The letters arrived at midday.
A messenger on a lathered horse, riding hard from the east, his cloak dusty, his face flushed with the urgency of his task. He dismounted in the courtyard, handed a sealed packet to the steward, and was led away to food and water and rest.
The steward carried the packet to Renshaw.
An hour later, Voren appeared at Grog's door.
"They're here," he said.
Grog looked up from his sword. He'd been cleaning it, oiling the blade, checking the edge. A routine he'd learned in the old timeline, a habit that kept his hands busy while his mind wandered.
"The letters?"
"Invitations. Formal summons. The Duke wants us at his palace in three weeks."
Grog set the sword aside.
"Three weeks?"
"Three weeks." Voren stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. "Renshaw wants to see us this evening. All of us. He'll go over the arrangements, the protocol, what to expect."
Grog nodded slowly.
"You don't look happy."
Voren's jaw tightened. "I've been to the Duke's palace before. Years ago. Before the war, before the Vargr, before any of this." He paused. "It's not a place for people like us."
"People like us?"
"Soldiers. Fighters. People who've seen things." Voren met his eyes. "They'll smile. They'll praise. They'll call you heroes. But they won't see you. They'll see what they want to see."
Grog had heard this before. From Voren, from Renshaw, from his own memories of the old timeline. Nobles played games. Long games. Dangerous games.
"We'll be careful," he said.
Voren almost smiled. "That's what I'm afraid of."
---
He found Lira in the training yard.
She was shooting her magic bow, arrows punching through targets, leaving clean holes in the wood. Her face was calm, focused, the way it got when she was working through something.
He watched for a while.
She knew he was there—she always knew—but she didn't stop. Arrow after arrow, target after target, until the wood was nothing but splinters and holes.
She lowered the bow.
"You heard," she said.
"Voren told me."
She walked to the rack, picked up a new target, set it in place. Drew another arrow.
"The Duke's palace," she said. "Three weeks."
"Yes."
She shot. The arrow hit dead center. "You think it's a trap?"
"I think it's politics." He sat on a crate. "Voren says they'll want to use us. Show us off. Make us into something we're not."
She shot again. Another perfect hit.
"And what are we?"
He thought about the question.
"We're soldiers. We're survivors. We're people who fought something that shouldn't exist and lived." He paused. "That's not something they can use."
She lowered the bow.
"You really believe that?"
"I have to."
---
Aldric was in the kitchen.
He was alone—Marta had gone to the market, her helpers were elsewhere—and he was kneading dough with the concentration of someone who'd learned that bread didn't rush.
Grog stood in the doorway, watching.
Aldric looked up.
"They came," he said. "The letters."
"They came."
Aldric went back to his dough. His hands moved in the rhythm he'd learned, pushing, folding, turning.
"Three weeks," he said.
"Three weeks."
"I've been reading about the Duke. About his family. About the things they've done." He looked at Grog. "They're not good people."
Grog leaned against the doorframe.
"Most nobles aren't."
"But we're going anyway."
"We're going anyway."
Aldric was quiet for a moment. Then he shaped the dough into a loaf, set it aside to rise.
"I used to think heroes were simple," he said. "They fought the monsters, saved the people, went home. That's what the stories said."
Grog waited.
"They're not simple. They're not anything." Aldric looked at his hands. "I killed a hundred Vargr in that battle. I don't remember most of it. And now the Duke wants to put me in front of his friends and call me a hero."
Grog crossed the room. Sat on a stool beside him.
"You are a hero. You fought. You survived. You said no when something wanted you to say yes." He paused. "That's not nothing."
Aldric looked at him.
"Is it enough?"
Grog didn't have an answer for that.
---
Mirena was in the tower.
She was alone—the other mages had gone to their rooms, their work for the day done—and she was studying a map, tracing lines, marking places she'd marked a dozen times before.
Grog climbed the stairs slowly. His wounds were healed, his body was strong, but some habits from those weeks of healing had stayed with him.
She looked up when he entered.
"The letters," she said.
"Yes."
She went back to her map.
"Three weeks," she said. "Three weeks, and then we go to the Duke's palace, and we pretend we're something we're not, and we hope he doesn't see through it."
Grog sat across from her.
"You've been looking for the door."
She looked up.
"I've been looking for answers. The door is part of it. The hunters are part of it. The things that might still be waiting on the other side are part of it." She paused. "I haven't found anything."
"You will."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." He met her eyes. "You've been looking your whole life. You found us. You found Kevin's journals. You found the mages here." He paused. "You'll find the door."
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then she almost smiled.
"When did you become optimistic?"
He almost smiled back.
"When I survived something that should have killed me."
---
They gathered in Renshaw's study that evening.
The fire was high, the room warm, the maps and books pushed aside to make room for the letters. Renshaw sat behind his desk, Voren beside him, the four of them on chairs arranged in a semicircle.
Renshaw held up one of the letters.
"The Duke invites us to his palace. A gathering of the northern lords, he calls it. A celebration of the victory in the valley." He looked at them. "He wants to meet you. All of you."
Lira spoke first. "What does he really want?"
Renshaw almost smiled.
"He wants to see if you're useful. If you can be used." He set the letter aside. "The Duke is not a bad man. But he's a politician. He thinks in terms of advantage, of leverage, of what can be gained."
Aldric leaned forward. "And if we're not useful?"
Renshaw met his eyes.
"Then he'll forget you. And that's the best outcome you can hope for."
---
They talked for another hour.
Renshaw told them about the palace, about the nobles they'd meet, about the dances they'd have to learn, the names they'd have to remember, the games they'd have to play.
Voren added his own advice—who to trust, who to avoid, who would smile to their faces and lie to their backs.
When they finished, the fire was low, the night was dark, and they were all tired.
Renshaw stood.
"You have three weeks. Rest. Prepare. Decide how much you're willing to share." He looked at each of them in turn. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you."
They left.
---
Grog walked the walls that night.
The stars were bright, the sky clear, the world quiet below. He thought about the letters, about the Duke, about the games they'd have to play.
In the old timeline, he'd never met a duke. Never been to a palace. Never been anything but a soldier, a fighter, someone who followed orders and asked no questions.
Now he was going to be a hero. A trophy. A thing for nobles to admire and forget.
He stayed on the wall until the moon set.