The night before they left, no one slept.
Grog lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the keep settle around him. The fire had died to embers. The wind had risen, rattling the shutters. Somewhere below, a door closed, a voice called out, a day ended.
He thought about the old timeline.
In that life, he'd never left the border. Never seen a duke's palace. Never been anything but a soldier, a fighter, someone who followed orders and asked no questions. He'd died in a cave, with blood in his mouth and a sword through his chest, and that had been the end of him.
Now he was going to a palace. To be seen. To be judged. To be something he'd never been before.
He sat up. Dressed. Walked to the window.
The courtyard below was empty. The guards walked their rounds. The torches flickered in their sconces. The world was quiet, waiting.
He went to the walls.
---
The wall was cold.
The wind cut through his clothes, pulled at his hair, reminded him that winter was ending but not gone. He walked its length, tower to tower, end to end, the way he'd done every morning for weeks.
He stopped at the eastern tower.
The hills rolled away below, dark against the sky. Somewhere out there, the Duke's palace waited. Somewhere out there, nobles were sleeping, dreaming, planning.
He stayed until the moon set.
---
Lira was in the training yard.
She'd been there for hours, shooting and shooting, her arrows punching through targets, leaving holes that glowed faintly in the darkness. Her quiver was full, her stones untouched, her arms steady.
She didn't need to practice. She was already good. Better than good. She was the best she'd ever been.
But she couldn't sleep.
She shot again. Another target splintered. Another hole appeared.
She thought about the Duke's palace. About the nobles, the games, the lies. About the way they'd look at her, at her bow, at the things she'd done.
She'd spent her whole life being looked at. Being judged. Being found wanting.
This would be no different.
She shot again.
---
Aldric was in the kitchen.
He'd made bread. Three loaves, rising on the table, waiting for the morning. Marta had shown him how, weeks ago, and he'd learned. The feel of the dough, the rhythm of the kneading, the patience of waiting for it to rise.
He sat on his stool, watching the loaves.
He thought about the voice. The thing that had lived inside him his whole life, whispering, pushing, waiting. It was gone now. He was sure of it. The silence was normal, comfortable, his.
But sometimes, in the dark, he wondered if it would come back.
He touched his chest. His heart was steady. His breath was even. The loaves rose, slowly, the way bread rose, the way things grew when you let them.
He waited.
---
Mirena was in the tower.
The other mages had gone to bed hours ago. Their books were closed, their maps rolled, their notes stacked. She was alone with the window, the stars, the questions she'd been asking her whole life.
She'd been close. In the weeks at the keep, she'd come closer than ever before. The thin places, the old sites, the patterns that emerged when you looked long enough.
The door was out there. She was sure of it.
She just didn't know where.
She spread the map on the table. Traced the lines she'd traced a hundred times. Looked at the markers, the symbols, the places where the veil was thin.
She would find it. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But someday.
She rolled the map. Tucked it under her arm. Went to find the others.
---
She found Grog on the walls.
He was standing at the eastern tower, looking out at the hills. His sword was at his hip, his hands were steady, his face was calm. But she knew him now. She could see the weight he was carrying.
"You're thinking," she said.
He turned. "Always."
She stood beside him. Looked out at the darkness.
"The others are awake too."
"I know."
She was quiet for a moment.
"What are you afraid of?"
He considered the question.
"Not being enough."
She looked at him. "You killed a monster with your bare hands. You came back from the dead. You've been carrying two lifetimes of memory and still found a way to keep going."
He almost smiled.
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"In the old timeline, I was a soldier. I followed orders. I fought where they told me to fight, died where they told me to die." He paused. "Now I'm supposed to be a hero. Someone people look up to. Someone who makes decisions."
She waited.
"I don't know if I'm that person."
She looked at him. At the man who'd saved her life more times than she could count, who'd carried the weight of knowing what was coming and never stopped fighting, who'd come back from death itself to warn them.
"You are," she said. "You've always been."
---
They found Aldric in the kitchen.
He was sitting on his stool, watching the loaves rise, his face soft in the candlelight. He looked up when they entered.
"You're both awake."
"So are you."
He nodded slowly.
"I was thinking about the voice."
Grog sat across from him. "What about it?"
"Whether it's really gone. Whether it's just waiting. Whether it'll come back when we need it most."
Lira leaned against the wall. "And?"
Aldric looked at his hands.
"I don't know. I don't think I'll ever know." He paused. "But I'm not going to spend my life waiting for it."
Grog nodded slowly.
"That's all any of us can do."
---
Mirena joined them as the sky began to lighten.
She had her map with her, rolled tight, tucked under her arm. She sat on the stool beside Aldric and looked at the loaves.
"Those are good," she said.
Aldric almost smiled. "They're not baked yet."
"They will be."
They sat in silence for a while. The kitchen was warm, the fire low, the world quiet outside.
Lira spoke first.
"Tomorrow we go to the Duke's palace."
Aldric nodded. "Tomorrow."
"We'll smile. We'll bow. We'll tell them what they want to hear."
Grog looked at her. "That's the plan."
She almost smiled. "And then?"
"And then we come back." He looked at each of them in turn. "And we wait for whatever comes next."
---
The sun rose.
Light filled the kitchen, gold and warm, touching the loaves, the table, their faces. Somewhere in the keep, Marta was waking, the servants were stirring, the day was beginning.
They sat together, four people who'd been through something terrible, who'd come to this place broken and were slowly, quietly, putting themselves back together.
Tomorrow they would be heroes.
Tonight, they were just themselves.