The Canyon. Night.
The creature stepped through the portal.
It was massive—twice the size of the warrior they had just killed, its body a mass of muscle and bone and dark, mottled flesh. Its limbs were thick, corded, ending in claws that scraped the stone. Its head was low, its jaw wide, its teeth rows of razored bone. Its eyes were red. Burning.
It roared.
The sound was physical, a wave of force that shook the ground, that sent the horses screaming, that made William stumble. Grog stood his ground, his sword raised, the berserker screaming in his blood.
"Now," he said. "Fight."
---
Grog met it head-on.
His sword carved a deep gash in its flank, dark blood spraying. The creature roared, swung a massive claw. Grog dodged—barely—the wind of its passage ruffling his hair. He swung again, opening another wound.
The creature was fast. Faster than anything that size should be. But Grog was faster. The berserker was awake, the red was everywhere, and he was not alone.
Ken moved like smoke, his arrows finding the creature's eyes, its throat, its joints. Lira shot from the edge of the canyon, her arrows punching through armor, through bone, through flesh. Mirena's spells lashed at the creature, slowing it, weakening it, driving it back.
William fought beside Grog, his sword steady, his back straight. He was not as strong, not as fast, not as skilled. But he was there. He did not run.
The creature fell.
Grog stood over it, breathing hard, his sword dripping with dark blood. The red was fading, the berserker settling.
More were coming.
---
The second creature stepped through the portal.
And a third.
And a fourth.
The hunters watched from the shadows, their red eyes gleaming, their smiles wide. The cult watched from the cliffs above, their faces hidden, their hands steady.
Mirena raised her staff. "We can't hold them. There are too many."
Grog looked at the portal. At the creatures pouring through. At the hunters watching. At the cult waiting.
"We don't have to hold them," he said. "We just have to close the door."
Ken moved to stand beside him. "How?"
Grog met his eyes. "Someone needs to go through. Close it from the other side."
---
The creatures charged.
Grog met them, his sword singing, the berserker screaming. Ken fought beside him, his knives flashing, his body moving like water. Lira shot from the edge, her arrows never missing. Mirena's spells held the line, shields and wards and bursts of light.
William fought with them, his sword steady, his back straight. He was wounded—a gash on his arm, a cut on his cheek—but he did not fall.
The creatures kept coming.
And from the shadows, the hunters watched.
---
One of them fell.
Not a creature—one of the company. Lira stumbled, an arrow in her shoulder—not from the creatures, from the cliffs above. The cult was shooting.
She fell.
Ken was there, pulling her behind a rock, pressing his hand against the wound. "Stay down."
Lira tried to rise. "I can fight."
"You can bleed." Ken's voice was firm. "Stay down."
---
Grog saw her fall.
The red surged. The berserker screamed. He turned toward the cliffs, toward the cult, toward the people who had shot her.
The hunters stepped into his path.
"Not yet," the lead hunter said. "The door isn't open. Not fully."
Grog raised his sword. "I don't care."
The hunter smiled. "You will."
---
From the portal, something else moved.
Not a creature—something larger. Something darker. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, the wrongness thicker.
Vorlag was coming.
The hunters stepped back, their red eyes gleaming, their smiles wide. "He's here."
Grog looked at the portal. At the darkness beyond. At the thing that was coming.
"Not yet," he said.
He stepped forward.
---
The creatures kept coming.
Grog killed them. Ken killed them. Lira shot them from behind the rock, her wounded arm trembling, her aim still true. Mirena's spells drove them back, held the line, gave them room to breathe.
William fought beside Grog, his sword steady, his back straight. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, his armor cracked, his shield splintered. But he did not fall.
The cult shot from the cliffs. Arrows rained down, finding gaps in their defense, finding flesh, finding blood.
One struck Mirena in the leg. She stumbled, fell, her staff clattering on the stone.
Grog turned. "Mirena!"
She waved him off. "I'm fine. Hold the line."
---
The portal pulsed.
The darkness beyond grew thicker, darker, more solid. Vorlag was coming. Grog could feel it—the same wrongness he had felt in the Grove, in the pass, in the cavern at the end of the old timeline.
He looked at the portal. At the creatures pouring through. At the hunters watching. At the cult waiting.
He looked at his friends. Bleeding, wounded, dying.
"We need to close it," he said. "Now."
Ken moved to stand beside him. "I'll go."
Grog shook his head. "No."
"I've been through before. I know what's waiting."
Grog met his eyes. "So do I."
---
Aldric stepped out of the shadows.
His leg was bandaged, his cane was in his hand, his face was pale with pain. He had followed them. He had not stayed behind.
Grog stared at him. "You shouldn't be here."
Aldric met his eyes. "I know."
"Your leg—"
"Will heal." Aldric's voice was steady. "Or it won't. But I'm not staying behind while you all die."
Grog was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. "Fine."
Aldric drew his sword. "I'm going through the portal."
Grog shook his head. "No."
"This is my fight." Aldric's voice was firm. "It's always been my fight."
Grog looked at the portal. At the darkness beyond. At the thing that was coming.
"Then we go together."