Arin stood atop the same raised stone platform where, three weeks ago, he had loosed his very first arrow into a goblin’s skull.

  Back then, he still had some diffiuculty's with taking the life of inteligent beings that had done nothing wrong to him. Now, the motion was instinctive—draw, aim, release—repeated so many times that his body acted before his thoughts could catch up. The battlefield spread out beneath him like a living scar, churned earth stained dark by blood that refused to wash away, no matter how many days passed.

  The only real difference between then and now was that he wasn’t alone anymore.

  “Damn it…” Tom muttered beside him, stifling a yawn as he loosed another arrow. “These goblins just won’t quit. Especially this last week. Attacking every single day like clockwork. Don’t they ever get tired?”

  Arin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and released another arrow. It flew cleanly over the heads of the frontline goblins and struck something hidden among them—a slightly taller figure that had been using others as cover. The goblin collapsed, and the nearby horde faltered for a moment before surging forward again.

  “I know,” Arin said quietly. “And I don’t like it either.”

  Tom followed Arin’s gaze and grimaced. “Those smarter ones again?”

  “Yeah,” Arin replied, already reaching for another arrow. “They’re learning.”

  At first, it had been laughably easy. During the first week, the goblins who led each group might as well have been wearing bright flags on their heads. They shouted orders, waved their arms, and stood proudly at the front like they were invincible. Those goblins died first—either cut down by volleys of arrows or picked off by sharp-eyed archers like Arin.

  The second week was different.

  The obvious leaders vanished. The goblins began to spread out. Commands were passed quietly, through gestures or short, sharp noises. The ones who still acted boldly didn’t survive long, and soon enough, only the cautious remained.

  Now, in the third week, Arin found himself searching shadows, watching for subtle movements, waiting for goblins that didn’t want to be seen.

  “Hey, Arin! Tom!”

  A familiar voice broke through the tension. Bertho jogged toward them, carrying three narrow sleeves of arrows under one arm. He looked more tired than usual, his shoulders sagging as if the constant battles were finally wearing him down.

  “Isn’t it strange?” Bertho continued as he reached them. “Every wave, the goblins get better at hiding. It’s like they’re… adapting.”

  Tom groaned and eyed the arrow sleeves. “That’s all they gave you? Seriously? They’re getting stingy.”

  Bertho snorted. “At least we’re better off than the regular archers. They only get three arrows per battle now—and they’re not even allowed to fire unless ordered.”

  Tom stared. “Three arrows?! That’s insane.”

  Arin accepted one of the sleeves and slid it into his quiver, frowning. “That’s not just stingy. That’s desperate.”

  Bertho blinked. “You didn’t answer my question, though. About the goblins.”

  Arin paused, then turned fully toward him. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Darwin’s theory of evolution.”

  Tom gave him a look. “You’re doing that thing again.”

  “The dumb ideas get you killed,” Arin continued calmly. “So they don’t get passed on. The goblins who exposed themselves died first. The ones who hid survived. Those survivors pass their knowledge on, and others copy them. Over time, only the smarter behaviors remain.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He tapped the side of his quiver. “Same rules apply here as anywhere else.”

  Bertho whistled softly. “That’s… unsettling.”

  “It is,” Arin agreed. “And if we’re limiting arrows this badly, it means something’s seriously wrong with our supply lines.”

  Before Bertho could respond, a shout rose from the camp below.

  Hooves thundered against packed earth.

  A detachment of cavalry—nearly a hundred strong—burst through the outer perimeter at full speed. Their horses were lathered in sweat and foam, eyes wide with panic. One soldier nearly trampled David at the checkpoint; only his quick reflexes saved him as he dove out of the way.

  The cavalry didn’t slow.

  Not even a little.

  “That’s not good,” Tom muttered.

  Eloi sat hunched over a table inside his command tent, surrounded by stacks of reports that only seemed to grow taller no matter how many he read. His fingers pressed hard against his temples as if he could physically force the answers to appear.

  Supply counts. Missing caravans. Horse attrition.

  Every number was worse than the last.

  “They’re vanishing,” he muttered. “Not delayed. Not ambushed. Just… gone.”

  For the eighth time that hour, he looked up as the tent flap opened. Selvijs entered, carrying yet another bundle of documents. His expression mirrored Eloi’s own—tight, drawn, exhausted.

  “Let me guess,” Eloi said bitterly. “More bad news.”

  Selvijs nodded. “We’re bleeding supplies faster than projected. Food, arrows, medical kits. And the horses…” He hesitated. “We’re losing too many.”

  Eloi slammed a fist into the table. “Every messenger swears their sector was secure. Every cavalry patrol reports nothing. And yet caravans vanish without a trace. No bodies. No tracks. Nothing.”

  Selvijs sighed. “Central Command sent word. They’ve dispatched two legions into the forest where we suspect the goblins are operating.”

  “That’s it?” Eloi snapped. “Two?”

  “They’re moving as fast as they can,” Selvijs said. “But logistics are killing us. Ten days for a caravan. Four days for a messenger. We’re fighting blind.”

  Eloi leaned back, staring at the canvas ceiling. For over a century, wars had been fought with near-perfect intelligence. Satellites. Drones. Instant communication. Now, everything took days—sometimes weeks.

  The generals weren’t used to reacting.

  They were used to predicting.

  Before Eloi could speak again, a commotion erupted outside. Horses skidded to a halt. Men shouted. Someone screamed in pain.

  Eloi stood sharply and pushed past the tent flap.

  Armored cavalrymen collapsed from their mounts, some barely conscious. Blood streaked their armor. Deep cuts—too clean, too deliberate—lined their arms and legs.

  “Commander Eloi!” one officer screamed, stumbling forward. “Commander Eloi, sir!”

  “I’m here,” Eloi said, gripping the man’s shoulders. “Report.”

  The officer’s eyes were wild with terror. “Sound the alarm,” he gasped. “The goblins… they’re behind us.”

  His legs gave out.

  He collapsed into Eloi’s arms, unconscious.

  For a heartbeat, the world went silent.

  Then Eloi roared, his voice cutting through the camp like a blade.

  “Sound the alarm! All units to defensive positions inside the encampment! Now!”

  The horns began to blare.

  And for the first time since the war began, fear truly settled into the heart of Legion 23.