The Research Camp. The Hills East of the Capital. Evening.
Grog rode into the camp as the sun began to set.
The sky was a canvas of orange and red, streaked with clouds that looked like smoke. The pavilion stood at the center of the clearing, its canvas walls glowing in the fading light, its roof open to the sky. The adventurers were at their posts—some on the perimeter, watching the forest edge, some resting by their tents, their bedrolls spread on the grass. The mages were still working, their figures moving inside the pavilion, their voices low and focused.
The camp had grown since he left. More tents, more supplies, more guards. Mirena had been busy.
Ken was waiting at the gate.
He stood with his arms crossed, his hood down, his face still. The shadows clung to him as always, but there was something different in his eyes—a readiness, a focus.
"You're back," he said.
Grog dismounted. His legs were stiff from the long ride, his back sore from the axe strapped across his shoulders. "I said I would be."
Ken's eyes moved to the weapon. The axe was dark, its blade gleaming faintly in the evening light. It hummed with a low, steady vibration that Grog could feel through the leather wrap.
"That's new," Ken said.
"It's old." Grog touched the haft. "It just feels new."
Ken studied it for a moment. "What can it do?"
Grog unstrapped the axe and held it out. "Watch."
He stepped back a few paces, hefted the axe, and threw it. The blade spun through the air, dark and deadly, and buried itself deep in a wooden post at the edge of the clearing.
Ken raised an eyebrow.
Grog extended his hand. Concentrated. The axe trembled, then pulled free and flew back to his grip.
Ken stared. "It returns to you."
"The metal remembers me. Henrik and his apprentice figured out how to make it respond." Grog ran his fingers along the blade. "I can throw it, leave it somewhere, call it back. It always comes to my hand."
Ken nodded slowly. "That will be useful."
Grog strapped the axe back onto his shoulder. "I hope so."
---
Mirena emerged from the pavilion.
Her face was tired, her robes dusty, her hair escaping its tie. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hands were stained with ink and crystal dust. But her eyes were bright—focused, intense.
"The first portal opens tomorrow," she said.
Grog walked toward her. "Is everything ready?"
Mirena led him into the pavilion. The artifact sat on the stone table in the center, dark and waiting. The refined stones were arranged in a precise circle around it—thirty of them, glowing faintly, pulsing with stored energy. The crystals were calibrated, the lenses polished, the wards tested. Diagrams covered every surface, equations and symbols that Grog didn't understand.
"The stones are refined. The artifact is calibrated. The wards are tested." Mirena paused, her hand resting on the edge of the table. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."
Grog looked at the portal circle. "And Ken?"
"He's ready. He's been meditating for days. The clones are prepared."
Grog nodded slowly. "Then we do it."
---
They gathered in the pavilion as the last light faded.
The crystals glowed brighter, casting the space in pale blue light. The refined stones hummed, their energy contained but eager. Alistair stood near the artifact, his staff in his hand, his back still bandaged but his posture strong.
Ken stood near the entrance, his arms crossed, his face still. He had been quiet since Grog's return, watching, listening, preparing.
"The clone at the border is holding," he said. "William reports the Vargr are still retreating. The hunters are dead. The pass is quiet."
Mirena nodded. "Good. We'll need the border secure while we search."
Grog looked at the artifact. "Tomorrow, Ken goes through."
Ken nodded. "I'll report everything I find. Terrain, inhabitants, magic. Any sign of Aldric. Any sign of Vorlag."
"And if you find something dangerous?"
Ken met his eyes. "Then I adapt."
---
That night, Grog sat alone at the edge of the camp.
The axe was across his knees, dark and warm. He could feel it now—the connection, the bond, the magic that linked him to the blade. It was like his sword, but different. The sword was for fighting. The axe was for finishing. The sword cut. The axe cleaved.
He thought about Lena. About the village. About the months he had spent away. The kiss still lingered on his lips, the warmth of her body still remembered. He had told her he would come back. He had meant it.
He thought about Aldric. About the portal closing. About the look on his face when he stepped through. The determination. The fear. The love.
I'll find you, he whispered.
The axe hummed in response.
Ken appeared beside him, silent as smoke.
"You're thinking," Ken said.
Grog didn't look up. "Always."
"What?"
Grog was quiet for a moment. "About tomorrow. About what we'll find."
Ken sat beside him on the grass. The shadows around him seemed to settle, to still.
"We'll find something," Ken said.
"Or nothing."
"Or nothing." Ken looked at the stars. The sky was clear, the constellations bright. "Then we try again. Another portal. Another world. Until we find him."
Grog looked at the axe. "How many portals do we have?"
"A dozen. Maybe more, if Mirena refines more stones."
"A dozen chances."
Ken nodded. "A dozen chances."
---
Mirena worked through the night.
She checked the crystals, the wards, the artifact. She counted the refined stones, recalculated the resonance, tested the containment spells. She adjusted the lenses, recalibrated the circles, reinforced the anchors.
Everything was ready.
Alistair joined her at midnight. He brought tea, which she drank cold.
"The portal will open at dawn," he said.
Mirena nodded without looking up. "I know."
"Are you nervous?"
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were red, her hands steady. "Yes."
Alistair placed a hand on her shoulder. "That's good. Nervous means you're paying attention."
She almost smiled. Almost. "My father used to say that."
"He was wise."
"He was dead."
Alistair was quiet for a moment. "Then we honor him by being careful."
---
Dawn came slowly.
The sky lightened from black to gray to pale gold. The camp stirred—adventurers rising, mages stretching, horses nickering in their picket line.
Grog stood at the edge of the pavilion, the axe on his back, his hand on his sword. Ken stood beside him, still as stone.
Mirena raised her hands.
The crystals flared. The stones glowed. The artifact pulsed—stronger than it had in weeks.
The air in the center of the circle rippled, then split.
The portal opened.
It was stable—a shimmering oval, its surface smooth, its edges clear. Beyond it, Grog could see another world: purple skies, silver trees, a river that glowed with pale light.
Ken stepped forward.
Grog gripped his arm. "One day. Then you come back."
Ken met his eyes. "I will."
He stepped through.
The portal rippled behind him.
The camp was silent.