround them.
Lira appeared at Grog's side, her face pale beneath the dirt and war paint.
"They knew," she breathed. "They've known all along. Since we left the camp. Since before that. They've been waiting for this."
The hunters stepped out of the black tent.
Three of them. Translucent. Wrong. Their bodies flickered like candle flames, barely anchored to this world. Their red eyes burned in the gray light, bright as stars, hungry as wolves.
The lead one—Kazik—smiled.
It was a terrible expression. Too wide. Too knowing. Too full of centuries of patience finally paying off.
"Welcome," he said. His voice was thin, like wind through dead leaves. "We've been waiting."
---
The battle erupted.
Vargr surged forward, crashing into the strike force from all sides. Steel met steel with screams and sparks. The careful silence of the approach shattered into chaos—shouts, curses, the wet sound of blades finding flesh.
Grog moved.
His sword sang—cutting, blocking, cutting again. Vargr fell around him like wheat before a scythe. More took their place. They didn't care about dying. They just kept coming, wave after wave, their red eyes empty of everything but purpose.
Aldric fought beside him, back to back.
The boy's sword flashed, finding openings, striking hard. He was faster today. Stronger. The fear was still there—Grog could see it in his eyes, in the tightness around his mouth—but he fought through it. Training taking over where courage failed.
A Vargr lunged at him from the side.
Aldric spun—training kicking in—and drove his blade through its throat. It fell without a sound.
"Good," Grog grunted.
Aldric nodded. Kept fighting.
---
Lira danced through the chaos.
She moved like water, like wind, like something that couldn't be caught. Arrows flew from her bow with deadly precision, each one finding a target—throat, eye, heart. Vargr dropped around her, and she never stopped moving, never stopped killing.
Mirena stood at the center of the strike force, staff raised.
The crystal at its tip blazed with light. Spells flowed from her—walls of force that slowed the enemy, shields that protected her allies, blasts of energy that sent Vargr flying. She was calm. Focused. Terrifying.
But the Vargr kept coming.
And the hunters watched.
---
Grog pushed toward the black tent.
The hunters were the key. He knew it with the same certainty he knew his own name. Kill them, and the Vargr might break. Might run. Might do something other than die mindlessly for masters who didn't care.
Kazik watched him approach.
Smiled wider.
"Come closer," he called. "Let me see you. Let me feel that berserker blood."
Grog kept moving.
Vargr fell around him like leaves in autumn.
---
He reached the edge of the clear space.
Ten yards from the hunters.
Close enough to see them clearly. Close enough to feel the cold radiating from their bodies—not the cold of winter, but the cold of absence. Of emptiness. Of things that shouldn't exist in this world.
Close enough to see that they weren't quite solid.
They flickered. Shifted. Their edges blurred and reformed, like reflections in disturbed water. They were here, but not here. Anchored to this world, but barely.
Kazik tilted his head.
"You're strong," he said. "Stronger than the others. The berserker blood suits you. How does it feel? Knowing that rage is in your blood? Knowing it's been waiting for generations to wake up?"
Grog raised his sword.
"Come find out."
Kazik laughed. It was a thin sound, like wind through dead leaves.
"Not today. Today is just—" He gestured at the battle behind Grog. The screams. The blood. The dying. "Entertainment. A warm-up. We wanted to see what you could do. How you'd fight. Who you'd protect."
Grog's jaw tightened.
"You're not even fighting."
"Why would we?" Kazik spread his hands. "We have servants for that. Thousands of them. They're happy to die for us. They've been waiting centuries for purpose. For someone to tell them what to do. For someone to make their lives meaningful."
Behind Grog, the battle raged on. Soldiers dying. Vargr falling. The strike force holding, barely, against impossible numbers.
Kazik leaned forward.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said. "You're going to fight. You're going to kill many of our servants. Maybe you'll even reach us." He smiled. "But you won't kill us. Not yet. Not until Vorlag comes through. We're not strong enough to face you properly. Not yet."
His red eyes gleamed.
"But when he does—when the door opens and he steps through—we'll be whole. Complete. Real." The smile widened. "And then we'll show you what real fighting looks like."
Grog stepped forward.
Kazik faded.
The other two faded with him.
The black tent stood empty, its fabric rippling in a wind that didn't exist.
---
The Vargr didn't retreat.
They kept fighting, kept dying, kept coming. Without the hunters to command them, they fought on pure instinct—kill, kill, kill until nothing remained. No strategy. No mercy. Just endless, mindless violence.
Grog turned back to the battle.
Aldric was surrounded.
Three Vargr pressing him hard, their axes swinging in overlapping patterns designed to trap and kill. His sword moved, blocked, cut—but he was tiring. Slowing. His breath came in great gasps, visible in the cold air. One mistake and he'd be dead.
Grog ran.
The berserker stirred. The red crept at the edges of his vision.
No, he told it. Not yet. Wait. Save it for when we need it.
He reached Aldric. Cut down two Vargr with a single swing. The third fell to an arrow from Lira, who'd appeared from nowhere, as she always did.
Aldric gasped. Nodded his thanks. His face was white beneath the blood.
They kept fighting.
---
The retreat came an hour later.
Voren's horn—three short blasts, the signal to fall back. The strike force pulled away, fighting as they went, leaving a trail of bodies behind them. Vargr pursued, but half-heartedly, like they'd lost interest now that the hunters were gone.
Grog covered the rear.
Aldric beside him. Lira ahead, finding the path. Mirena somewhere in the middle, leaning on a soldier, exhausted but alive.
They reached the edge of the valley. Kept moving. Didn't stop until they were back in the forest, hidden among the trees, the sounds of battle fading behind them.
Grog leaned against a trunk.
Breathing hard. Heart pounding. The red fading, the berserker settling back into its sleep.
Aldric slumped beside him, covered in blood that wasn't his. His hands shook. His face was pale. But he was alive.
"We didn't kill them," he said quietly.
"No."
"They're still there. Still waiting."
Grog nodded.
Aldric looked at him.
"What do we do?"
Grog had no answer.
But somewhere in his mind, Kevin's voice echoed.
When Vorlag comes through, they'll be whole. Complete. Real.
They had to close the door before that happened.
They had to.