"They are circling around the boulder."
Melissa continued, crouching deeper. Her hunter's gaze was sharp, every twitch of the goblins' muscles reflected in her irises.
"If we time it right, we can enter without bloodshed."
She tracked them with precision—how long each grunt took to scratch his ass, the rhythm of their heavy boots stomping into dirt, even the moments they paused to spit out some snot and grunt-laugh about it.
Every detail, catalogued. Her body moved like a coiled bowstring ready to snap.
Rae, however, was staring at the cloak like it was cursed with all seven venereal plagues.
"…That thing stinks, Madame. Like dead dog rolled in old beer. Are we sure this is not a trap? A fashion trap?"
Melissa ignored him obviously.
"Come on, let's go!"
Melissa hissed, her voice sharp, urgent.
The goblins had shuffled off to the other side of the boulder, leaving a blessed little window where they could dash unseen.
