Rugr reached the landing of the first floor and adjusted his cowl when his breath caught in his chest. The man across the room—leaning casually against the bar—was unmistakable, though it seemed impossible. Rugr froze, his heart pounding like a war drum.

  It was Dungr.

  Three centuries dead—at least, that’s what Rugr had believed. Yet there he stood, alive and solid as the stone beneath their feet. The years had etched themselves into his face, just as they had on Rugr’s, but there was no mistaking the scar above his left eye. Rugr had put it there long ago when they were boys fighting in the dirt. The memory rose unbidden: Dungr’s jeering taunts, Rugr’s seething frustration, the sharp crack of a rock striking flesh. He’d thought he’d won, his brother humbled at last—but Dungr had just laughed, blood trickling down his temple.

  “Good one,” Dungr had said with a grin.

  Their mother had not shared his amusement. Rugr’s punishment had been swift and severe: weeks of chores and nights without supper. Yet Dungr had quietly slipped him scraps of bread and meat, brotherly guilt outweighing any grudge.

  And now, after all these years, Rugr found himself staring at that same face, older, weathered by time but undeniably Dungr.

  He turned abruptly, heading for the door, his boots echoing against the worn floorboards. He needed air, space, and time to think. His mind reeled, grappling with the impossible. Dungr’s presence in Balta raised questions he wasn’t ready to face. What happened to those who stayed behind and vowed to fight until the bitter end?

  Rugr’s last memory of his brother was seared into his soul. It had been near the end of the war; their people were pushed to the brink of extinction. The enemy was relentless, their hatred consuming everything in its path. Victory was no longer a possibility—only survival or annihilation remained.

  The survivors were divided. Markus Leness, the charismatic leader of the escape faction, argued that they should abandon their homeland to rebuild elsewhere. “We will grow strong again,” Markus had promised. “We will return one day, when the time is right, and cleanse our world of the scourge that has devoured it.”

  But not everyone agreed. Dungr, a high army commander, had been among those who chose to stay and fight. Rugr had wanted to stand beside him, to fight and die as brothers. Marnea, the woman Rugr loved, had changed his course.

  Marnea, with her quiet strength and unyielding hope, had begged him to leave. “Rugr,” she had said, her voice trembling with emotion, “we can survive this. We can have a life—a family. They’ve taken so much from us, but we can still build something beautiful. Please.”

  Her words had shaken him to his core. He had always envisioned a future with her—a home filled with laughter, children, and the peace they had been denied. But the thought of abandoning his brother, leaving him to face certain death, felt like an unforgivable betrayal.

  The decision had nearly broken him.

  At the final hour, Rugr had returned to his brother’s camp, his mind made up. He would stay and fight. He would die alongside Dungr if that were what fate demanded.

  But Dungr had refused.

  Outranking Rugr by command and blood, Dungr had made the decision for him. “Go with her, Rugr,” he had said, his voice firm but kind. “Find peace. Raise a family. Maybe name one of them after me—preferably a boy. Dungr’s a terrible name for a girl.”

  Dungr had laughed, his signature grin breaking through the grim tension. But Rugr couldn’t bring himself to join in.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, little brother,” Dungr had said, sensing his anguish. “One more man is of no use to me here. You’re needed there—where you can make a difference—with her.”

  And with that, Dungr had turned him around and pushed him out of the tent. The last words Rugr had heard from him, spoken with unmistakable love, were, “Look forward, brother. Never back.”

  Rugr returned to his horse and led it to the crest of a rolling hill. The vantage point offered a clear view of the long, sloping rise that stretched to the trees below. He tied the reins to a sturdy bush and crouched low, resting on his haunches. His eyes scanned the tree line, sharp and watchful.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The figure of Dungr emerged from the shadows of the trees, stopping briefly, locking gazes with Rugr, and then began the climb up the hill toward him.

  Rugr stayed still, his thoughts a storm of disbelief and caution. Seeing his brother alive after centuries was a shock he could scarcely process. Yet the tension of recent days made him suspicious of everything—and everyone. Everything he thought he knew needed to be re-evaluated.

  As Dungr drew near, Rugr stood, his eyes narrowing as he examined the man slowly and carefully. Dungr stopped a few paces away, mirroring Rugr’s measured appraisal.

  “You’re taller than I remember,” Dungr said, a grin breaking across his weathered face. A warm chuckle escaped him.

  “It’s because I’ve got the high ground,” Rugr replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’d think a high commander would understand the advantage of such a position.”

  For a moment, they stood frozen, and then both burst into laughter. When they embraced, the force of it nearly sent them tumbling down the hill.

  “For a moment there,” Dungr said, pulling back, “I thought you weren’t happy to see me. You turned tail and ran like the dog whenever Mum went after it with the broom.”

  “I felt like the dog, to be honest,” Rugr admitted.

  “Seeing your brother alive after thinking him dead for three hundred years will do that to a man,” Dungr said, his grin softening into an apologetic expression.

  Rugr remained silent and brooding. Anger stirred within him, and he could not pinpoint its source.

  Dungr waited patiently, waiting for the question he knew was coming.

  “Explain to me how you are alive and how you are here,” Rugr said, his voice low and rough.

  Dungr sighed. The question was inevitable, but he knew his answer would only leave more questions.

  Locking eyes with his brothers, Dungr’s face darkened. “That, brother, is a long story. One filled with betrayal and treachery. I can tell you the salient parts, but I will have to leave out certain details, mostly for brevity.”

  “You don’t trust me,” Rugr said, the tension evident in his tone.

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  “Of course I trust you,” Dungr replied firmly. “In fact, I’m counting on your trust more than you can imagine.”

  Dungr continued, his voice softening, “What was the last thing I said to you that night?”

  “Always look forward, never back”

  “Yes, Rugr, that was the essence of it. And while the things I will tell you are important, they are looking backward to a past that has already been written. You must know what has happened, but we must focus on going forward. The future that is quickly unfolding requires more from us than either of us can know.”

  Rugr looked over his brother's shoulder, staring at the sea beyond. He contemplated Dungr’s words, unsatisfied, but he understood because he knew full well that there were things he could not and would not share with his brother.

  “Don’t worry, brother; in time, your mind will unravel the truth of things.”

  Rugr, relaxed and side by side, they settled on the grassy slope, the city and the sea sprawling below them. The distant sounds of Balta—the creak of docked ships, the faint echo of early morning labor—were carried up by the cool breeze. Dungr began to speak, his voice steady but shadowed by the weight of what he shared.

  "After you and the others left to escape," Dungr began, his voice steady but heavy with memory, "we prepared for what we believed would be the final battle of our lives. In the chaos, we uncovered a journal—a partial one, badly damaged—but what remained was damning. It contained notes on the incantation used to create the defensive wards at the Battle of Remon."

  Rugr’s jaw tightened, the name Remon brought back memories he had spent centuries trying to suppress.

  "The spell," Dungr continued grimly, "had been corrupted. Deliberately sabotaged. It was laced with weaknesses the Sa Kamal exploited. You remember what happened—how they broke through, overrunning our lines, slaughtering over a hundred thousand of our people. That day marked the beginning of our end, shattering not only our defenses but the very will of our armies and leaders."

  Rugr nodded silently, his chest tightening. He had fought at Remon. He had watched the chaos unfold, helpless to stop it.

  "The journal," Dungr went on, "also contained something else: a crude map showing the location of the portal you and the others used to reach Astiria. But more importantly, it hinted at something we hadn’t fully understood before—the magic that powered the portal. It wasn’t ours, Rugr. It wasn’t of our world."

  Rugr’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," Dungr said, his voice low, "that the magic was ancient. Older than any spell or ward we’ve ever known. It wasn’t Sa Kamal magic, either. It was something…different."

  Rugr processed this in silence as Dungr continued.

  "With Gaineth's blessing, we rushed to the portal, desperate to intercept the betrayers before they escaped. As we neared, we saw the stragglers under attack by a small force of the Sa Kamal. I saw you, and…” Dungr’s voice faltered, the weight of the memory pressing down on him.

  Rugr braced himself, knowing what was coming yet powerless to stop the surge of anguish rising within him.

  “And I saw Marnea fall.”

  The words hit Rugr like a hammer, shattering the fragile calm he’d fought to maintain. His mind was yanked back to that dreadful moment. Marnea, steadfast and fearless, had been at the rear of the group, guiding a cluster of frightened children toward the portal when the Sa Kamal descended. Rugr, positioned ahead to rally the group forward, had turned at the sound of the attack and sprinted to her aid.

  But he was too late.

  Marnea fell, her life extinguished before his eyes. The horror of that moment was seared into his soul, an unrelenting ache that no passage of time could dull. Consumed by a storm of grief and rage, Rugr had unleashed his fury on the Sa Kamal, cutting through them with a ferocity that bordered on madness. When the last of the attackers lay lifeless, he stood amidst the carnage, drenched in blood, staring at Marnea’s still form.

  Then he wanted to stay. To abandon the portal, return to his brother, and fight to the bitter end. But the children, scattered and wailing in terror, had pulled him back from the abyss. He couldn’t leave them to such a cruel fate. Gathering them close, he carried Marnea’s lifeless body to the portal, stepping into the unknown with a heart broken beyond repair.

  “That,” Rugr said distantly, his voice hollow, “was the worst moment of my life.”

  Dungr placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his grip firm yet wordless, offering silent solidarity. No words of comfort could heal such a wound, and he knew it. Instead, he simply remained, anchoring Rugr in the present while they both bore the weight of the past.

  "The attack was staged," Dungr said, confirming his suspicion. "Its only purpose was to obscure the truth. To ensure that no one questioned the betrayal at the heart of it all."

  "Barto," Rugr said quietly, his voice laced with bitterness.

  "Yes," Dungr replied. "Barto, Markus, and others like him colluded with the Dark Lords controlling the Sa Kamal. They engineered their escape at the cost of everyone else. And the portal’s destruction? That wasn’t to stop the Sa Kamal. It was to stop us—those who chose to stay behind—from following."

  Rugr exhaled slowly, the betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. "I trusted them," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even when doubts crept in, I told myself their actions were for the greater good."

  "We all did," Dungr said, placing a hand on Rugr’s shoulder. "Even I, at first. But then we found the journal. Once we knew the truth, Gaineth made the only decision he could."

  "What decision?" Rugr asked.

  "To use the portal," Dungr said. "It was a gamble. The magic was failing, and the portal was unstable. Naturally, those of us who uncovered the treachery were willing to take the risk, ready to charge into the portal and confront the betrayers ourselves," Dungr said, his voice heavy with the weight of the past.

  "But Gaineth stopped us, reasoning that such a move would be reckless. Instead, he turned to Stennis of Komuray. Do you remember him? A towering man—fearsome on the battlefield but otherwise with great gentleness and fondness for flowers."

  "Aye," Rugr replied with a faint smile. "I remember him well—and his cooking. Stennis made the best stew I’ve ever had. May Mum forgive me for saying that."

  Dungr chuckled softly. "She’d forgive you, brother. She loved a good stew herself. Stennis began weaving a spell to stabilize the portal’s power or at least keep it from collapsing. The portal’s magic was unlike anything we’d ever encountered, making his task an uphill battle. But in the end, he succeeded—long enough for a thousand of us to cross through."

  He paused, his expression darkening. "Gaineth and I came through last. We waited on the other side, hoping Stennis would follow. But he never did."

  "And you landed… where?"

  "Not in Astiria," Dungr said. "The portal’s power had faded too much by then. We were scattered across a desolate desert, probably a thousand miles from where you settled. It took months to regroup and find each other. But eventually, we did. We built a new home far from the reach of the men who rule this world. And we’ve waited, growing stronger, searching for you and the others."

  Rugr was reeling, his world shaken to its core. The torrent of revelations Dungr shared swirled in his mind, pieces of a larger picture beginning to form but still incomplete. One question loomed above all others, demanding an answer. He locked eyes with his brother, his gaze unyielding.

  "Why, Dungr? Why are you here, in this place, now?"

  Dungr met his stare evenly.

  “I thought you might have pieced it together by now,” he said, his tone measured.

  “But let me spell it out. I’m here for the remains—the ones contained in the box you’re meant to deliver to the ship’s captain. They’re important to us. Important to Gaineth. Follow through with your plan, Rugr. Deliver the box as agreed, and I’ll ensure they are returned to their home.”

  Rugr hesitated, his expression unreadable as he carefully chose his response. This moment, he knew, was pivotal.

  “I won’t be delivering the box to the captain,” he said at last, his voice steady.

  “Nor will I reveal its location—not now. As you’ve always told me, brother, Look forward, not back. Right now, the stakes are greater than you realize. I can’t afford hesitation. Markus’s schemes are unfolding, and I must act swiftly to stop him.”

  Dungr’s eyes narrowed. "You don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not about trust,” Rugr replied firmly. “

  You have that, always. This is about my blindness—my failure to see the truth when it mattered. There’s someone I care for deeply and should have protected by preparing her. I’ve made mistakes, and now I must find her, right those wrongs, and prepare her for what’s coming. For her sake and for ours.”

  Dungr studied him for a long moment. “Well, I’m glad I have your trust, brother. But Gaineth may not see it the same way.”

  Rugr’s gaze hardened, his voice steady. “Tell Gaineth this: I swear on your life that the box will be returned to him.”

  Dungr studied his brother for a long moment before nodding. "Well then, I will definitely hold you to that."

  Rugr mounted his horse, pausing to look back at his brother. "We’ll meet again, Dungr."

  "When?" Dungr asked.

  "When the time is right."

  And with that, Rugr whispered to his horse, "Ilimar."

  Rider and steed surged forward, disappearing into the forest as Dungr watched, the weight of their reunion settling heavily on his shoulders.