The flickering campfire cast long, dancing shadows as Snik, huddled near the flames, recounted his harrowing tale. Ronigren’s initial hostility had softened into a focused intensity, the soldier in him recognizing the potential value of this unlikely informant, even as the man in him recoiled from the goblin’s very nature.

  Snik spoke with urgency. He described the vast mobilization within Greyfang Tor, the sheer numbers – "hundreds of hundreds, maybe more, like biting ants swarming a fallen fruit," he’d croaked. He spoke of their relentless southward march, a destructive swathe cut through K’thrall swamplands and the edges of the lifeless tundra that bordered Argren’s northeastern territories.

  "They make a straight path," Snik stammered, his small hands gesturing. "No turn. No hunt. Just… march. Towards Stone-Fort. Where the Old Ones Sleep."

  "Woodhall," Ronigren said, exchanging a look with Ruthiel. "The stone guardians. They know about them."

  "Yes! Yes!" Snik affirmed, nodding vigorously. "The Dark-Chant… the shaman, he very angry about the Old Ones Waking. Said… said the Giant Priest’s spirit touched them. Made them… wrong for the Deep-Whisper. Now he wants to… to unmake them. Or bind them anew.

  "Remarkable," Artholan muttered, sketching furiously in a small, leather-bound notebook. "A sympathetic transference of spiritual schism, resulting in somatic trauma… the resonant frequencies involved must be extraordinary. Tell me, subject, did you experience any temporal distortions during the… unbinding?"

  Snik just stared at him blankly, looking uncomfortable under the mage’s intense analytical gaze. Ruthiel subtly steered Artholan’s questioning back to more pressing matters, a light restraining hand resting on the mage’s shoulder.

  A little apart from the intense interrogation, Sabine and Marta engaged in quiet conversation."It’s… strange, isn’t it?" Sabine said softly, watching the small, scarred creature. "To think he was one of them."

  Marta nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "The world is full of strange paths, child. And not all creatures who walk in darkness are inherently evil, just as not all who walk in light are truly good." She paused, her mind clearly on Alderholt, but her voice held no bitterness. "He has suffered. And he chose a different path. That takes a courage many lack."

  “The 'Giant Priest' he spoke of. The one who gave him the Rite of Unbinding. Could he… could he have been one of my people? A Jotunai?"

  Marta looked at Sabine. "Perhaps, child. Perhaps. The old tales are like tangled roots. It is hard to see where one ends and another begins."

  As the interrogation wound down and the camp prepared for a fitful, uneasy sleep, Ronigren had made his decision. Snik, for now, would accompany them. He was too valuable a source of intelligence to abandon, and too vulnerable to leave to his fate. Gregan and Finn remained deeply suspicious, but he had overruled their objections.

  They set off at first light, the mood even more somber than before. Snik’s revelations had cast a dark shadow – Woodhall was no longer just a destination; it was a potential battlefield, a fortress about to be besieged by an overwhelming force.

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  They finally reached it in the early afternoon hours. The fortress stood on a commanding rise, its stone walls strong and imposing; the King’s stag and Captain Eghel’s own Iron Lance insignia snapping crisply in the wind. It should have been a reassuring sight, a bastion of Argrenian strength.

  But as they approached the main gate, a familiar, sleek black form appeared high on the battlements, just above the archway.

  Monty the cat, as regal as ever, blinked his yellow eyes down at them and gave a distinct, almost welcoming, flick of his tail before disappearing from view.

  Myanaa frowned. "It seems our feline guide has arrived before us."

  * * *

  The imposing gates of Woodhall, crafted from thick iron-banded oak, were manned by stern-faced sentinels, their spears sharp, their expressions wary.

  Ronigren announced their party, presenting the official writ from the Office of Northern Concerns. The guards, recognizing the King’s seal, were about to grant them passage when one of them, a corporal with eyes like a hawk, peered more closely at the small, heavily cloaked figure huddled between Masillius and Sabine.

  "Hold there," the guard corporal said, his voice sharp. "Who’s this one, hiding in the shadows? Let’s have a look at you, little master." He reached out to pull back the hood Snik was wearing.

  Snik, terrified, yelped and tried to shrink further behind Sabine.

  "Now, now, good soldier," Masillius began, stepping forward with his most placating merchant smile, "just a… a young ward of mine, a bit shy of strangers…"

  But it was too late. The guard tugged at the cloak, and Snik’s face was revealed, his golden eyes wide with panic.

  "A goblin!" the corporal roared, his spear point immediately leveled. Other guards surged forward, weapons at the ready. "Treachery! They bring a goblin to our gates!"

  Gregan instinctively reached for his axe. Sabine tensed.

  Masillius turned breathless and pale. "Easy now, lads, easy! There’s an explanation! He’s with us! Under our protection!"

  Artholan stepped forward with a theatrical sigh of profound weariness. "Must we endure this provincial paranoia at every turn?" he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. He produced Falazar’s personal sigil, an intricate knot of stars. "This creature, however aesthetically unpleasing, is under the direct sanction of Archmage Falazar. Are you suggesting, Corporal, that you intend to countermand a directive from the King’s own Archmage?"

  The guard faltered, though his suspicion remained evident. "But… a goblin, sir? Unbound?"

  "His bindings are of a more nuanced nature," Artholan said dismissively. "And frankly, beyond your purview. Now, if you would be so kind as to lower your rather pointy implements and allow us passage? We have urgent business with Shield-Captain Eghel."

  Reluctantly, the guards lowered their weapons, though their glares at Snik remained hostile. The gate creaked open, and the party passed into the bustling bailey of Woodhall.

  Gregan, once inside the familiar walls of Woodhall, visibly relaxed, a nostalgic expression softening his gruff features. He lit his pipe, puffing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. "Woodhall," he rumbled, a reminiscent smile playing on his lips. "Spent my cadet years here, I did. Stirred up more trouble in these courtyards than a barrel of rabid badgers. Aye, good times. Before… well, before everything else." He gestured vaguely, the brief shadow returning to his eyes before he shook it off.

  The fortress was a hive of activity. Soldiers drilled in the main yard, wagons laden with supplies rumbled over the cobblestones, and the clang of the smithy echoed through the air. Shield-Captain Eghel met them at the entrance to the keep. His gaze was sharp as he took in their travel-worn appearance, lingering on Snik with a raised eyebrow, and on Ruthiel with a fleeting look of surprise.

  "Sir Ronigren, Archmage’s party," Eghel greeted them, his voice curt. "Falazar’s raven preceded you.” He nodded towards Snik. "We’ll discuss that particular asset later. First, the matter of the 'Keepers.' And the rather alarming intelligence about an imminent surprise party for us all."