The last hobgoblin screamed only once.
It was not a scream of defiance—nor even of pain. It was the sound of something realizing it had already died.
Beatriz's spear punched through its plated chest as though it were parchment, the celestial blade bursting out through the spine with such force that the body lifted from the ground. She twisted the shaft. Bone split. Flesh tore. When she pulled the weapon free, the hobgoblin's torso collapsed in on itself, ribs folding like broken gates. Its head lolled to the side, neck barely attached, as black blood pattered onto the dirt in a sick rhythm.
The camp was silent. The ground was a battlefield grave. The air stank of blood, bile, and fear—thick enough to cling to the tongue. Beatriz stood unmoving for a moment, spear in hand, the faint pale glow of its blade casting long shadows over the carnage.
She turned. The goblin chieftain was already gone, a fleeting shadow at the edge of the treeline.
She did not chase. Not yet.
Instead, she searched. Her armored steps crunched over trampled mud and severed limbs. She checked every crude cage, every pit, but found no living captives. Only scraps—gnawed bones, tattered cloth, and in one corner, the remains of human torsos with ribcages hollowed out. Half-eaten.
Her grip tightened on the spear.
Enough.
She emerged from the wreckage in a blur of black and gold, vaulting over broken walls and scattered corpses. In an instant she was climbing the ridge, each stride devouring the ground with terrifying speed. Elrick stood waiting, watching wide-eyed as she closed the distance, the metallic scent of blood preceding her like a stormfront.
Elrick's gaze flickered over her blood-soaked armor. For a moment, his hands hesitated—then he stepped forward, climbing onto her back. The steel plates of her armor were still warm from battle, slick with drying gore, but she adjusted her stance so that his weight balanced perfectly.
When she moved, it was not with the reckless burst she'd used in slaughter. Her speed was deliberate, measured—still blisteringly fast, but softened at each impact so as not to jar him. Every bound was calculated.
Ahead, the goblin chieftain darted through the forest, a lean, long-limbed brute with mottled green skin and jagged teeth. His leather straps slapped against his ribs as he ran, glancing over his shoulder every few breaths.
"Khhrrah… not followed… not followed…" he muttered to himself in a guttural rasp.
But his eyes kept flicking back.
"Dead… all dead… little ones, big ones… all dead… who kill? Who kill?" His voice cracked into a near-snarling panic. "Not man… not man… thing in gold… demon in skin…"
His pace quickened. Branches whipped past him. He grunted with effort, clutching a crude axe in one hand.
"Main camp… tell main camp… big chief know what to do… burn the thing… burn the—" He broke off mid-breath, shaking his head as if to drive away the thought.
From her distance, Beatriz listened in silence.
If his trail yielded nothing useful, she would take him alive. And then… she would take everything from him—piece by piece—until he told her what she needed to know.
Elrick's voice was low in her ear. "You're… sure he doesn't know we're here?"
Beatriz's tone was calm, almost cold. "If he did, he would already be dead."
The forest closed in around them. The chieftain's scent was thick on the wind.
Her golden mask gleamed faintly in the dim light, unreadable, divine, merciless.
For now, she followed.