Grog woke to sunlight and silence.
The room was too large, too quiet, too soft. The bed had tried to swallow him whole during the night. He'd fought his way out of it sometime before dawn and spent the remaining hours on the floor, his back against the wall, his sword across his knees. The carpet was thick enough to sleep on. The fire had kept him warm.
He sat up slowly. His body was stiff—not from wounds, those were long healed, but from the softness of the bed, the richness of the food, the hours of standing and watching and being watched.
He needed to move.
He dressed. Not in the fine clothes they'd given him—those were folded on a chair, still too new, too clean. His own clothes, worn and comfortable, the ones that smelled like the road. He strapped on his sword. Left the room.
---
The corridors were empty at this hour.
Servants moved in the distance, carrying trays, stoking fires, going about the work that kept the palace running. They nodded as he passed, careful, professional. They didn't stare. They didn't ask questions.
Grog walked until he found a door that led outside.
The gardens were quiet. Mist hung over the hedges, soft and gray, muffling sound. The peacocks were somewhere else, thank the gods. He followed a path that wound between walls of green, past fountains that weren't running, past benches where no one sat.
He found the training yard by accident.
It was tucked behind the kitchens, hidden from the formal gardens, a square of beaten earth surrounded by stone walls. Racks of practice swords lined one side. Targets stood against the far wall, riddled with holes.
He wasn't the first one there.
Aldric was already in the yard, his shirt off, his sword in his hand. He was moving through forms—slow, deliberate, the kind of practice that was more meditation than exercise. His body was lean now, the softness of youth burned away by months of training. Scars marked his arms, his chest, his side. The new ones were still pink, still healing. The old ones were white, faded, the marks of a childhood that hadn't been easy.
Grog leaned against the wall and watched.
Aldric finished the form. Lowered his sword. Looked up.
"You're up early."
"So are you."
Aldric shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft."
Grog understood that.
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Grog walked to the rack, picked up a practice sword. The weight was wrong—too light, not his—but it would do.
Aldric raised an eyebrow. "You want to spar?"
"You need to warm up."
"I've been warming up for an hour."
"Then you need to work."
Aldric almost smiled. "Fine."
They circled each other.
---
Lira found them an hour later.
She was carrying two cups of something hot and wearing a robe that was definitely not hers. It was blue silk, embroidered with flowers, clearly borrowed from some noblewoman's wardrobe. She looked like she'd raided the palace while everyone else was sleeping.
"You're both idiots," she said, sitting on a bench by the wall. "It's dawn. We're in a duke's palace. There's probably breakfast happening somewhere with food we've never heard of. And you're out here hitting each other with sticks."
Grog blocked Aldric's strike. Countered. Aldric dodged.
"It's training," Grog said.
"It's stupid." She sipped her drink. "The servants are going to talk. The heroes of the valley, fighting in the mud before breakfast. What will the Duke think?"
Aldric scored a hit on Grog's shoulder. Not hard—just a tap.
"The Duke can think whatever he wants."
Lira watched them for a moment.
Then she set down her cup, walked to the rack, picked up a practice sword.
"Fine. But I'm not wearing this robe in the mud."
She stripped it off. Underneath she had her own clothes—shirt, pants, boots. She'd been ready to fight all along.
Grog and Aldric exchanged a look.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing," Grog said.
She stepped into the circle.
---
They sparred until the mist burned off.
It was good, Grog thought. The rhythm of it. The simplicity. Just bodies moving, weapons meeting, breath and sweat and the familiar ache of muscles working. There was no war here. No door. No things that shouldn't exist. Just three people who'd learned to fight together, learning to be still together.
Mirena found them as the sun cleared the walls.
She looked like she hadn't slept. Her hair was wild, her eyes bright, her hands stained with ink. She was carrying a book under her arm—old, thick, the kind of thing that belonged in a library.
"You're all here," she said.
Lira lowered her sword. "We're here. You look terrible."
Mirena ignored her. "The librarian—Lady Amara—she showed me the archives. There are texts I've never seen. References to the old places. Maps that show things that shouldn't exist." She held up the book. "This one was written by someone who went to the hills. Who came back."
Grog lowered his sword.
"What did they find?"
Mirena's face was pale. "Something waiting."
---
They gathered in Grog's room to talk.
The fire was lit, the curtains drawn, the door closed. Mirena spread her notes across the table, pages covered in her small, precise handwriting. The book she'd brought was open to a map, its lines faded, its edges cracked.
"The hills near here," she said, pointing. "They've been marked for centuries. The old texts call them the Watching Hills. People who go there don't always come back."
Aldric leaned forward. "And when they do?"
Mirena was quiet for a moment.
"They come back changed. The texts say they see things. Things that aren't there. Things that shouldn't exist. They say the hills are a place where the world is thin."
Lira looked at Grog. "The door."
Mirena shook her head slowly.
"I don't know. The texts are old. They don't use words like 'door' or 'portal.' They call it something else. Something older." She traced the map with her finger. "The Place Where the Veil Opens."
Grog felt the cold settle in his chest.
"In the old timeline, these hills were nothing. Just hills. We never went there. Never heard stories."
Mirena met his eyes. "Things are different now. The door moved. The explosion changed things. Maybe it woke something up."
They sat with that for a while.
---
A knock at the door.
Grog moved to answer it, his hand on his sword. But it was only a servant, young, nervous, carrying a tray.
"The Duke requests your presence at breakfast," she said. "In an hour. In the small dining room." She set the tray down, curtsied, and left before anyone could ask questions.
Lira looked at the tray. Fresh bread, cheese, fruit, coffee. "He wants to see us."
Grog nodded. "He wants to talk."
Aldric looked at the map. "About the hills?"
"About what comes next."
---
They dressed. This time, they wore the fine clothes. Grog's collar was still too tight. Lira's dress still made her want to kill someone. Aldric's jacket was a shade too small across the shoulders. But they wore them.
The small dining room was not small.
It was paneled in dark wood, the windows tall, the table long enough for twenty. But only one place was set at the head, and the Duke was already there, eating bread and honey, reading a sheaf of papers.
He looked up when they entered.
"Sit. Eat. We'll talk after."
They sat. Servants appeared with food—eggs, bacon, pastries, fruit, things Grog couldn't name. Lira piled her plate high. Aldric took bread. Mirena drank coffee, black, her eyes still on the map she'd tucked under her arm.
The Duke watched them with the same easy attention he'd shown the night before. Not staring. Just present.
When they'd eaten, he set down his cup.
"Captain Voren tells me you encountered something on the road. Something that shouldn't exist."
Grog nodded. "A creature. It came through a crack. Something the door left behind."
The Duke was quiet for a moment.
"The King has been receiving reports. From the border. From the hills. From places that have been quiet for generations." He looked at each of them. "Things are moving. Things that haven't moved in a long time."
Lira leaned forward. "The door?"
The Duke shook his head slowly. "I don't know what the door is. I know what Captain Voren told me. I know what the King's advisors have been saying. But I'm not a scholar. I'm not a mage." He paused. "I'm a man who has to make decisions. About soldiers. About supplies. About where to put the people who keep this region safe."
He stood. Walked to the window.
"My father was a soldier. He fought the Vargr, held the border, did what needed to be done. I'm not my father. I've never been in a battle. I've never held a sword against something that wanted to kill me." He turned. "But I can give you what you need. Soldiers. Supplies. A place to train. The kingdom behind you."
Grog stood.
"What do you want from us?"
The Duke met his eyes.
"I want you to be ready. For whatever comes through that door. For whatever's waking up in the hills. For the things that are coming faster than we can explain." He paused. "I want you to give the kingdom something to believe in."
---
They walked in the gardens after.
The mist was gone, the sun warm, the peacocks displaying on the lawn. A gardener was trimming roses, his shears snip-snipping in the quiet.
Aldric was the first to speak.
"He wants to use us."
Lira nodded. "He wants to use us. But he also wants to help."
Mirena looked at Grog. "What do you think?"
Grog was quiet for a moment.
"In the old timeline, we fought alone. No one believed. No one helped." He looked at the palace, the gardens, the soldiers on the walls. "Now they're offering us something. An army. Resources. A chance to be ready."
Aldric frowned. "And if it's not enough?"
Grog almost smiled.
"Then we make it enough."
---
Gwen found them at the fountain.
She was wearing green today, her hair loose, a book under her arm. She looked at Aldric with the same sharp amusement she'd shown the night before.
"You survived the breakfast," she said. "My uncle can be... intense."
Aldric shrugged. "He was honest."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's a compliment?"
"From a noble, yes."
She laughed. It was a good sound, warm. "You really are terrible at this."
"I'm a soldier."
"A soldier who killed a hundred Vargr." She looked at the others. "All of you. The heroes of the valley." She tilted her head. "What do you think of my uncle's offer?"
Lira answered. "We're considering it."
Gwen nodded slowly.
"Consider fast. The King is sending someone. To meet you. To see what you can do." She looked at Aldric. "He'll be here in three days."
She walked away.
Aldric watched her go.
"She's trouble," Lira said.
Aldric nodded. "I know."
"Good."