Duke Marcellus's Keep. Northern Border. Afternoon.
The keep was old.
Stone walls, gray and weathered, stood against a sky that seemed perpetually overcast. The towers were squat, built for defense, not beauty. The gates were iron, the guards were hard, the air smelled of snow and smoke and something else—something that reminded Edward of the canyon, of the portal, of things that didn't belong.
He had been riding for three days. His escort was tired, his horse was tired, his body was tired. But he didn't slow.
Duke Marcellus was waiting in the courtyard.
He was a large man, broad-shouldered, his face scarred, his beard streaked with gray. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing. He had ruled the north for twenty years, had fought the Vargr for longer, had never asked for help.
Until now.
"Your Highness," Marcellus said, bowing stiffly.
Edward dismounted. "Duke Marcellus. Your message said the Vargr were massing."
Marcellus gestured toward the walls. "See for yourself."
---
They climbed the steps to the ramparts.
The wind was cold, cutting through Edward's cloak, pulling at his hair. The pass was visible in the distance—a dark gash between two mountains, its floor lost in shadow.
The Vargr were there.
Thousands of them. Tents spread across the valley floor, fires burning, figures moving between them. They were organized, disciplined, unlike any Vargr force Edward had seen.
"How many?" he asked.
Marcellus shook his head. "Too many. Our scouts can't get close enough to count."
"They're not attacking."
"No." Marcellus pointed to the pass. "They're waiting."
Edward frowned. "For what?"
Marcellus lowered his hand. "That's what I need you to find out."
---
They walked the walls together.
Marcellus spoke of patrols, of skirmishes, of villages burned and farms abandoned. The Vargr had been raiding for months, but the raids had changed. They were not random anymore. They were targeted. Coordinated.
"They're clearing a path," Edward said.
Marcellus nodded. "South. Toward the capital."
"The capital is weeks away."
"They're not in a hurry."
Edward stopped at the edge of the wall. Looked at the pass, the fires, the thousands of waiting warriors.
"What are they afraid of?"
Marcellus was quiet for a moment. "Or what are they serving?"
Edward thought of the hunters. Of Vorlag. Of the red eyes that had watched from the shadows.
"I need to send scouts into the pass."
Marcellus shook his head. "I've lost three patrols already."
"Then I'll go myself."
Marcellus stared at him. "You're the heir."
"I'm a soldier."
Marcellus held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Fine. But you take my best trackers."
---
The scouts left at dusk.
Edward watched them go—four men, silent, experienced, moving into the darkness like ghosts. The pass swallowed them.
The night was cold. The fires in the Vargr camp burned low. Edward stood on the wall, waiting.
Gwen stood beside him. "You should rest."
"I can't."
"He's right. The Vargr are waiting for something."
Edward looked at the pass. "That's what I'm afraid of."
---
The scouts did not return.
Edward waited until dawn, then midday, then sunset. No word. No sign. The Vargr camp was quiet. The pass was silent.
Marcellus was grim. "They're dead."
"We don't know that."
"We know."
Edward turned from the wall. "I need to see for myself."
"You'll die."
"Then I'll die knowing."
Marcellus grabbed his arm. "You're the heir. The King is dying. The kingdom needs you."
Edward pulled free. "The kingdom needs to know what's coming."
---
That night, the lights appeared.
Edward was on the wall, alone, watching the pass. The Vargr fires had burned low, but something else glowed in the darkness.
Red lights. Small at first, then larger. Moving.
Not torches. Not fires.
Eyes.
Dozens of them. Watching.
Edward's blood went cold.
Gwen appeared beside him. "What is that?"
"The hunters," Edward whispered. "Or something worse."
The lights moved closer.
Edward turned to the guards. "Man the walls. Sound the alarm."
The lights stopped. Waited.
Edward stared into the darkness.
The Vargr were not alone.