The sun beat down on the forest, but the air under the dense canopy of the ridge remained brisk.

  Trenn lay prone, the unfamiliar weight of cured Reptile Kin leather heavy on his shoulders. At his belt hung a kris knife carved from a sea-monster’s tooth—a grim trophy from his first real battle.

  He peered through the fronds of a large fern. The scent of pine and crushed leaves was nearly overwhelmed by a sour, musky odor that drifted up from the clearing below—the smell of unwashed bodies and old rot.

  The sleeping holes were scattered randomly, creating dozens of trip hazards in blind spots. There was no perimeter, no watchtower, no clear lines of sight. The Reptile Kin had been hunters, working with a terrifying, yet coordinated grace. The Goblin camp sprawled below them.

  It was a scene of primitive, chaotic squalor that offended every principle of urban planning Trenn had ever studied—no walls, no industry, no order. The clearing was pockmarked with dozens of small, goblin-sized holes dug without reason or order.

  Most of the camp’s occupants were asleep in these shallow pits, buried in loose dirt up to their necks, their flat, wide faces and pointed, bat-like ears visible above the ground.

  The air was filled with a cacophonous, irritating symphony of their snores—a chorus of wet snorts, dry rasps, and guttural grunts. Their crude weapons lay haphazardly beside their sleeping holes.

  In the center of this mess stood a single, large tent of crudely stitched animal hides—a lone monument to a bare minimum of organization.

  Suddenly, the tent flap was thrown aside. A new figure emerged, blinking in the bright sun.

  It was taller than the sleeping Goblins, broader in the shoulder, with a straightness to its spine that spoke of discipline. Its face was as wide and its head as bald, but there was an intelligent malevolence in its small, dark eyes that the common Goblins lacked.

  "There’s one of them, and it’s not the leader," Tyndral rumbled, his voice a low vibration beside Trenn's ear.

  Mara, on Trenn’s other side, let out a soft hiss. “A head we can cut off is still a head. This is our chance. One dead Hobgoblin is better than none.”

  Tyndral was silent for a moment, his cold amber eyes fixed on the Hobgoblin—a single, sharp nod.

  “We proceed.”

  He turned his black-furred head, his gaze pinning Trenn to the ground. “The plan is the same,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. “We are the scalpel. We will infiltrate from the east.”

  His eyes held Trenn’s, leaving no room for argument.

  “You are the hammer. Wait here, on the western flank. When you see our signal—a flash of polished steel—you execute the plan.”

  Tyndral gave him one last, hard look.

  “Don’t get yourself killed before you’ve been useful.”

  With that, he and Mara moved. They receded, their forms blending into the deep shadows until they were no longer visible.

  Trenn was alone.

  The symphony of snores from the camp below grew louder, more grating. He shifted, the stiff leather of the armor creaking softly. At his side, Skate emitted a low, steady hum, a reassuring presence. High above, a familiar splash of vibrant pink and yellow circled slowly—the Giant Moth, keeping its vigil.

  The hammer was in position. Waiting for the signal to fall.

  Multiple guards around the Goblin camp. He’d need to take one out and make his way to the fire. The loud snoring should be more than enough to cover his footsteps—

  A brilliant flash of reflected sunlight from the far eastern edge of the camp. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  The signal. It was time.

  The knot of fear in Trenn’s stomach hardened, but he pushed through. He peeled himself back from the ridge, belly-crawling into the deeper shadows. Once out of sight, he got to his feet and began to move, a dark shape flitting between the trees as he circled to the western perimeter.

  He found his spot behind a thick, leafy bush. He was lowering himself into a crouch, heart hammering against his ribs, when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

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  A Goblin, previously hidden in the shade, shifted its weight—a guard he had missed.

  It squinted, lifting a grimy hand to shield its eyes. Its head tilted, a low, inquisitive grunt rumbling in its throat as it took a few steps towards the bush. Trenn’s breath caught in his throat. His muscles screamed to bolt.

  Every instinct shrieked at him to flee, to melt back into the woods. But the signal had been given. Fleeing now would doom Mara and Tyndral. He forced the panic down, his mind racing, as he calculated angles and reactions.

  Instead, he gave Skate a gentle, silent nudge with the toe of his boot.

  Skate rolled slowly out from under the bush and into the open sunlight. It came to a soft stop on the grass, perfectly still.

  The advancing sentinel froze. Its beady eyes widened, its flat snout wrinkling in confusion and fear. It took a hesitant step back, grunting, its gaze flicking around the area. It was looking for a spear.

  The moment the Goblin turned its back, Trenn moved. He exploded out of his bush in three powerful, running steps. His body coiled like a spring, and he kicked—a single, brutal, point-blank punt.

  Skate shot forward, a grey blur of silent, deadly force. The Goblin noticed the sudden rush behind it and began to turn, its wide face contorting in alarm.

  A wet crunch echoed as Skate connected with the side of its head. The Goblin’s neck snapped with an audible crack. Its body went limp, collapsing without a sound, a broken puppet whose strings had been cut.

  For a heartbeat, Trenn stared at the crumpled form, a wave of nausea churning in his gut. The smell of the camp suddenly became a hundred times stronger. He shoved the feeling down, his survival instinct overriding the shock.

  Skate rebounded from the impact in a controlled arc. Trenn, heart hammering, held up his hands. It landed in his waiting palms with a familiar, solid weight.

  He quickly dragged the dead sentinel into the shadows and peered back out, scanning the perimeter with a new, desperate intensity. The other two sentinels remained: one fast asleep to the north, the other pacing the eastern edge, its eyes fixed intently on the exact spot where Mara and Tyndral had disappeared.

  With the snores providing sound cover, Trenn slipped from the treeline. He moved in a low crouch, a silent dance between the shallow sleeping pits. The sight of the Goblins up close was nauseating, their needle-like teeth bared in slack-jawed grimaces.

  He passed so close to one sleeping pit that the Goblin’s foul, meaty breath washed over his face. Its eyelids fluttered, a low snuffling sound bubbling in its throat. Trenn froze, his body rigid, every muscle screaming.

  The Goblin smacked its lips, rolled its head to the side, and settled back into a deep, rasping snore. Trenn let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, the adrenaline leaving a tremor in his hands.

  He reached the large campfire. His goal was the Hobgoblin’s tent, a few yards away. The plan was simple: use embers, set the tent on fire.

  He was about to move when the hide flap was thrown open. The Hobgoblin stepped out. It started to undo its belt, its gaze sweeping across the clearing. And its eyes met Trenn’s.

  For a heart-stopping second, all sound bled from the world. The symphony of snores vanished, leaving the frantic hammering in Trenn’s own chest.

  The Hobgoblin’s eyes went wide, not with fear, but with incandescent rage. Its mouth opened, a black ‘O’ of surprise, as it drew in a breath to scream.

  In that same instant, a sharp, piercing whistle cut through the air from the eastern woods. Mara, killing the east guard.

  The Hobgoblin ignored the sound. Its full attention was on Trenn. It let out a piercing, high-pitched shriek—not an alarm, but a command.

  In an instant, the snores stopped.

  All across the clearing, over a hundred Goblins erupted from their sleeping holes. They moved with the instant, wide-eyed readiness of trained warriors, their hands already finding the hilts of their weapons.

  Within seconds, Trenn was surrounded, a tide of snarling, needle-toothed faces turning as one toward him. The closest two Goblins didn't even bother with weapons. They lunged, clawed hands grasping for his legs.

  He kicked one away, the hard toe of his boot cracking against its jaw, but the other one latched onto his ankle. Its needle-teeth sink into the thick Reptile Kin leather of his boot.

  There was no time to think. With a desperate roar, Trenn drop-kicked Skate at the closest Goblin. It ricocheted off its face, shattering its jaw, and slammed into a second Goblin’s shoulder, breaking the joint with a loud CRACK.

  Skate shot high into the air. Trenn’s body moved on instinct, pivoting, his arm cocked back for the devastating volleyball smash.

  But the Hobgoblin was ready. It snatched a short, powerful bow from its tent, an arrow already nocked, another two held ready in its hand.

  Trenn’s world narrowed. He saw the Hobgoblin, saw the threat, and swung. Skate barreled towards the Hobgoblin.

  The Hobgoblin was a veteran. Breaking its bow stance, it dodged the rapid projectile, but lost its shot. Skate, its trajectory ruined, shot past the tent and slammed into the dirt, its path back to Trenn now blocked by a sea of goblin bodies.

  A Goblin lunged, striking the back of Trenn’s knee with a wooden cudgel. His leg buckled with a raw cry of pain. He stumbled forward, using the momentum to slam his shoulder into another Goblin.

  The Hobgoblin drew his arrow to shoot the kneeling target—

  A swirl of pink and yellow dove from above, a Giant Moth leaving a cloud of blinding powder in its wake. The Hobgoblin screamed, its eyes burning, red, and swollen. His shot went wide, the arrow piercing a nearby Goblin’s stomach.

  Two more Goblins pincered Trenn with spears. He twisted, letting one spear scrape harmlessly off his chest plate with a screech of wood on shell. The other he deflected with his forearm guard, the impact jarring him to the bone.

  A third Goblin swung a wide club, and he couldn't evade it in time. The blow landed on his side with a sickening THUD. The Reptile Kin leather held the tough plates, distributing the force, but it was like being hit by a sledgehammer. The air rushed from his lungs in a pained gasp, and he staggered back, his vision swimming with black spots.

  The Hobgoblin, its eyes red and puffy, ignored the stinging powder. Full of triumphant fury, it nocked its arrow and aimed it at Trenn’s head.

  Putting yourself in Trenn's boots right now, what is your next move?

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