Morning. Five Days After the Battle.
The messenger arrived at dawn.
Voren saw him coming from across the camp—a lone rider on a lathered horse, moving fast, moving with purpose that cut through the morning mist like a blade. Official business. The kind that couldn't wait, couldn't be delayed, couldn't be ignored.
He stood outside his tent, arms crossed, watching the rider approach.
The camp was still waking around him. Cookfires being lit. Wounded being tended. The slow, painful process of survival continuing after everything they'd been through. Soldiers moved between tents with the hollow-eyed look of those who'd seen too much and knew more was coming.
The rider reined in. Saluted.
"Message for Captain Voren. From Viscount Renshaw."
Voren's jaw tightened.
Renshaw.
The noble who controlled this region. Who sat in his warm keep with his warm fires and his warm meals while soldiers bled and died on frozen battlefields. Who'd never once visited the front lines, never once looked his soldiers in the eye, never once thanked them for dying in his name.
Voren had served under nobles for thirty years. He knew their kind.
He took the message.
Broke the seal.
Read.
---
His officers gathered as the sun rose.
They came one by one—Sergeant Korr, Lieutenant Velas, a dozen others who'd survived the battle and still had the strength to stand. They formed a loose circle outside his tent, waiting, watching his face with the practiced attention of men who'd learned to read his moods over the years.
The set of his jaw.
The tightness around his eyes.
The way his hand kept clenching and unclenching at his side.
This was not a good mood.
"Sir?" Korr ventured. He was the boldest of them, the one who'd known Voren longest. "What does it say?"
Voren looked up from the parchment.
"The Viscount wants a report. A full accounting of the battle." His voice was flat, emotionless—the voice he used when he was too angry to trust himself. "Casualties. Losses. Strategic outcomes."
Korr nodded slowly. "That's standard, sir. After a battle this size—"
"He also wants to know about the 'heroes' who turned the tide."
Silence.
Voren continued. "He's heard rumors. Stories. Soldiers talk, and soldiers talk fast. He knows about the boy who killed a hundred Vargr. About the barbarian who tore a monster apart with his bare hands. About the scout who never missed. About the mage who saved dozens." He paused. "He wants to meet them. Personally."
Korr's face flickered. "That's... not necessarily bad, sir. Recognition from the Viscount could mean—"
"It could mean a lot of things." Voren cut him off. "Most of them not good."
Lieutenant Velas spoke up. She was younger than Korr, sharper, more ambitious. "With respect, sir—heroes are useful. To the Viscount, to the Duke, to the kingdom. They inspire people. They raise morale. They—"
"They get used." Voren's voice was ice. "They get paraded around like trophies. They get trotted out at feasts and ceremonies and made to tell their stories over and over until the stories mean nothing." He looked at each of his officers in turn. "I've seen it before. Good soldiers, good people, turned into puppets for nobles who don't care about them."
Velas was quiet.
Korr spoke carefully. "What are you going to do, sir?"
Voren looked at the message again.
"We leave in three days. A small party—the four of them, plus an escort. We ride for Renshaw's keep." He paused. "I don't like it. But orders are orders."
---
He found them at the medical tent.
Grog was sitting up now—actually sitting, not lying—propped against a pile of blankets with his back to the tent wall. His wounds were healing faster than anyone thought possible, the bandages across his chest already loose as the flesh beneath knit itself together.
The apple's gift, working alongside the berserker blood, had pushed his recovery into something almost miraculous. He should have been bedridden for weeks. Instead, he was eating solid food and demanding to be allowed to walk.
Lira sat beside him, her new bow across her knees. She'd been practicing with it in short sessions—carefully, gently, letting her arm heal—and the magic responded to her like it had been waiting its whole life for someone like her. Arrows of light appeared when she drew, flew where she aimed, disappeared when they hit their targets.
It was incredible. It was terrifying. She loved it.
Aldric was there too, sitting apart, quiet as always. The voice was gone—had been gone since the explosion—but he still carried something heavy. Something that hadn't lifted. Maybe wouldn't lift for a long time.
Mirena sat with her books open around her, still studying, still searching for answers about the door. She'd barely slept in five days, driven by the fear that the portal was still out there somewhere, waiting to open again.
Voren stood at the entrance.
"We need to talk."
---
They gathered in his tent.
Small. Private. No officers, no aides, no soldiers—just the five of them, sitting in a rough circle around a folding table. A single lantern hung overhead, casting shadows across their faces.
Voren placed the message on the table.
"The Viscount wants a report. He wants to meet you." He looked at each of them in turn. "All of you."
Grog frowned. His face was still pale, still drawn with exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp. "Why?"
"Rumors. Stories. Soldiers talk." Voren's voice was flat. "Word spreads about what happened here. About the boy who stood alone against a hundred Vargr. About the barbarian who killed a monster with his bare hands. About the scout whose arrows never missed. About the mage who saved more lives than anyone could count."
Aldric shifted uncomfortably. "We're not heroes. We just—"
"It doesn't matter what you are." Voren met his eyes. "What matters is what the Viscount thinks you are. And when a noble thinks something, you don't argue. You don't correct them. You just nod and smile and do what they say."
Lira spoke up. "What exactly does he want?"
"A report. A meeting. Probably a feast in your honor." Voren's voice dripped with distaste. "Nobles love feasts. Love parading heroes in front of their friends. Showing them off like prized horses."
Mirena frowned. "You don't approve."
"I don't trust nobles." Voren paused. "Present company excepted, of course. But Renshaw—" He shook his head. "I've dealt with him before. He's ambitious. He's been angling for a higher title for years, currying favor with the Duke, positioning himself for advancement. A war hero under his command—heroes he can present as his own—that could be very useful to him."
Grog's eyes narrowed. "He wants to use us."
"Probably." Voren nodded slowly. "Nobles always want to use people. That's what they do. They see assets, not people. They see opportunities, not lives."
Aldric's face went pale. "What happens if we refuse?"
"You can't." Voren's voice was firm. "Orders are orders. We go. We report. We meet him." He paused. "After that—we see."
---
Silence settled over the tent.
Grog spoke first.
"What do you advise?"
Voren considered the question carefully.
"Be careful," he said. "Watch what you say. Watch who you trust. Nobles play games—long games, complicated games. They'll ask questions that seem innocent but aren't. They'll make offers that seem generous but come with strings." He looked at each of them. "Remember who you are. Remember what you fought for. Don't let them take that from you."
Lira nodded slowly.
"We'll be careful."
"You'll need to be more than careful." Voren stood. "You'll need to be smart. And you'll need to watch each other's backs." He paused. "That's what soldiers do."
He walked to the tent entrance. Paused.
"We leave in three days. Be ready."
He left.
---
They sat in silence for a long moment after he was gone.
Aldric broke it first.
"I don't like this."
"No one likes this." Lira's voice was dry. "But we don't have a choice."
Mirena looked at Grog. "What do you think?"
Grog was quiet for a moment.
"I think Voren's right. Nobles play games. Long games." He met her eyes. "But we've played longer. We've faced worse."
"The hunters," Aldric said quietly.
"The hunters. The Breaker. The voice." Grog nodded. "A noble with ambition? That's nothing."
Lira almost smiled. "You're awfully confident for someone who could barely sit up yesterday."
"The apple helps."
"It does." She stood. "Three days. We rest. We prepare. And then we go meet this Viscount and see what he wants."
Aldric stood too. "And if he tries to use us?"
Grog's eyes went cold.
"Then we remind him what heroes actually are."