It took Teclos longer than he expected to clear the camp.
Not because the goblins were strong.
But because they scattered like cockroaches once they started dying off. Starting from confusion, it turned into chaos pretty quickly.
Shouts in their guttural tongue broke the stillness of the night. Crude weapons were grabbed. Fires were kicked over. Shadows danced wildly across the camp as goblins rushed in every direction, searching for an enemy they could not see.
That was their mistake.
Teclos melted into the darkness between tents, his presence thinning until it was barely more than a whisper in the night. The shadows clung to him, wrapped around his body like a second skin, swallowing sound, swallowing even his killing intent.
The first goblin didn't even feel its death.
It turned a corner, clutching a jagged spear, eyes wide and frantic—only for a thin line of black to flicker across its throat.
For a brief second, it stood still.
