They crossed into the Duke's lands at midday.
The road widened, the hills softened, the trees fell away to reveal fields that stretched to the horizon. The pass had been narrow and dark, the kind of place where things waited in shadows. Here, the land opened up. Villages dotted the valleys, their roofs red and smoking, their fields green with early spring planting. The air smelled of earth and growing things.
It was the kind of country that hadn't seen war in generations.
Grog rode at the front, watching the landscape change. This was not the border. Not the edge of the kingdom where the forest pressed close and the Vargr waited in the hills. This was the heart of the region, the place where people lived and worked and raised children who would never hold a sword.
Lira rode beside him.
"It's different," she said. "Softer."
"Safer."
She looked at the fields, the farms, the villages where smoke rose from chimneys and children played in the streets. A woman was hanging laundry on a line. A man was leading a mule to market. A dog barked at their passing, then went back to sleep.
"No one here knows," she said quietly. "About the battle. About the creature. About what's coming."
Grog nodded slowly.
"That's what the Duke wants. To keep it that way."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Do you think he can?"
He thought about the old timeline. About how the war had spread. About how it had touched everything, everyone, no matter how far from the border they'd thought they were.
"No," he said. "But he'll try."
---
They stopped at a village for supplies.
It was larger than the others they'd passed, with a market square and a stone church and an inn that looked like it had been there for a hundred years. The people here had enough—enough food, enough clothes, enough to spare for travelers. They looked at the soldiers with curiosity, not fear.
Aldric dismounted and walked through the square.
He drew attention without meaning to. His armor, his sword, the scars on his hands that he couldn't hide—they marked him as something other than the soldiers the villagers were used to. A woman stopped him at the well.
"You're one of them," she said. "The heroes from the border."
He shook his head. "I'm just a soldier."
Her eyes went to his sword. "That's not a soldier's sword."
He didn't know what to say to that.
A boy appeared at his elbow. Young, maybe ten, with dark hair and curious eyes. He looked at Aldric's sword, his armor, the way he stood.
"My father was a soldier," the boy said. "He went to the border. He didn't come back."
Aldric knelt beside him.
"I'm sorry."
The boy shrugged, but his eyes were bright. "My mother says he died for something. That it mattered."
"It did."
The boy looked at him. "Will you go back? To the border?"
Aldric nodded slowly.
"When I'm needed."
The boy seemed satisfied with that. He ran off, back to his games, back to his childhood. Aldric watched him go.
---
Mirena found a trader with old maps.
The man was old, his face lined, his hands steady. He had a stall at the edge of the market, away from the busier trade. His goods were not the things most travelers wanted—old books, faded charts, things that had been waiting a long time for someone who needed them.
He looked up when Mirena approached.
"You're the mage," he said.
She blinked. "How did you—"
He smiled. "I've been expecting someone like you. For years, maybe. The things I have—" He gestured at his stall. "They're not for everyone. They're for the ones who are looking."
He spread maps across his table. Old maps, hand-drawn, their edges cracked with age. Places Mirena had only read about. Places she'd marked in her own notes.
"These hills," he said, pointing at a cluster of peaks near the Duke's lands. "People don't go there. Not anymore. Stories, you know. Old ones."
Mirena leaned closer. "What stories?"
He shrugged. "Lights in the sky. People who go in and don't come out. Things that move in the dark." He looked at her. "You're a mage. You know about such things."
She met his eyes.
"I'm looking for something."
He nodded slowly. "Then look there. The old hills. The places where the stones are wrong." He rolled the map carefully, tied it with a leather cord, handed it to her. "Keep it. You'll need it."
She paid him more than it was worth. He didn't argue.
---
Lira found Grog at the edge of the village.
He was sitting on a low wall, looking out at the fields. His sword was across his knees, his eyes were distant. She sat beside him.
"Find anything?"
He shook his head. "Just watching."
She followed his gaze. The fields stretched to the horizon, green and gold, dotted with farmsteads and stands of trees. A river curved through the valley, its banks lined with willows. It was the kind of country you could love, if you didn't know what was coming.
"Mirena found something," she said. "Maps. Old ones. The trader said there were stories about the hills near the Duke's palace."
Grog's eyes sharpened. "What kind of stories?"
"Things that don't belong. Lights. Disappearances." She paused. "The kind of stories that happen where the veil is thin."
He was quiet for a moment.
"The door."
"Maybe." She looked at the fields. "Or something else. Something that's been waiting."
He stood. "We need to see those maps."
---
They made camp that night in a meadow.
The hills rose around them, soft and green, the first flowers of spring beginning to show. The soldiers were relaxed, the danger of the pass behind them, the Duke's palace a day away. Fires were built. Food was cooked. Men laughed and talked and pretended they weren't still thinking about the soldier they'd lost.
Grog sat apart, watching.
Lira joined him with the map Mirena had found. She spread it between them, its edges curling, its lines faded.
"The old hills," she said, pointing. "The trader marked them. Said people don't go there."
Grog studied the map. The hills were near the Duke's lands—a day's ride, maybe two. They weren't marked on any of the official maps they'd seen. Places that had been forgotten. Or hidden.
"Renshaw might know," he said.
"He might." She rolled the map carefully. "Or he might not want to."
---
Renshaw joined them as the fire burned low.
He looked tired, the way he always did at the end of a day's ride, but his eyes were sharp. He saw the map in Lira's hands.
"What's that?"
"Something Mirena found," Grog said. "Old hills. Near the Duke's lands. The trader said there were stories."
Renshaw took the map. Looked at it for a long moment.
"The old places," he said quietly. "I've heard of them. Before I was lord, before my father was lord. They were places people avoided. Places where things happened."
Grog leaned forward. "What kind of things?"
Renshaw shook his head slowly.
"Disappearances. Lights in the sky. Animals found dead with nothing wrong with them." He handed the map back. "I thought they were stories. Things people told to keep children from wandering too far."
Lira's voice was quiet. "What if they weren't?"
Renshaw was silent for a long moment.
"Then we need to find out."
---
Mirena joined them as the stars came out.
She had her notes spread around her, her map open, her face intent. She'd been working since they made camp, tracing lines, comparing the trader's map with her own.
"The hills are marked here," she said, pointing. "And here. And here." She looked up. "They're all thin places. Places where the veil is weak. The trader's map shows where the stories are. My map shows where the magic is."
Aldric leaned forward. "The door could be there?"
She shook her head slowly.
"The door could be anywhere. But these places—" She traced a circle on the map. "These are where it would go. Where it would be drawn."
Grog studied the marks. They clustered near the Duke's palace. Close enough to be noticed. Far enough to be ignored.
"We need to see them," he said. "After the Duke. After we know what he wants."
Mirena nodded slowly.
"After."
---
That night, Grog walked the perimeter of the camp.
The soldiers were asleep, their fires low, their watches set. The hills were dark around them, the sky clear, the stars bright. He thought about the creature in the pass. About what it had called him. About the door that was open somewhere.
In the old timeline, he'd never seen these hills. Never heard the stories. The war had taken them in different directions, different battles, different deaths. He'd died in a cave, with a sword through his chest, never knowing that the door might still be open.
Now he was here. Riding to a Duke's palace. Carrying a map to places that might hold answers.
He stopped at the edge of the camp.
Lira appeared beside him.
"Can't sleep?"
"Never could. Before meetings like this."
She stood beside him, looking out at the hills.
"Do you think he'll believe us? The Duke?"
Grog thought about the old timeline. About the people who hadn't believed. About the people who'd wanted to believe and couldn't.
"He'll believe what's useful," he said.
She nodded slowly.
"Then we make it useful."