The dispatch arrived at midday.
Grog saw it from the window of his room—a rider in royal colors, blue and gold, his horse lathered and blowing, his cloak thick with dust from the road. The man swayed in the saddle as he came through the gates, and two servants had to help him dismount. He handed a sealed packet to the steward—a cylinder of leather-bound wood, the royal seal pressed into wax at its join—and was led away to food and water and rest.
The steward carried the packet to the Duke.
Grog watched him go. Then he sat on his bed, his arm aching, his side pulling, and waited.
---
An hour later, a servant came to fetch them.
The Duke's study was at the heart of the palace, a room Grog had come to know over the weeks of their stay. It was not large—the Duke preferred small rooms, he'd said once, because they forced people to be honest with each other. The walls were dark wood, the windows tall, the fire always lit. Books lined one wall, maps covered another, and the desk at the center was old enough to have served three generations of the Duke's family.
Now the room was full.
Grog sat in a chair near the fire, his arm still bandaged, his side still healing, his shoulder a mass of pain that had become familiar enough to ignore. Lira stood by the window, her bow across her back, her eyes moving from the courtyard below to the faces in the room and back again. Aldric was in a chair near the door, his leg propped on a stool, his cane beside him, his face set against the pain that hadn't faded in two weeks. Mirena stood beside him, her staff in her hand, her arm still wrapped, her face tired in the way that came from too many hours of practice and not enough sleep.
William was at the back of the room, his back straight, his hands steady at his sides. He had been in the training yard when the summons came, had come straight from it without changing. There was dust on his boots and a bruise on his forearm where a practice sword had found him that morning.
Edward stood apart from the others, near the window, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. He had been in the palace all morning, reading reports, writing letters, doing the work of a prince who would one day be king. His clothes were clean, his hair was combed, his hands were still. But his eyes moved to his brother more than once, lingering, assessing.
Commander Vance stood beside the Duke's desk, his arms crossed, his face carved from stone. He had been quiet since the rider arrived, had said nothing to anyone, had simply appeared in the study when the summons went out. His eyes moved from face to face, taking in the bandages, the bruises, the exhaustion. He missed nothing.
The Duke sat behind his desk, the packet open before him. The wax seal was broken, the leather binding undone, the papers spread across the polished wood. He looked at the company, at the faces of the people who had come to his palace weeks ago, wounded and tired and carrying things he didn't fully understand.
"The King has answered," he said.
He picked up the letter and began to read.
---
His voice was steady, measured, the voice of a man who had spent his life reading dispatches and delivering news. He read the words that King Amos Ironhold had written, words that had traveled for days across the kingdom, through villages and fields and the hills where the beast had come from.
The King had received their reports. He had read the Duke's accounts, the Commander's observations, the testimony of the men who had ridden into the hills and come back with bones that didn't belong to this world. He had read the descriptions of the beast—its size, its shape, the way it had moved, the thing that had poured out of it when it died.
He had received reports from across the kingdom. Strange creatures sighted in the north, near the border of Duke Marcellus's lands. Farmers finding livestock torn apart, their bodies arranged in patterns that meant nothing and everything. A village in the east, in Duke Helena's territory, found empty, no bodies, no blood, no sign of struggle. A patrol in the south, near Duke Stefan's border, encountering something that moved like smoke and killed four men before disappearing.
He had heard from his advisors, his generals, his spies. They had no answers. They had only questions.
He wanted answers.
The heroes of the valley would investigate. They would return to the hills where they had killed the beast. They would find the source of the creatures that were appearing across the kingdom. They would determine if it was connected to the door—the thing Grog had spoken of in his reports, the thing the hunters had served, the thing that had opened in the valley and vanished when the battle ended.
They would be given whatever they needed. Soldiers, supplies, resources. Commander Vance would accompany them, would observe, would report directly to the King. The Duke would provide whatever support they required.
They would leave in two weeks.
The Duke set the letter down. The room was silent.
---
William was the first to speak.
"Two weeks."
The Duke nodded slowly. "The King wants answers. He wants them soon. The reports are coming faster now. More creatures, more villages, more people who are afraid." He looked at the maps spread across his desk, at the marks they had made, the places where strange things had happened. "He needs to know what we're facing."
William looked at his hands. The hands that had held the sword against the beast, that had blocked its claws, that had kept Aldric alive. They were steady now. "We're not ready."
Grog shook his head. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."
Lira turned from the window. "The village. The one near the hills. It's still empty."
The Duke nodded slowly. "We sent scouts. They found nothing. No bodies, no blood, no sign of struggle. The houses are intact. The hearths are cold. The animals are gone." He paused. "The people are just... gone."
Mirena spoke. Her voice was quiet, steady. "The thing we killed—it wasn't alone. There are more. There have always been more. The old texts talk about them. Creatures that come through when the world is thin. Things that don't belong here." She looked at the maps on the Duke's desk. "They're not new. They're just waking up."
The Duke met her eyes. "The King knows. That's why he's sending you."
---
Edward moved from the corner.
He had been quiet since the letter was read, his face still, his hands clasped behind his back. Now he stepped forward, looked at the maps on the table, the places marked, the hills where the beast had come from, the village where the people had vanished.
"You're going back there."
William nodded. "We are."
Edward was quiet for a moment. "The village—the empty one. It's near where you found the bones."
Grog met his eyes. "It is."
Edward looked at the map. "Do you think they're connected? The village and the beast?"
Mirena answered. "The thing we killed came from somewhere. It didn't wander into those hills by accident. It was drawn there. Or sent there." She paused. "The village is close to where we found it. Close enough that it could have been—" She stopped.
"Could have been what?"
Mirena looked at him. "Could have been hunting. Could have been looking for something. Could have been the first."
Edward was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked at his brother.
"Come back," he said. "When it's over. Whatever you find out there, whatever's coming through, come back."
William met his eyes. "I will."
---
The Duke dismissed them.
They filed out slowly—Lira first, her bow across her back, her eyes already on the door, already thinking about the training yard. Aldric next, leaning on his cane, moving with the careful slowness of a man who was learning to walk again. Mirena followed, her staff in her hand, her face set, her mind already on the spells she would need to practice before they left.
William went last. He paused at the door, looked back at his uncle.
The Duke nodded. "Go. Train. Rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."
William left. The door closed behind him.
---
The room was quiet. The fire crackled. The maps lay open on the table, the marks they had made, the places they had marked, the hills where something was waiting.
Vance moved to the window. He stood there for a long moment, looking out at the courtyard below, where William was already walking toward the training yard, where Lira was stringing her bow, where Mirena was practicing her forms alone in a corner.
"The boy isn't ready," he said. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "The second prince. He's been training for weeks, but he's been training with soldiers who are gentle with him. He's never faced anything like what's out there."
The Duke watched him. "And the others?"
Vance turned. "The hero can barely walk. The mage is learning to fight, but she's not there yet. The scout is the only one who's ready for what's coming." He paused. "The barbarian is still wounded. He hides it, but I can see it. His arm isn't healing the way it should. His side is worse."
The Duke was quiet for a moment.
"They have two weeks."
Vance's voice was hard. "Two weeks isn't enough."
"It will have to be." The Duke looked at the maps on his desk. "The King is afraid, Vance. He doesn't say it in his letters, but I can read it. He's been on that throne for thirty years, and he's never seen anything like this. He doesn't know what to do. He's sending them because he doesn't know what else to do."
Vance said nothing.
"We'll give them what they need," the Duke said. "Soldiers, supplies, weapons. We'll give them time to train, to heal, to prepare. And when they leave—" He stopped.
"When they leave?"
The Duke met his eyes. "When they leave, we pray."
---
Grog found William in the training yard.
The prince was alone, a practice sword in his hand, a target at the far end. His back was to the gate, his shoulders were set, his feet were planted. He was swinging—not the wild swings of someone who didn't know what he was doing, but controlled strikes, the kind Aldric had taught him.
He hit the target. He missed. He hit again.
His form was better than it had been a week ago. His feet were surer, his hands steadier, his strikes more controlled. But he was still slow. Still clumsy. Still a prince who had spent more time in courts than camps.
Grog leaned against the gate, watching.
William finished his set, lowered his sword, turned. His face was red, his chest was heaving, his hands were shaking. But his eyes were steady.
"You're here to tell me I'm not ready," he said.
Grog shook his head. "I'm here to tell you to keep practicing."
William stared at him. "That's it?"
"That's it."
William raised his sword, turned back to the target. Swung. Hit. Swung again. Missed. Swung again. Hit.
Grog watched.
"The King's command," William said between swings. "My father wants answers. He wants us to go back to the hills. He wants to know what's happening." He hit the target. Missed. Hit again.
Grog nodded. "He does."
William stopped. Lowered his sword. Looked at it. "Do you think we'll find something? Something like the beast?"
Grog was quiet for a moment. He thought about the old timeline. About the things that had come through the door. About the things that had waited for Aldric to open it.
"I think we'll find something," he said.
William looked at his hands. The hands that had held the sword against the beast. The hands that had blocked its claws. The hands that had kept Aldric alive.
"Good," he said. He raised his sword. Swung again.