Evening. Renshaw's Study.
The room was warm.
A fire crackled in the hearth, pushing back the evening chill that seeped through even the thickest stone walls. Books lined the shelves—not the kind bought by the yard for decoration, but well-worn volumes with cracked spines and dog-eared pages, clearly read and reread over the years. A large desk dominated the center, covered in papers, maps, reports, all organized with the precision of a man who hated chaos.
Viscount Renshaw sat behind it, staring at nothing.
Voren stood across from him. They'd known each other long enough that formalities could be set aside when real conversation was needed. Twenty years of working together, of trusting each other's judgment, of knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.
"The boy," Renshaw said quietly. "The barbarian. The scout. The mage." He listed them like items on a ledger, his voice flat and thoughtful. "They're more than I expected."
Voren nodded. "They're good people."
"That's not what I meant." Renshaw leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "They're different. I can see it. The way they move—the barbarian especially. He doesn't walk like other men. He prowls. Even wounded, even exhausted, he's ready. Like he's expecting an attack at any moment." He paused. "The girl with the bow—she watches everything. Her eyes never stop moving. She's cataloging this room right now, even though she's not here."
Voren almost smiled. "She is."
"The mage is the same but different. She watches too, but she's looking for patterns. Connections. Things that don't fit." Renshaw shook his head slowly. "And the boy—the hero they call him. There's something underneath. Something he's carrying. I don't know what it is, but I can see it in his eyes."
Voren said nothing.
Renshaw was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't like unknowns," he said finally. "In my experience, unknowns get people killed."
---
Voren met his eyes. "They're not a threat to you."
"I know." Renshaw waved a hand impatiently. "That's not what worries me. What worries me is what they attracted. Creatures that shouldn't exist. A door that opened in the middle of a battlefield. An explosion that leveled everything within half a mile." He gestured vaguely at the window, toward where the valley lay days to the west. "The reports I've read—the ones your soldiers brought back, the ones my scouts confirmed—they're not normal. None of this is normal."
He stood. Walked to the window. Stared out at the darkening courtyard below.
"The Vargr," he said quietly. "You've fought them for years. You know what they are."
Voren nodded. "Bigger than men. Gray skin, like ash. Red eyes—not like ours, not like anything natural. They're strong, fast, and they don't feel fear the way we do. Their arms are longer than ours, their jaws are wider, their teeth are made for tearing." He paused. "They've been raiding the borders for as long as anyone can remember."
Renshaw turned to face him. "That's what the histories say. That's what every soldier who's fought them knows. But your people faced something else. Something worse."
"The hunters."
"Yes." Renshaw's voice was tight. "The hunters. Tell me about them."
Voren considered the question carefully.
"They're not Vargr," he said slowly. "They look almost human—tall, thin, with the same red eyes. But they're wrong. The way they move, the way they speak, the way they feel when you're near them. It's like standing next to an open grave. Like something that shouldn't be here at all."
Renshaw absorbed this.
"And they came through a door. A portal of some kind."
"Yes."
"Which is now gone."
"Yes."
Renshaw was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed—a short, humorless sound.
"I've spent twenty years keeping this region stable," he said. "Twenty years of careful decisions, measured responses, knowing when to push and when to hold. I've dealt with bandits and raiders and the occasional noble who thought he was smarter than he was. I've handled food shortages and border disputes and the endless petty squabbles that come with power." He paused. "I don't know how to respond to this. I don't know if there is a right response."
---
Voren waited.
Renshaw turned back to the window.
"The Vargr have always been there," he said quietly. "On the edges. In the mountains. Raiding, killing, disappearing. We've learned to live with them. To fight them when we must, to avoid them when we can." He shook his head. "But this—this is different. This is something that doesn't belong in our world at all. And we don't know if it's really gone, or just... waiting."
"The hunters are gone," Voren offered. "The tent is empty. The feeling—Grog called it wrongness—it's vanished."
"Gone where?" Renshaw glanced back at him. "Your mage thinks the door might have moved. Relocated. That means the hunters might have too. They might be anywhere. They might be preparing to come back. Or something else might be preparing to come through."
Voren frowned. "You think there's something on the other side?"
Renshaw shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I don't have evidence. I don't have anything but a feeling—the same feeling you're describing. That wrongness." He met Voren's eyes. "Something was trying to get through. Something powerful enough to send those hunters ahead, to gather armies, to wait centuries for the right moment. Do you really think it just gave up?"
Voren had no answer for that.
Renshaw continued. "I don't like unknowns. But I also know my limits. I'm not a scholar. I'm not a mage. I'm a soldier who ended up in charge of more than he ever wanted." He met Voren's eyes. "I won't escalate things for the sake of knowledge. I won't poke at things I don't understand just because I'm curious. That's how people get killed."
"So what will you do?"
Renshaw was quiet for a long moment.
"What I always do. Observe. Learn. Wait." He paused. "And prepare. If the door is still out there, if something is still waiting to come through, we need to be ready. Not just soldiers—everyone. The keeps, the villages, the farms. We need to watch for signs."
Voren nodded slowly.
"That's wise."
"Maybe." Renshaw almost smiled. "Or maybe it's just fear dressed up as wisdom." He walked back to his desk. Sat heavily. "There's something else."
Voren waited.
"There's going to be a gathering. In two months. At the Duke's palace."
---
Voren raised an eyebrow. "Duke Valerius?"
"The same." Renshaw's voice was flat. "He's summoned all the nobles of the region. The northern lords, the eastern wardens, everyone who matters." He paused. "Something about the situation in the west, the Vargr incursions, the 'heroes' who turned the tide." He glanced at Voren. "Your people will be expected to attend."
Voren's jaw tightened.
"As entertainment?"
"As examples." Renshaw shook his head. "Valerius is... complicated. He's not a bad man, not really. He's not cruel or petty or any of the things nobles can be. But he's a duke. He thinks in terms of politics, not people. He'll want to show them off—proof that his region produces heroes, that his soldiers are the best, that he's on top of things."
"And if I refuse?"
"You can't." Renshaw's voice was firm but not unkind. "None of us can. When the Duke summons, we go. That's how this works."
Voren absorbed this.
"Two months?"
"Two months. Enough time for your people to heal. To rest. To prepare." Renshaw paused. "To decide how much they're willing to share."
---
They gathered in Grog's room an hour later.
The fire had been built up, chasing away the evening cold. Candles flickered on the small table. Grog sat on the edge of the bed, Lira on the chair, Aldric on the floor with his back to the wall, Mirena perched on the windowsill.
Voren told them everything.
When he finished, silence settled over them like a weight.
Aldric spoke first. "The Duke wants to show us off."
"Yes."
Lira frowned. "Like trophies."
"Like heroes." Voren's voice was dry. "Same thing, different words. He'll want to parade you in front of the other nobles, tell them how his soldiers defeated the Vargr horde, how his region produced such remarkable fighters."
Mirena leaned against the wall. "What do we know about him? This Duke Valerius?"
Voren considered the question carefully.
"He's been ruling this region for fifteen years. Took over after his father died—hunting accident, officially. There were rumors at the time, but nothing ever came of them." He paused. "He's competent. Not cruel, not kind. He does what needs to be done to keep the peace and doesn't ask too many questions. The nobles under him respect him, mostly. Fear him, a little. That's probably enough."
Grog spoke. "The other dukes?"
Voren shrugged. "Four of them. Valerius in the west, where we are. Duke Marcellus in the north—cold country, hard people. Duke Helena in the east—richest of them, controls the trade routes. Duke Stefan in the south—oldest, most experienced, closest to the king." He paused. "And above them all, King Amos Ironhold."
Aldric blinked. "Ironhold?"
"Ancient family. Been on the throne for six hundred years." Voren's voice held a note of respect. "Amos is the fourteenth of his line. Old now—seventy, maybe more—but still sharp. Still in control. The dukes test him sometimes, but never too hard. They remember what happened to the last one who tried."
Lira raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
"He disappeared." Voren's voice was flat. "Along with his entire family. His castle. His lands. Just... gone. Overnight. No one talks about it, but everyone knows."
Silence.
Mirena spoke quietly. "The king has power, then. Real power."
"Yes."
---
Aldric broke the silence again. "So we go. We smile. We tell them what they want to hear." He looked at Voren. "And then what?"
"And then we come back." Voren shrugged. "And wait for the next thing."
Grog frowned. "The door is still out there. We don't know where. We don't know if something's waiting on the other side."
"We don't know anything," Mirena agreed. "That's the problem. The door could be anywhere. The hunters could be anywhere. Or they could be gone for good. We have no way of knowing."
Lira looked at her. "But you're working on it, right? With the mages here?"
Mirena nodded slowly. "We're sharing notes. Comparing what we know. They've been studying this for years—the thin places, the old sites, the legends. If there are signs, if something stirs again, they might be able to detect it."
"How long?"
"Months. Maybe longer." Mirena shook her head. "This isn't quick work. It's not even certain work. We're dealing with things we don't understand."
Grog stood. Walked to the window.
Two months.
Two months to heal. Two months to prepare. Two months to figure out what came next.
It wasn't enough.
It would have to be.
---
Behind him, Aldric spoke quietly.
"I'll go," he said. "To the Duke's gathering. I'll be their hero, their trophy, whatever they want." He paused. "But I won't forget what's really out there. I won't stop preparing."
Lira nodded. "Same."
Mirena agreed. "We'll use the time. Learn what we can. Build what we can."
Grog turned from the window.
"Then we're agreed."
They were.