Afternoon. The Medical Tent.
Grog woke to pain.
Not the sharp, screaming pain of fresh wounds—that had faded into something deeper. More solid. A weight that pressed on him from everywhere at once, reminding him that he was alive, that he'd nearly died, that his body was working desperately to put itself back together.
He lay still, taking inventory.
Chest: bandaged tight, throbbing with each breath. Arms: heavy, weak, barely responsive. Legs: functional, maybe, if he tried to move them. Head: cloudy, slow, like thinking through mud.
But beneath the pain, underneath the exhaustion, something hummed.
The apple.
That golden fruit he'd eaten weeks ago in the village inn, not knowing what it was, not understanding what it would do. It had been working in him ever since—changing him, strengthening him, waking up the berserker in his blood.
And now, as he lay broken and healing, he could feel it.
Working.
Knit bone. Mend flesh. Push back death.
He'd been worse before. Not much, but some. The apple would make sure he didn't stay this way for long.
He turned his head—slowly, carefully—and found Mirena sitting beside him.
She looked terrible.
Dark circles under her eyes so deep they looked like bruises. Skin pale and waxy. Hair wild and matted with sweat and blood and who knew what else. Her robes were stained beyond recognition, torn in a dozen places, hanging off her like rags. Her hands, those precise healer's hands, were shaking slightly in her lap.
But her eyes were open. Watching him.
"You're awake," she said. Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, scraped raw from hours of giving orders and comfort and hopeless hope.
"Apparently." Grog tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. "You look worse than me."
Mirena almost laughed. Almost. The sound died in her throat before it could become anything real.
"Probably." She leaned back in her chair—a wooden thing that looked deeply uncomfortable, the kind of chair that punished you for sitting in it too long. "I've been working for... I don't know how long. Hours. Maybe a day. Time blurs when you're the only one who can—" She stopped. Swallowed.
Grog frowned.
"You need to rest."
"I need to check your wounds. Change your bandages. Make sure the fever doesn't return." She listed the tasks on her fingers, like she was reminding herself, like she was afraid she'd forget if she stopped repeating them. "Then Lira needs her arm looked at—it's healing wrong, I can feel it when she moves. Then there's a dozen soldiers with infections, and the healers are overwhelmed, and Sergeant Korr has a wound that won't close, and—"
"Mirena." Grog's voice was weak but firm. "Rest."
She looked at him.
"I can't."
"You can."
"I don't have time." Her voice cracked. Crumpled. "There are too many wounded. Too many dying. Every hour I sleep, someone else could—" She stopped. Pressed her hands to her face.
Grog waited.
When she looked up again, her eyes were wet.
"If I stop—if I stop for even a moment—people will die. People I could have saved." Her voice was raw. "I've never lost anyone. Not while I was healing them. Not a single patient. And now—" She gestured vaguely at the tent around them, at the wounded filling every cot, at the sounds of pain and suffering that never stopped, never paused, never gave anyone a moment's peace. "Now there are too many. I can't save them all. I have to choose."
Grog looked at her.
The mage who'd given up everything to help them. Who'd left her path, her future, her chance at the academy. Who'd stayed when she should have gone, fought when she should have fled, healed when she should have rested.
"That's the worst part," he said quietly. "The choosing."
Mirena met his eyes.
"How do you do it? How do you carry it?"
Grog thought about the old timeline. About all the people he'd watched die. About the weight he'd carried for two lifetimes. About the faces that still haunted his dreams, the names he still whispered in the dark.
"You just do," he said finally. "One day at a time. One loss at a time. And you remember that the ones you save matter more than the ones you lose."
Mirena was quiet for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Rest," Grog said again. "The wounded will still be here when you wake up. They'll still need you. You can't help them if you collapse."
Mirena looked at him.
"You're healing fast," she said. "Faster than you should. Faster than anyone should." She paused. "The apple?"
Grog nodded.
"It's still working. I can feel it."
"Good." She almost smiled again. "That's good. You're going to need it." She stood—stumbled—caught herself on the chair. "We're all going to need it."
She turned and walked toward the entrance of the tent—slowly, carefully, like someone who might fall at any moment. At the flap, she paused.
"Grog?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
She disappeared.
Grog lay alone in the dim tent, listening to the sounds of pain and healing around him, and wondered what came next.
---
Lira found him an hour later.
She moved differently now—slower, more careful. Her left arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow, wrapped tight in clean linen, and she held it close to her body like it might fall off if she wasn't careful. But her eyes were still sharp, still watching, still missing nothing.
"You look terrible," she said, sitting beside him.
"Feel terrible."
"Good. Means you're alive." She paused. "Mirena finally went to sleep. Passed out in her tent. One of the healers found her and covered her with a blanket. She didn't even wake up."
Grog nodded.
"She needed it."
"She did." Lira leaned back in her chair—the same uncomfortable wooden thing Mirena had used. "She saved a lot of people. You included."
Grog touched his chest. The bandages were thick, but he could feel the wounds beneath—closed now, healing. The apple's gift, working alongside the berserker, pushing his body to recover faster than nature should allow.
"I know."
They sat in silence for a while.
Around them, the tent stirred with the sounds of aftermath. Wounded moaning. Healers moving. The constant, quiet rhythm of people working to keep death at bay. It was a sound Grog knew well—the sound of survival, of life clinging on despite everything.
Lira spoke again.
"Aldric's different."
Grog looked at her.
"Different how?"
"Quieter. Deeper." She frowned, searching for words. "Like something's been taken out of him. The voice, maybe. But also—" She stopped.
"What?"
"Also like something's been put in. Something new." She met Grog's eyes. "He almost lost control last night. Right before the explosion. Something inside him tried to take over. Vorlag, maybe. Or whatever's left of it."
Grog's jaw tightened.
"The door?"
"Maybe. Or whatever's on the other side." Lira shook her head slowly. "He said no. He said he chose to fight alone. But he doesn't know if that was really him or just—luck."
Grog absorbed this.
"Where is he now?"
"Sitting outside the tent. Staring at nothing." Lira paused. "He won't talk about it. Not to me. Not to anyone. Just sits there like a ghost."
Grog nodded slowly.
"I'll talk to him. When I can move."
Lira looked at him.
"That might be sooner than you think. Mirena says you're healing fast." She paused. "Too fast. Even for someone with the apple."
Grog touched his chest again.
"The berserker's helping. They work together, I think. The apple and the blood."
"Yeah." Lira leaned forward. "Are you going to be able to control it? After what happened? When it took over, you—" She stopped.
"I what?"
"You were terrifying." Her voice was quiet. "Not like you. Like something else. Something ancient. It killed the Breaker like it was nothing. It almost went after the hunters alone." She met his eyes. "If Aldric hadn't called you back—"
Grog finished the thought.
"I might not have come back."
Lira nodded.
Grog considered this.
The berserker had saved them. There was no question about that. Without it, the Breaker would have killed them all. But it had also nearly taken over completely. Nearly made him something other than himself.
"I don't know if I can control it," he said honestly. "It's part of me now. Deeper than it was before. The apple woke it up, and the fight—" He paused. "The fight made it stronger."
Lira was quiet for a moment.
Then: "We'll figure it out. Together."
Grog looked at her.
"Yeah," he said. "We will."
---
Aldric appeared at sunset.
He moved differently now—slower, more deliberate. Like someone carrying a weight they couldn't put down. His armor was gone, replaced by simple clothes that made him look younger, smaller, more like the farm boy who'd stumbled into this life years ago.
He sat beside Grog without speaking, just present, just there.
They sat in silence for a long time.
The tent grew darker around them. Lamps were lit. Healers continued their work. The sounds of suffering never stopped, but they became background, white noise, the music of survival.
Finally, Aldric spoke.
"I felt it," he said quietly. "Right before the explosion. It tried to take over."
Grog nodded.
"I know. Lira told me."
Aldric looked at him.
"I said no. I chose to fight alone." He paused. "But I don't know if that was really me. Or if it was just—" He stopped.
"What?"
"Just luck. Just the explosion happening before it could finish." His voice was hollow. "What if next time there's no explosion? What if next time I can't say no?"
Grog considered this.
"Does it matter?"
Aldric blinked. "What?"
"Does it matter why you said no? The important thing is that you did." Grog met his eyes. "You chose. You refused. That's what matters."
Aldric was quiet for a long moment.
"But what if next time—"
"There might not be a next time." Grog's voice was firm. "The voice is gone. The hunters are gone. The door is—" He paused. "We don't know about the door. But the voice is gone. That's real. That's now."
Aldric absorbed this.
"You really believe that?"
"I really do."
Aldric was silent for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Okay."
They sat together as darkness fell, two soldiers in a tent full of wounded, holding onto each other in the silence.
Outside, the stars came out.
Inside, life continued.
It was enough.