Twenty-four goblins emerged from the tree line, clad in leather stitched from stolen hides and scraps of scavenged iron. Their armor clinked softly, a chorus of metal teeth grinding together. Their eyes gleamed—amber and feral—bright with the promise of slaughter. In their hands they bore short, pitted blades; wooden cudgels studded with rusted nails; axes so battered their hafts were scarred with carved notches—trophies of prior kills.

  They did not shout.

  They did not charge.

  They marched through the shadows of the night.

  At the northern wall, one goblin pressed itself flat against the timber posts. Another climbed onto its shoulders. Then another. A living ladder of sinew and snarling breath. Clawed fingers hooked over the top beam. A grunt. A heave. One of them rolled silently onto the parapet.

  A rope slithered down the inner wall like a serpent seeking prey.

  One by one, they slipped into the town.

  Not a single board creaked loudly enough to betray them.

  At the southern edge, a horse screamed.

  The shrill cry shattered the stillness.

  A farmer stumbled from his cottage, boots half-laced, a lantern swinging from his trembling hand. Its light cast wide arcs across the yard, illuminating fence posts and churned earth. His breath fogged in the cold night air.

  "Briar?" he called hoarsely. "Easy, girl... easy..."

  The horse thrashed within the stall, eyes rolling white.

  The man stepped closer.

  He saw nothing.

  No movement. No threat.

  Only silence.

  He took one more step.

  Steel slid beneath his ribs.

  The blade entered cleanly, angling upward with deliberate cruelty. The goblin behind him twisted its wrist and leaned close enough to smell the shock on the man's breath.

  The lantern fell.

  Glass shattered.

  Flame guttered.

  The farmer's mouth opened to scream—but only blood came. It poured down his shirt, dark and steaming. His knees buckled. He collapsed into the dirt, confusion still clouding his fading gaze.

  He died without understanding why.

  The goblin withdrew its blade with a wet sound. Another creature approached, its lips curling back in delight. With a guttural cackle, it seized the corpse by the hair and chopped at it with a battered axe until the head came free. It raised the severed trophy high, shrieking in vicious triumph.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Then it tossed the head aside as if it were no more than garbage.

  The goblins did not linger.

  They avoided the center road, slipping instead along the backs of homes and through narrow alleys. They hugged walls. They kept to shadow. Their movements were deliberate—calculated. Hand signals flickered between them. Quick whistles. Nods.

  They were not a mindless horde.

  They were hunters.

  From the watchtower above, Lunaria saw the pattern unfold.

  The faint glint of iron. The unnatural rhythm of shadows shifting where none should. The dying flicker of a fallen lantern.

  Her jaw tightened.

  It begins, she murmured, voice low as the wind.

  Below, the town slept—unaware that death was already walking its streets.

  Lunaria did not hesitate.

  She vaulted from the tower's edge, boots striking the slanted roof of a nearby structure. She slid down its incline and dropped to the cobblestones below with the grace of a hunting hawk. Her fingers tightened around her bow, leather creaking softly beneath the strain.

  Behind her, Tria stepped out of the shadows, no less ready, her dagger already drawn.

  Have they killed already? Tria asked, her voice sharp, edged with restrained fury.

  Lunaria's eyes burned in the dark, reflecting distant firelight like a blade catching dawn.

  Yes, she answered.

  There was no tremor in her tone—only rage held in careful check.

  Tria's lips thinned. Her grip tightened around her dagger. Then we hunt the hunters, she whispered.

  THE ENCOUNTER.

  Rain stood in the center of the well square, deliberately exposed beneath the pale wash of moonlight. His arms were folded across his chest, posture loose, almost careless. The square lay silent around him—empty carts, and empty stalls, the stone well rising at his back like a silent witness.

  From the alleys beyond, the darkness began to stir.

  Shadows peeled themselves from the walls as though the night had grown claws. Small figures slipped free from the blackened gaps between buildings—lithe, hunched, and unnaturally silent.

  They were little green creatures, their skin the sickly hue of swamp moss beneath the moonlight. Their eyes burned amber—fever-bright and ravenous. In their clawed hands, they carried cruel instruments of violence.

  They moved low and fast, their armor whispering against brick and timber. Rusted blades glinted faintly as their eyes fixed upon the lone figure in the square.

  They saw him.

  Alone.

  Six of them shrieked in savage delight and broke formation, claws scraping against cobblestone as they charged.

  Rain did not wait.

  He ran straight at them.

  Steel flashed in the moonlight. The goblins howled, eager for collision.

  At the last possible breath before impact, Rain pivoted sharply, boots grinding against stone as he veered away down a narrow street.

  The goblins screamed in fury and pursued him without hesitation.

  From the shadowed interior of the watchtower, Tria waited.

  Her dagger rested low at her side, but her knuckles were white around its hilt. Her breathing was measured. Controlled.

  After Rain disappeared into the darkness with his six pursuers, a man armed with a spear stepped forward, his figure emerging from the shadows.

  He crouched low for a heartbeat, then seized a fist-sized stone from his pocket. Fingers tightening around it, he brought his arm back and, with a swift, practiced motion, hurled it toward the remaining cluster of goblins near the center of the square.

  The stone struck one goblin squarely in the temple with a sickening crack. Its head snapped back violently, and a scream—half pain, half rage—shattered the tense silence of the night. The creature staggered, clutching at its wound, eyes wide and frantic.

  You ugly vermin, he shouted, his voice cutting through the night like steel. There's more where that came from.

  Six goblins answered, their shrieks piercing and unnatural, echoing against the walls of the square as they charged. Their claws scraped the cobblestones, and rusted blades flashed with malicious intent.

  He did not retreat immediately.

  Instead, he advanced, spear flashing, ready to meet them head-on. At the brink of contact, a goblin lunged. The spear's pointed tip grazed its arm, drawing a hiss of pain but failing to stop the creature.

  With a fluid pivot, he veered down a narrow side path, boots pounding against the stone. His movements were deliberate and controlled—every step a calculated lure. Behind him, the goblins shrieked in fury, giving chase without thought, driven by a hunger for blood.

  He angled toward the tower, breath steady, mind razor-sharp. The pursuit was no random chase—it was part of a larger plan, drawing them straight to the maiden waiting inside, her eyes burning with the promise of slaughter. Shadows clung to him like living things as he ran, the night itself a silent accomplice, every step echoing through the alley like a heartbeat of impending death.