Midnight. The Edge of the Valley.
The column moved in silence.
Two thousand soldiers—every able-bodied fighter in the camp—flowing down the slope like a dark tide. No torches. No shouts. Just the soft crunch of boots on frozen ground and the whispered breath of men and women walking toward death.
Grog walked at the front.
The sword pulsed against his hip—hot now, urgent, ready. It knew what was coming. It had been waiting for this.
Beside him, Aldric moved in perfect silence. His new armor dampened every sound, made him a ghost in the darkness. His hand rested on his sword, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.
Lira was somewhere ahead, scouting the path. She'd find the gaps in the Vargr patrols. She always did.
Mirena walked in the center of the formation, surrounded by soldiers who'd been ordered to protect her with their lives. Her staff glowed faintly, its crystal pulsing with stored power.
The valley opened before them.
Gray moonlight on frozen ground. The Vargr camp sprawled across the distance—tents by the thousands, fires burning low, figures moving between them. And at the center, the black tent.
Larger now. Darker. Wrong.
Grog felt it from half a mile away. That cold. That emptiness. That patient hunger.
The hunters were waiting.
---
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 smoke. The Vargr soldiers slept on, unaware that death stood fifty yards away.
Grog paused. Listened.
Nothing. Just breathing. Just sleep.
He gestured forward.
The column flowed into the camp.
---
The second ring.
Closer now. Close enough to see the faces of Vargr sentries—their gray skin, their red eyes, their strange stillness when they thought no one was watching.
Grog's hand tightened on his sword.
Still no alarm. Still no reaction.
Too easy.
He glanced at Lira. She shrugged—she felt it too. The wrongness. The sense that they were walking into something.
But there was no time to stop. No time to question.
They pushed on.
---
The third ring.
And the Vargr were waiting.
They rose from the ground like ghosts—thousands 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.
Again.
But this time, the column was ready.
Voren's voice rang out: "Form ranks! Shield wall!"
Soldiers moved with practiced precision—shields locking, spears leveling, the front line bracing for impact. The Vargr hit them like a wave.
The battle began.
---
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 than before. Stronger. The training had paid off. Vargr fell to his blade, and he kept moving, kept fighting, kept killing.
Lira danced through the chaos.
Arrows flew from her bow with deadly precision—throat, eye, heart. Vargr dropped around her, and she never stopped moving, never stopped killing, never stopped being exactly where the enemy wasn't.
Mirena stood at the center of the formation, staff raised.
The crystal 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. Kill them, and the Vargr might break. Might run. Might do something other than die mindlessly for masters who didn't care.
He could see them now.
Three figures standing before the tent. Translucent. Wrong. Their bodies flickered like candle flames, barely anchored to this world. Their red eyes burned in the darkness, bright as stars, hungry as wolves.
The lead one—Kazik—was watching him.
Smiling.
"Come closer," his voice whispered in Grog's mind. "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.
Twenty 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 were more solid than before.
More real.
Stronger.
Kazik tilted his head.
"You're persistent," he said. His voice was thin, like wind through dead leaves, but clearer than before. "I'll give you that."
Grog raised his sword.
"Come find out."
Kazik laughed.
"Not yet. Soon, but not yet." He gestured at the battle behind Grog. "Look at them. Your friends. Your soldiers. Dying for you. Dying for nothing."
Grog didn't look.
"I've seen death before."
"Not like this." Kazik's smile widened. "This is just the beginning."
---
The battle raged behind him.
Grog could hear it—the screams, the steel, the endless crash of bodies colliding. He wanted to turn. Wanted to help. Wanted to protect.
But the hunters were here.
And if he didn't stop them, everyone would die anyway.
He stepped forward.
Kazik's eyes flickered. Just for a moment. A reaction.
"You can't kill us," he said. "Not yet. We're not solid enough."
"Then I'll make you solid."
Grog swung.
The sword passed through Kazik like smoke.
No resistance. No impact. Just emptiness.
Kazik laughed.
"Fool. You can't touch what isn't there."
Grog swung again.
Same result.
The berserker stirred in his blood. The red crept at the edges of his vision.
Wait, he told it. Not yet. Wait.
He needed another way.
---
Behind him, the battle shifted.
A horn blew—Voren's signal. The column was pushing forward, driving toward the black tent. Soldiers died by the dozen, but they kept coming, kept fighting, kept believing they could win.
Aldric was among them.
Grog saw him through the chaos—a flash of dark armor, a gleam of curved sword. He was holding his own. More than holding. He was leading.
The hero, Grog thought. He's becoming the hero.
Kazik followed his gaze.
"The boy," he murmured. "So strong. So scared. So full of love." His red eyes gleamed. "He'll break beautifully."
Grog's jaw tightened.
"You won't touch him."
"Won't I?" Kazik smiled. "Watch."
He raised a hand.
The ground shook.
Something was coming.