Beatriz scanned the camp from the cover of the treeline, calculating her next move. The archers have to be dealt with immediately.
There were four of them.
Two were posted together on a rickety scaffold, while the other two stood apart, facing different directions.
Beatriz slipped through the shadows, closing the distance toward the pair. Her movements were silent, surgical—so light that even the dry leaves beneath her boots didn't stir.
She stopped just short of their line of sight.
Any closer and she'd be seen.
So she launched forward.
A sudden blur of motion—inhumanly fast. In the blink of an eye, she was airborne, descending on them like a vengeful spirit.
One goblin tried to raise its bow. The other opened its mouth to shout, stepping behind its companion.
Too slow.
Beatriz drove her spear forward with terrifying force—one thrust, two skulls. The blade tore through both heads cleanly, their bodies dropped limp and silent.
She didn't wait.
Without breaking stride, Beatriz spun off the scaffold and rushed the third archer, who was facing the opposite direction. It barely had time to flinch before the spear burst through its back and out its chest.
Dead before it could breathe.
The fourth archer, however, had seen her.
Its eyes widened as it screamed, already pulling its bowstring taut.
Beatriz didn't flinch.
An arrow soared toward her.
Thankfully the goblin is not that accurate.
Beatriz shifted her weight.
In a motion too fast for any normal eye to follow, she twisted to the side. The arrow sliced past her waist, inches enough to graze her clothes—but not enough to break her stride.
She was already moving.
She had to kill the archer before it could draw another arrow.
She doubted the arrow could pierce her clothes—woven from materials most blades couldn't scratch—but she wasn't about to take chances.
The goblin's hands trembled as it struggled to nock another arrow, panic making its fingers clumsy. The crude shaft slipped once, twice—finally locking into place. But by then, Beatriz was already closing in.
Two goblins in patchy iron armor rushed in from opposite sides, trying to form a living shield between her and the archer. Their blades were already raised, their movements fueled more by instinct than coordination.
Beatriz didn't slow.
Instead, she leapt—one powerful stride that sent her vaulting above the armored goblins entirely.
She twisted midair, using the haft of her spear like a pole to adjust her angle, then came down hard—feet first—on one of the goblin's shoulders. Bone crunched. The creature let out a garbled scream and collapsed under the force of the landing.
The second goblin turned to strike, but Beatriz was already in motion. She ducked under the swing, pivoted on one foot, and drove her spear straight through its side—slipping between the poorly-forged plates of its armor. The goblin gurgled and dropped, twitching.
The archer loosed its second arrow in blind panic, but it veered wide.
Too slow. Too afraid.
Beatriz surged forward and swept the goblin's legs out from under it with her spear's shaft. It landed on its back with a wheeze, bow clattering from its grip.
It looked up at her—eyes wide with terror.
Beatriz didn't hesitate.
One final thrust, clean through the neck.
The archer stopped moving.
The camp was no longer quiet. Distant shouts rang out from deeper within as more goblins noticed the attack. Metal clanged, orders barked in a guttural tongue.
From the far end of the outpost, the goblin leader finally stepped into view.
From the far end of the outpost, the goblin leader finally stepped into view.
He was larger than the others—easily five feet tall, towering over the smaller goblins around him. His frame was broader, more muscular, his leathery red-gray skin stretched taut over corded muscle. Jagged iron armor clung to his body, adorned with grim trophies: severed fingers, human teeth, scraps of bloodstained fabric. His face was brutish and angular, with sunken yellow eyes and a flat, squashed nose. One tusk jutted from his lower lip, cracked at the tip, giving him a permanent snarl.
He spotted Beatriz.
His expression twisted—not just in anger, but in something darker. Hunger. Lust. A sick fascination burned behind his eyes, as if he'd just laid eyes on the finest prize in the world.
Beatriz didn't flinch.
She exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
The next wave was coming.