The Palace Training Yard. Morning.
Grog was the first one there.
He had been awake for hours—lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence. Aldric's room was down the hall. He had passed it on his way out. The door was closed. No one had opened it since they returned from the canyon.
The yard was empty. The dummies stood in rows, frozen soldiers waiting for battle. The practice swords were stacked on the rack, their grips worn, their blades dull. The sun was rising, painting the stones gold and red.
Grog walked to the center of the yard. Drew his sword.
The blade caught the light, dark metal that seemed to drink the sun. It was lighter than it should be, faster than it should be, alive in a way that still unsettled him. It had chosen him. It had bound itself to him. He still didn't know why.
He began to move.
---
The forms came back to him—the ones Grog had taught Aldric, the ones Aldric had taught William, the ones that had been passed down through years of training and fighting and surviving. He moved through them slowly at first, then faster, then faster still.
His body remembered. His sword remembered.
The berserker stirred.
Not the red—not yet. Just a presence, a hunger, a need. It wanted to fight. It wanted to kill. It wanted to lose itself in the rage that had always been waiting beneath his skin.
Grog didn't let it.
He pushed harder. Faster. His sword cut through the air, through the dummies, through the practice targets that had been standing for years. Wood splintered. Straw scattered. The yard filled with the sounds of destruction.
He didn't stop.
---
Lira found him an hour later.
She sat on the bench at the edge of the yard, her wounded arm pressed against her side, her face pale. She had been watching for a while, her eyes on Grog, on the berserker, on the way he moved.
He was different. Faster. Stronger. More reckless. The apple had changed him. The berserker had changed him. Aldric's disappearance had changed him.
He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. Just kept moving.
"Grog."
He didn't answer.
"Grog."
He stopped. Lowered his sword. His chest was heaving, his face was red, his eyes were wild. The red was there, at the edges of his vision, but he was holding it back.
"What?" His voice was rough, scraped.
Lira stood. Walked to him. "You need to rest."
"I need to train."
"You need to rest."
He shook his head. "I need to be ready."
Lira met his eyes. "Ready for what?"
Grog was quiet for a moment. "For whatever comes next."
---
Mirena came to the yard at midday.
Her staff was repaired—not fully, the crystal still dim, the wood still cracked. But it was whole. It would do. She had been practicing in her room, rebuilding what she had lost, learning to fight without the power she had once relied on.
Grog was still in the yard.
He had destroyed four dummies. The practice swords were scattered. The targets were splinters. He was standing in the center, his sword in his hand, his chest heaving, his eyes on nothing.
Mirena sat on the bench. Watched.
"The portal is closed," she said.
Grog didn't look at her. "I know."
"The creatures will stop coming."
"I know."
"Aldric is gone."
Grog's jaw tightened. "I know."
Mirena was quiet for a moment. "What are you training for?"
Grog turned. His eyes were red—not the red of the berserker, the red of exhaustion. He hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't spoken more than a few words since they returned.
"To fight," he said. "To kill. To survive."
Mirena nodded slowly. "And after that?"
Grog was silent.
---
William came to the yard in the afternoon.
He had been with the volunteers, training them, preparing them. Mei was leading them now—she had taken charge after Aldric disappeared, had stepped into the role without being asked. Tomas was competent now, his hands steady, his feet planted. The others were veterans, scarred and hardened and ready.
William walked to the bench. Sat beside Mirena.
"He's been at it all day," he said.
Mirena nodded. "He has."
William watched Grog move through the forms—fast, brutal, relentless. "He's going to burn out."
"He knows."
William was quiet for a moment. "He blames himself."
Mirena looked at him. "We all do."
William shook his head. "He blames himself more."
---
Grog pushed too hard.
The berserker surged—not the red, not the rage, just the need. The need to fight. The need to kill. The need to lose himself in something that wasn't grief.
His sword moved faster. His body moved faster. The world blurred around him.
He lost control.
The red came.
He swung at a dummy—not a practice target, a wooden soldier painted with targets. His sword cut through it, through the wood, through the straw, through the base. The dummy split in half, fell to the ground.
He turned. Swung at another. Another. Another.
They fell.
The yard was chaos—splintered wood, scattered straw, broken targets. Grog stood in the center, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, the red already fading.
Lira was there.
She had crossed the yard without him noticing, had moved between him and the next target, had placed herself in his path. Her hands were up, her face pale, her eyes steady.
"Grog."
He stared at her.
"Come back."
The red faded. The berserker settled. Grog lowered his sword. His hands were shaking.
He didn't thank her. He just walked away.