The sun had barely risen when Lumberling and his group returned to Uncle Drake's village. This time, he wasn't alone.
Skitz walked beside him, cloaked but upright. Behind them came a small escort, twenty goblin soldiers, twenty kobolds, twenty cavalry boars tugging wagons of supplies. Their armor was clean. Their weapons sheathed. Their posture straight.
Still, they drew stares.
Lumberling could feel it, the way the villagers paused mid-step, the way conversations died as they passed. Mothers pulled children closer. A few hands went to tools and blades. And yet, no one moved to attack. Not with Uncle Drake walking at the front and Orrin flanking their other side like sentinels of familiarity.
"They need to see it," Lumberling had told Skitz earlier. "They need to look our people in the eye before they decide anything."
Now they were doing just that.
