Aldric woke to pain.
It was a familiar pain—the deep ache of healing flesh, the sharp spike when he moved wrong, the constant throb that reminded him he was alive. He'd felt it before, after the battle, after the beast in the pass. This was worse.
He lay still, taking inventory.
Leg: broken. The healers had said so, before the painkillers took him under. Something about the bone, something about the joint. He'd heard the words but not the meaning. His leg was in a splint, heavy and tight, and when he tried to move it, nothing happened.
Arm: damaged. Not broken, they'd said. Something about the muscle, the tendons, the places where the beast's teeth had caught him. His fingers moved, but slowly, stiffly, like they belonged to someone else.
Chest: bruised. Ribs cracked, maybe. Every breath was a small war.
He let his head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling was white, clean, the kind of ceiling that belonged in a place where people came to get better. He'd been in places like this before. Never for this long.
The door opened.
He didn't turn his head. He knew who it was.
"You're awake," Grog said.
"So they tell me."
Grog moved to the chair beside the bed. He moved slowly, favoring his arm, his side. The bandages were fresh, white against his skin. He'd been hurt too. They'd all been hurt.
"How long?" Aldric asked.
"Three days."
Three days. He'd lost three days.
"The others?"
"Alive. William's fine. Bruised. Scared. His brother's been watching him." Grog paused. "Mirena's arm is burned. She's resting. Lira hasn't slept."
Aldric absorbed this.
"You?"
Grog looked at his bandaged arm. "I'll live."
They sat in silence for a moment. The room was quiet, the windows open, the sounds of the palace drifting in from outside. Voices, footsteps, the distant clatter of carts on stone. Ordinary sounds. The sounds of a world that hadn't ended.
Aldric spoke again. "The beast. Was it—"
He stopped. He didn't know how to finish the question.
Grog waited.
"Was it looking for me?"
The words hung in the air. Aldric watched Grog's face, looking for something—confirmation, denial, the truth he'd been carrying since the battle.
Grog was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know."
Aldric closed his eyes.
"It was like the others," Grog said. "The ones we killed in the pass. But different. Bigger. Wronger." He paused. "The naturalist—the Duke brought one in. He looked at the bones. Said nothing in this kingdom has bones like that. Said it wasn't born here."
Aldric opened his eyes. "Where was it born?"
Grog didn't answer.
---
The healer came an hour later.
She was old, her hands steady, her face neutral. She checked Aldric's leg, his arm, his chest. She asked him to move his fingers, his toes, his hand. She asked him to try to sit up. He couldn't.
"The leg will heal," she said. "The bone was clean. The joint was not. You'll walk again, but not soon."
Aldric looked at her. "How long?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Months. Perhaps longer."
Months.
He looked at his leg, trapped in the splint, white and still. Months.
"And the arm?"
She examined it, turning his hand, flexing his elbow. "The muscle was torn. It will heal, but it will take time. You'll need to work it. Slowly. Carefully."
He nodded. He didn't trust his voice.
The healer packed her supplies. At the door, she paused.
"The Duke has asked to be informed when you're awake. He'll want to speak with you. About what happened." She looked at Grog. "About what you found."
She left.
---
William came that afternoon.
He knocked once, then opened the door before anyone could answer. His face was still pale, his hands still raw, his eyes too bright. But he was standing. He was walking. He was here.
"You're awake," he said.
Aldric nodded.
William stood in the doorway, not moving closer. He looked at the splint on Aldric's leg, the bandages on his arm, the bruises on his chest. His face did something complicated.
"They said you might not walk," he said.
"They said I will. Just not soon."
William nodded slowly. He moved to the chair by the bed, sat heavily. His hands were on his knees, his shoulders hunched.
"I thought you were dead," he said. His voice was quiet. "When you fell. When the beast—" He stopped.
Aldric waited.
"I thought you were dead." William looked at him. "I've never seen anything like that. The way it moved. The way it—" He stopped again. "I've been training for weeks. I thought I was ready. I wasn't ready."
Aldric watched him. The prince who wanted to be a soldier. Who had learned to fall, to stand, to hold a sword. Who had put himself between Aldric and a thing that should have killed him.
"You were there," Aldric said. "You held."
William shook his head. "I blocked one blow. That's not—"
"You held." Aldric's voice was firm. "When it mattered, you held."
William was quiet for a long moment. Then he straightened, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sat up the way a prince was supposed to sit.
"The Duke wants to talk to you," he said. "About what happened. About what we found." He looked at Aldric. "About what comes next."
Aldric looked at his leg. Months.
"When?"
"Tomorrow, maybe. When you're stronger." William stood. "I'll tell him you need rest."
He moved to the door. Paused.
"Aldric."
Aldric looked at him.
"I'm glad you're alive."
He left.
---
Grog came back that evening.
He brought food—bread, cheese, something that smelled like stew. He set it on the table by the bed, sat in the chair, didn't eat.
Aldric looked at the food. His stomach was empty, but he didn't feel hungry.
"The Duke wants to talk to us," Grog said. "About the beast. About what it was. About whether there are more."
Aldric looked at him. "Are there?"
Grog was quiet for a moment.
"The King sent a letter. Reports from across the kingdom. Strange creatures. Things that don't belong." He met Aldric's eyes. "We're not the only ones."
Aldric absorbed this.
"So it wasn't looking for me."
"I don't know." Grog's voice was steady. "But it wasn't alone."
---
That night, Aldric lay awake.
The room was dark, the window open, the sounds of the palace quiet. His leg throbbed. His arm ached. His chest burned with every breath.
He thought about the beast. The way it had moved, the way it had looked at him, the thing that had poured out of it when it died. He thought about the old timeline, about the voice, about the thing that had lived inside him for so long.
It was gone. He was sure of it. The silence was normal now, comfortable, his.
But the beasts were still coming.
He closed his eyes.
They would need to be ready.