Three Days of Preparation.
The first day after Voren's announcement, Grog tried to walk.
He made it ten steps before his legs gave out.
Lira caught him before he hit the ground—fast as always, even with one arm still healing. Her good arm wrapped around his chest, steadying him, lowering him carefully to a crate that sat outside the medical tent. She stood over him with that look. The one that said I told you so without actually saying it.
"You're an idiot," she said.
"Apparently."
"You can barely sit up for an hour without getting winded. What made you think you could walk across the entire camp?"
Grog shrugged. It hurt. Everything hurt. His chest throbbed where the Breaker's claws had torn through him. His arms ached from the berserker's exertion. Even his legs, which had done nothing but lie still for days, felt weak and unreliable.
"The apple," he said.
Lira shook her head slowly. "The apple isn't magic. Well, it is magic. But it's not that kind of magic. It can't just wish you better. You still need rest. Real rest. The kind where you lie still and let your body do its work."
Grog looked at his legs. They'd held for ten steps. Ten steps more than yesterday. Ten steps more than nothing.
"Tomorrow I'll make eleven."
Lira snorted. "Fine. But I'm catching you again. And I'm not going to be gentle about it."
She did.
---
The second day, Aldric found him doing the same thing.
Different spot. Same result.
Grog was on the ground—not from falling, just from exhaustion—staring at the sky. His chest heaved. His vision swam. But he'd made it fifteen steps this time. Fifteen.
Aldric sat beside him without asking.
"Lira said you were doing this."
"Lira talks too much."
"She cares." Aldric paused. "We all do."
Grog looked at him. The boy's face was still too pale, still too hollow. But there was something else there now. Something steadier behind his eyes. The absence of the voice had left a space, and something new was growing into it.
"You're doing better," Grog said.
Aldric considered this.
"I don't know about better. Different, maybe." He looked at his hands. "The silence is strange. I keep waiting for it to come back. Every time I'm alone, every time it gets quiet, I brace myself for that whisper. And it never comes."
Grog waited.
"It's like—" Aldric struggled for words. "Like losing a tooth that's been loose for years. You keep poking at the gap with your tongue, expecting it to still be there. And it's not. And you don't know whether to be relieved or terrified."
Grog nodded slowly.
"That's the hard part. The not knowing."
"What if it does come back?"
"Then you'll face it. Like you did before." Grog met his eyes. "You said no once. You can say no again."
Aldric was quiet for a long moment.
"You really believe that?"
"I really do."
They sat together in the cold morning air, two soldiers who'd seen too much, taking it one breath at a time.
---
The second night, Lira finally tested the bow properly.
Mirena found a clearing far from camp, hidden by trees, safe from prying eyes. The moon was bright overhead, casting silver light across the snow. It was cold enough to see their breath, but Lira didn't notice. All her attention was on the bow in her hands.
She'd been carrying it for days now. Sleeping with it beside her. Eating with it across her knees. She knew its weight, its balance, the way the wood seemed to warm slightly when she touched it.
But she hadn't drawn it. Not once.
"Whenever you're ready," Mirena said from the edge of the clearing. Her staff glowed faintly, providing just enough light to see by.
Lira took a breath.
Lifted the bow.
It felt different now—alive in a way it hadn't before. Like it had been waiting for this moment. Waiting for her.
She drew.
The bow resisted—not physically, but magically. It asked something of her. Focus. Intent. Will.
She gave it.
An arrow appeared.
Not from nowhere—from the quiver at her hip. She felt it happen, felt the magic flow from the stones nestled inside, felt the bow shape that raw energy into something real and deadly. The arrow was solid—not glowing, not made of light, but physically real. Dark wood grain, a gleaming tip, fletching that looked like feathers but felt like magic.
It weighed almost nothing in her hand.
It felt like it could pierce anything.
Lira aimed at a tree thirty yards away. An old oak, thick as three men, its bark rough and ancient.
Released.
The arrow flew.
Not fast—faster. It crossed the distance in a heartbeat, a dark blur that left no trail behind it. It hit the trunk dead center with a solid thunk.
And stayed there.
Lira stared.
"Check the tree," Mirena said.
Lira walked to it. Ran her fingers over the arrow.
Deep. Embedded a good six inches into solid oak. The shaft was dark wood, identical to the bow. The tip had pierced bark and heartwood like they were nothing.
She pulled.
The arrow came out easily—too easily—and vanished in her hand. Dissolved into motes of light that swirled once and disappeared.
Lira looked at the hole it left behind.
A perfect circle. Deep. Clean. Like it had been drilled by a master craftsman.
"It leaves a hole," she breathed. "It actually—"
"The arrows are real," Mirena explained, moving closer. "Manifested from the magic in the stones, but physically real. They exist until they're removed or until they dissolve naturally. Which takes about—" She consulted a mental clock. "Thirty seconds, give or take."
Lira looked at the bow. At the quiver. At the hole in the tree.
"That's—" She couldn't find words.
"Powerful," Mirena finished. "Yes. And versatile. You can leave arrows in targets as markers. You can create barriers by shooting multiple in close formation. You can—" She paused. "You can do a lot of things. The bow will teach you."
Lira drew again.
Another arrow appeared. Solid. Real. Deadly.
She aimed at a different tree. Released.
Thunk.
Perfect shot. Deep penetration.
She pulled it. It dissolved. She shot again. And again. And again.
Twenty arrows in quick succession, each one perfect, each one leaving a clean hole in whatever it hit. The stones in her quiver barely dimmed.
By the time she stopped, the tree looked like it had been used for target practice by a small army.
Lira lowered the bow.
"I've never had anything like this," she whispered.
"Now you do." Mirena almost smiled. "Use it well."
---
The third day, Grog made it twenty steps.
Lira caught him twice. Aldric once. He didn't care.
He was healing.
Fast.
The apple hummed in his blood like a second heartbeat, a steady pulse of warmth that never quite faded. The berserker stirred occasionally, checking in, then settled back. They were learning each other, these two parts of him. Finding a rhythm. Figuring out how to coexist.
His wounds were closed now—pink lines across his chest where the Breaker's claws had carved him open. They'd be scars eventually. Good scars. Battle scars.
Mirena found him sitting on his crate, breathing hard but satisfied.
"Twenty steps?"
"Twenty-one, actually."
She raised an eyebrow. "Showing off?"
"Always."
She sat beside him. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then: "I've been thinking about the swords."
Grog looked at her. "What about them?"
"Yours and Aldric's. They're different. Did you notice?"
Grog considered this. He'd noticed, of course. The swords were obviously different—his was heavier, broader, built for power; Aldric's was lighter, curved, built for speed. But there was more to it than that.
"Kevin's people made them for different purposes," he said.
Mirena nodded. "Exactly. Yours is a berserker's weapon. It draws on rage, on strength, on the willingness to stand and fight and never fall. When you wield it, it amplifies what you already are. It makes you stronger, faster, harder to kill—but it also demands something from you. It wants you to embrace the fight. To lose yourself in it."
Grog touched the hilt. The sword pulsed against his hip—warm, familiar, content.
"Aldric's sword is different," Mirena continued. "It's a hero's weapon. It responds to conviction, to purpose, to the desire to protect. When he fights, the sword helps him be more precise, more aware, more there. It doesn't want him to lose himself—it wants him to be fully present. Fully in control."
Grog absorbed this.
"That's why it chose him."
"Yes." Mirena met his eyes. "And that's why yours chose you. Because you're willing to become the berserker when you need to. Because you can lose yourself and still come back."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Grog spoke. "What about Lira's bow?"
"Different again. A scout's weapon. It rewards patience, observation, the ability to wait for the perfect moment. The arrows don't just fly—they find. They'll go where she needs them to go. And they leave evidence. Holes. Marks. Proof that she was there."
Grog nodded slowly.
"Kevin's people thought of everything."
"They prepared for everything." Mirena paused. "Including the door."
---
That evening, Voren joined them for supper.
Not as a commander—just as a man. He sat on an empty crate with a bowl of stew and ate in silence, listening to their quiet conversation. The fire crackled between them, pushing back the cold.
Finally, he spoke.
"Tomorrow we ride."
They looked at him.
"Renshaw's keep is a day's journey. We'll arrive by nightfall." He paused. "I've been thinking about what to expect."
Grog raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And I don't know." Voren shook his head slowly. "That's what worries me. I've dealt with nobles before. They're predictable in their unpredictability. You can usually guess what they want—power, money, influence. But Renshaw—" He stopped.
"What?"
"He's different. Smarter. More patient." Voren met Grog's eyes. "That makes him more dangerous. Patient people are willing to wait. Willing to plan. Willing to play the long game."
Aldric spoke. "What do we do?"
Voren considered the question.
"Watch. Listen. Trust your instincts." He looked at each of them in turn. "And remember—you're not just soldiers anymore. You're heroes. That means something to people like him. It means they'll want to use you. Show you off. Claim credit for what you've done."
Lira frowned. "Is that good or bad?"
"Both." Voren stood. "Good because it gives you leverage. Bad because it makes you a target." He paused. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be long."
He walked away.
---
The morning of departure came clear and cold.
Horses saddled. Supplies packed. Soldiers forming up in neat rows, their breath misting in the air. The camp watched them go with a mixture of emotions—pride in their heroes, envy of their journey, relief that they weren't the ones being summoned.
Grog mounted carefully. His wounds pulled but held. The apple hummed, keeping him steady.
Lira swung up easily, her new bow across her back, the quiver of mana stones at her hip. She looked different now—lighter, somehow. More confident. Her fingers touched the bow constantly, like she couldn't quite believe it was real.
Aldric followed, quiet as always. His sword hung at his side, its dark blade pulsing faintly. The silence inside him was still strange, still new, but he was learning to live with it. Learning to breathe in the empty space where the voice used to be.
Mirena climbed onto her horse with a stack of books tied behind her. Kevin's journals. Maps. Notes. Everything she might need. Her staff rested across her saddle, ready.
Voren gave the order.
They rode east.
Toward Renshaw's keep.
Toward whatever waited.