The surface smelled different.
Vris crouched at the mouth of a narrow tunnel, one clawed hand pressed against the cold earth. The air here was open and sharp grass and sky and the distant smoke of human fire. For days, his scouts had spoken of the plains that stretched west of the Burrow, of trade roads and wandering merchants.
Now, he saw them for himself.
Beyond the ridge, two wagons creaked along the road, pulled by shaggy beasts of burden. The sun was low, bleeding red across the horizon. He could see the humans walking beside the carts two guards, armored in leather and chain, blades at their hips, laughter on their lips.
They had no idea what watched them from the tall grass.
Vris pressed low, cloak of mud and leaves blending him into the earth. The knife at his belt the twisted relic he’d claimed from the ancient tunnels, seemed to hum faintly, eager. He studied the guards’ movements, the rhythm of their steps, the glint of their weapons.
Two guards. One merchant. One chest on the back cart. Good enough.
He waited until the wind shifted, then moved.
The first guard never saw him.
A flash of steel. A wet gasp. The man crumpled, clutching at his throat as Vris drove the serrated knife upward into soft flesh. The second guard spun, shouting, sword half-drawn but Vris was already behind him, using the dying man’s body as a shield. A quick lunge, a slice across the stomach, and blood spilled like wine across the dirt.
The merchant screamed and fled down the road, but the plains swallowed his voice.
When it was done, Vris stood in the fading light, panting, hands slick with crimson. The humans’ blood was different richer somehow. It pulsed with strange warmth that set his nerves alight. He crouched, dragging the bodies into the grass, and began to feast.
Flesh, bone, marrow.
He devoured them like a starving god, and the world tilted around him.
[You have consumed higher lifeforms.]
[Essence Assimilated: +Adaptation, +Cognition, +Physical Growth.]
[Evolution Progress: 64% — Goblin Lord Threshold Approaching.]
Pain wracked his body. His spine arched, bones stretching, reshaping. His skin darkened from light green to a darker green. His limbs lengthened. His back straightened. When the spasms ended, he stood taller half a head higher than before his hair falling long and dark-gray across his face. He also felt a bit more muscle form on his body it was abundantly clear he was the largest and fiercest of the tribe now.
He breathed deep, feeling the power settle beneath his skin. His reflection in the pool of blood no longer looked like a goblin. It looked like something else he didn’t understand it the realization of what he had done settled in hard. He’d tasted human flesh and enjoyed it. Could he live with that? He was well aware of the cruelty of humankind, and he knew that in this world being a goblin meant a death sentence if he was caught unaware or alone by them.
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He searched the wagon. Most of its contents were worthless grain, wine, fabrics. But in a small chest hidden beneath the goods, he found treasures beyond understanding.
Gold coins, cold and heavy in his hand. Strange maps drawn on parchment lines, symbols, words he could not yet read but somehow recognized. The lands beyond the Burrow stretched farther than he imagined.
And then there was the ring.
Silver, engraved with curling runes, humming softly against his palm. When he slipped it onto his finger, a sharp pulse darted up his arm. His vision shimmered. His outline blurred then vanished entirely.
Vris stared at his invisible hand and laughed, low and wild.
A gift from the world that thinks me filth.
I’ll use it to become their nightmare.
He clenched his fist, the ring pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could feel it listening, a whisper at the edge of thought responsive, eager to serve. A tool of shadow.
By the time he returned through the tunnels, dawn had begun to pale the sky. The tribe fell silent when he entered taller, leaner, draped in a human’s cloak still wet with blood, eyes glowing with a faint golden hue.
He dropped the chest before the fire. The goblins crowded close, chittering in awe as he drew out the gold and maps, letting the torchlight glimmer off them.
“The surface is rich,” Vris said, voice lower now, almost human in cadence. “And weak.”
He turned the maps toward the firelight, tracing the names with one claw.
“Fairehaven. Harrowhall. All the world around us. They cage us here.”
He looked to his tribe, their faces upturned like worshippers before an idol. The fire reflected in his eyes one gold, one faintly red.
“Then we break the cage.”
The goblins howled, pounding their weapons against the stone, echoing through the tunnels like thunder.
Vris turned his gaze to the twisted knife at his hip and the faint shimmer of the ring on his hand.
“Let them bring their light,” he whispered. “We will teach them to fear the dark.”
The night stretched wide across the plains.
Silver light spilled over the long grass, whispering as the wind moved through it like a thousand unseen voices. Vris moved with it silent, unseen his shape blurring and fading whenever the moon touched him. The ring’s hum was faint but constant now, like a heartbeat in his bones.
He had left the Burrow alone this time. No guards. No scouts.
This was not a hunt. This was a test.
The plains smelled of blood and fur long before he heard the growls. The scent was sharp, heavy with musk and death. He had reached the warg plains where the earth was scarred by the claws of creatures that hunted in packs larger than goblin tribes. He had heard rumor that the wargs of old had once had an understanding with the goblin tribes. He held hope he could forge some new arrangement.
And then he saw them.
A dozen shapes moved in the tall grass black wolves the size of small horses, eyes glowing cold blue in the dark. They encircled him, hackles raised, their growls low and rumbling like distant thunder. Their breath steamed in the cold air.
Vris didn’t move.
He dismissed the ring’s shimmer, letting himself become visible.
“I come to speak,” he said in the tongue of monsters the guttural speech shared by beasts and goblins alike. His voice was low, confident. “Not fight.”
The wargs did not understand words as men did, but they understood tone. Challenge. Fear. Hunger. The lead wolf padded forward, its head level with his chest. Its fangs gleamed white as ivory.
Then the air grew colder.