Arthur stared at the goblin's twitching body, the faint glow of the binding still shimmering over its wound. His chest heaved, his arms quivered, but there was no mistaking it—he had won. The creature's spirit bent to his will, shackled by chains no eye could see.
Slowly, the goblin stirred. Not alive, not free, but tethered. Its yellow eyes flickered once, then lowered. It knelt clumsily, as though the act were foreign, but inevitable. A shiver crawled up Arthur's spine—not fear this time, but power.
He wiped the blood from his face with a trembling hand. This was real. He had killed, and now he commanded. A secret strength no one in the village would ever imagine.
Yet as he rose from the dirt, the memory of the barn struck him again—Merlin's laughter tangled with the men's, her body shared as if he had never mattered. The sound burned deeper than the goblin's claws.
Arthur clenched his knife. No more pity. No more looks of "poor boy." They had seen him as weak, small, unworthy. But he wasn't anymore.
The goblin shambled to his side, awaiting command. Arthur stared at it, the thought of what he could build gnawing at the edges of his mind. Vengeance, respect, fear—all within reach. But not yet. His rage was still raw, tangled with despair. He could not yet decide how to wield this weapon. Not until he stood before her again. Not until he saw her face—not in laughter, but in pleading. Only then, he thought, would he know what justice—or punishment—she deserved.
For now, he turned back toward the village. The goblin loped silently behind him like a shadow. His path was set, his heart hardening with every step.
The night had given him power. Now, he would see how the day greeted him.
Arthur studied the creature in the moonlight. Its skin was sickly green, stretched taut over a wiry frame. Filthy rags clung to its shoulders, reeking of sweat and rot. The goblin's arms were long and sinewy, ending in clawed hands that flexed with restless twitching. Its ears jutted sharply, torn and scarred, while its yellow eyes glowed faintly like coals buried in ash. Its teeth—jagged and uneven—glistened with spit as it breathed through a crooked snout.
Ugly. Repulsive. But strong in its own way.
Arthur's lip curled, then he forced the breath out through his nose, steadying himself. No warrior. No knight. No beast of legend. Just a goblin. But perhaps that was enough. He wasn't made to command dragons or demons. He needed something smaller. Something he could beat. Something he could control.
The goblin slouched lower, waiting, bound by the invisible tether Arthur now felt thrumming between them. A tool. His tool.
Arthur glanced at his own hands, still trembling, sticky with blood. Farming calluses roughened his palms, not a soldier's grip. He had never had the strength to plow the fields alone, never the coin to hire help, never the will to rise above the weight of the hamlet. But now, for the first time, he thought—he might not need to.
A creature like this could dig, carry, guard. And with more, perhaps… grind out strength where Arthur's body had always failed him. The thought flickered bright in his mind: goblins as his arms, goblins as his labor. Not as monsters, but as tools to free him from the chains of this place.
His gaze drifted toward the hills where the lights of the hamlet twinkled faintly in the night. Home. Or rather, the cage that had always smothered him.
Ashwood Hollow. A place where soil was thin, where the smoke from the forges always tasted bitter, where laughter in barns hid rot in its heart. A place that raised him only to break him down.
Arthur tightened his grip on the knife. He had a goblin now. His first. And if he could make this one serve, there would be more. Enough to change everything.
He set his jaw, whispering under his breath as though binding the vow to himself:
"This will do."
Arthur looked down at the goblin, still hunched and waiting. The bond between them pulsed faintly, like a rope tied around his thoughts. He hesitated, lips dry, then spoke aloud—his voice rough, almost uncertain.
"Pick it up."
He nudged the small bundle of firewood he had dropped in the struggle, half-expecting the creature to lash out or ignore him. Instead, the goblin lurched forward, claws curling awkwardly around the sticks. It straightened, clutching the load tight against its chest with a wheezing grunt.
Arthur's heart pounded. It obeyed.
He stared at the sight—the ugliest thing he had ever seen, standing obedient with his burden. A laugh almost escaped him, though it came out more as a ragged exhale. This was real. This was his.
"Good," he muttered, the word tasting strange on his tongue. Praise? Command? It didn't matter. The goblin only blinked, yellow eyes dim, waiting for the next order.
Arthur turned toward the hills, toward the thin line of smoke that marked his father's farm. The thought of returning there with this thing at his side filled him with unease, but also a thrill. Let them whisper. Let them stare. For once, he would not walk home alone, head bowed and hands empty.
"Follow," he said, voice steady now.
The goblin shuffled after him, carrying the wood like a servant trailing his master.
As they made their way back to the farm, Arthur felt the weight of his life shift. Every step homeward was different, heavier and yet lighter. For the first time, he wasn't returning as the boy everyone pitied. He was returning with power, however small, walking beside him in the dark.
And in the silence of the night, Arthur allowed himself the dangerous thought:
This was only the beginning.