A week slipped by in the hamlet of Hollowmere.
Arthur pushed the plow with firm movements, the goblin trotting alongside, carrying a stone as if it were a trophy. The field was quiet, the sky tinged with gold, and sweat ran down Arthur's neck without him stopping.
The goblin let out an excited grunt, raised the stone above its head, and looked at Arthur as if expecting applause.
Arthur didn't look. "That's a stone, not a toy. Go bury it in the east corner."
The goblin hesitated, looked at the stone, then at the indicated corner, and ran off with the speed of someone who believes they are fulfilling a sacred mission. The stone fell twice on the way, but it picked it up with solemnity each time.
Arthur continued plowing, the furrows forming like scars on the earth.
The goblin returned minutes later, chest puffed out, hands empty, and let out a sound that resembled a proud snort.
Arthur looked up for a second. "Did you actually bury it or just toss it on top?"
The goblin beat its own chest with a claw, then pointed to the ground as if swearing fidelity to the soil.
Arthur snorted. "Fine. Now grab that pile of sticks and start stacking. And not like you're building a rat's nest. Straight. Stable."
The goblin ran to the sticks, picked one up, looked at it as if it were a magical artifact, and began to stack with exaggerated precision—tongue out, eyes half-closed, as if solving an ancient puzzle.
Arthur watched for a moment, then returned to the plow. "If you can stack five without knocking everything over, maybe I'll promote you to 'fence helper.' Maybe."
The goblin let out a sound that resembled a claw-clapping applause, then returned to work with renewed energy.
Arthur didn't smile. But the field, for the first time, seemed to gain more life.
Merlin appeared on the horizon as always—light, smiling, with her tangled hair dancing in the wind and her eyes shining as if the world were made of promises.
"Arthur!" she called, almost singing. "Good afternoon, my winter sun!"
Arthur didn't respond. The goblin, on the other hand, let out an excited grunt, dropped the stone with a thud, and ran toward her with open arms, as if to greet a long-lost lover.
Merlin laughed, but raised a hand delicately. "Not now, my little monster. First, I need to talk to the master."
The goblin stopped mid-stride, its arms still extended, its body trembling with anticipation. It let out a sound that resembled a joyful sob, then looked at Arthur with wide eyes.
Arthur didn't turn around immediately. He continued pushing the plow for another yard, another two, until the silence behind him became too ridiculous to ignore.
Then he stopped, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, and said without looking:
"I'm not stopping you. It will only take a second."
The goblin let out a high-pitched whimper, like a frustrated pup, and began stamping the ground with its crooked feet—a silent protest, full of trembles and sniffles.
Merlin approached Arthur, still smiling. "He's so excited today. I think he dreamed about the harvest."
Arthur didn't shift his gaze from the soil. "If he dreamed, it was probably about planting another kind of seed."
She gave the goblin a teasing look. "He is always so impatient."
Arthur just nodded in agreement.
Merlin laughed, then bowed slightly, as if asking for permission. "Can I take him to the stable? He's anxious."
Arthur let out a short sigh, his eyes still fixed on the soil. "Go on. Just don't come back with poetry about it. Have fun, buddy."
The goblin let out a high-pitched grunt, already preparing to sprint, but Merlin caught him by the arm with a mischievous smile.
"Wow, you're so cruel," she said, pouting dramatically. "You know what his idea of fun means!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.
Merlin then stuck out her tongue, trying to look cute — her eyes sparkling, her posture light, as if attempting to coax a smile from stone.
The goblin, beside her, trembled with anticipation, eyes wide, body already leaning into the run.
Arthur gave a dry nod. "Then run before I change my mind."
Merlin gave an exaggerated curtsy, took the goblin's hand with an almost maternal gesture, and began guiding him toward the stable. The goblin hopped alongside her, making sounds that varied between grunts and off-key chants, as if heading to a party.
Merlin was already moving with the lightness of someone who had turned the nightly ritual into a routine—as if the breeding were just another task of the day. And so it became.
Arthur watched for a moment, then returned to the plow.
The field didn't need joy. Only strength.
Arthur kept to his routines—plowing, mending fences, running his small farm with the goblin's brute labor filling in the gaps.
Yet every night, when the sun sank and shadows stretched over the fields, Merlin vanished into the stables.
By the third night the pattern was undeniable.
He could hear her muffled cries, sometimes laughter, sometimes sobs, carried faintly on the night wind.
She didn't return to the house until dawn, always staggering, her body marked by the restless creature she so willingly gave herself to. Arthur stopped asking. He told himself he didn't care—though his thoughts betrayed him when he tried to sleep.
By the end of the week, her body bore the evidence. Her belly was swollen, impossibly fast, taut as though stretched beyond what flesh should endure.
Arthur stood at the stable door one morning, watching her kneel in the straw, both hands pressed to her abdomen as though steadying some burden inside her.
Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale yet glowing with feverish light.
"Another day or two," Arthur muttered under his breath. "And you'll be birthing goblins in my damn barn."
Merlin turned toward his voice. Despite the exhaustion in her features, she smiled—radiant, trembling, desperate. "Arthur… it's working," she whispered, her voice hoarse with lack of sleep. "I'm finally going to be useful to you. I can give you what no one else can."
Her fingers spread over the bulge, and a soft giggle escaped her lips. "They're almost ready."
Arthur stood at the doorway, unmoving.
Inside, Merlin knelt in the straw, her breath shallow, hands pressed to the taut swell of her belly. The goblin paced behind her, claws tapping in rhythm, head tilted, grunting low and steady.
Then her body arched.
Straw scattered. A cry tore through the rafters — jagged, wet, not quite human. Her fingers clawed at the ground, nails splitting. The goblin stopped pacing.
Merlin gasped, voice cracking. "It's— it's starting—!"
"Calm down," he said, voice low, almost clinical. "Just breathe."
Arthur didn't move.
Her back convulsed again. "Arthur—!" she screamed, voice raw. "It hurts—oh gods, it hurts—!"
Something spilled.
Slick shapes hit the straw with wet thuds. They twitched. Squirmed. Skin like bruised moss, limbs curled, eyes sealed. Merlin sobbed, then giggled — a sound too light, too broken.
"They're here," she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. "They're real…"
Arthur knelt beside her, not touching, his gaze sweeping over the creatures. They twitched blindly, their limbs spasming, mouths opening and closing in search of warmth, of sustenance.
"You're alright," he said, voice low, "It's done. Just breathe."
The goblin crouched, watching. Merlin reached out, trembling, as the things dragged themselves toward her, claws scraping her thighs, mouths searching.
She welcomed them.
"They're hungry," she said, voice hoarse. "They know me."
Arthur didn't speak. His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white.
One of the broodlings latched onto her skin, suckling with feral urgency. She winced, then laughed again — breathless, delirious.
"I did it," she whispered. "I gave you something no one else could."
Arthur's eyes lingered on the broodlings. One had already latched onto her hip, suckling with feral hunger. Another clawed its way toward her chest, leaving faint red lines in its wake.
He exhaled slowly. "Good litter," he said. "You did well."
Merlin blinked, her lips parting in a dazed smile.
"Congratulations," Arthur murmured, standing again. "You're a marvelous brood sow. And you've earned your place."
She laughed softly, deliriously, and cradled one of the creatures to her chest. "I'll do it again," she whispered. "As many times as you need."
Arthur turned toward the door, his silhouette framed by the pale morning light.
Behind him, the goblin crouched low, watching the newborns with gleaming eyes, already grunting in rhythm again.
Merlin lay back in the straw, her body broken but radiant, her belly still stirring with unnatural motion.
And still, she smiled.
By morning, they stood.
Spines straightened. Limbs thickened. Jaws snapped at scraps the goblin tore from a carcass. Merlin lay back, smiling through exhaustion, her belly already stirring again.
By the third day, they ran.
Bent legs pounding the dirt, hissing, growling, chasing each other in circles. The goblin barked once — they obeyed, clustering around him like pups to a wolf.
Arthur remained at the fence, silent.
Merlin leaned against the stall, arms folded over her stomach, watching them with pride.
The price to birth goblins was low — but it still existed.
Merlin, pale and trembling, lay back against the straw with a blissful smile, her belly already stirring again with unnatural motion.
"They'll make you stronger," she whispered toward Arthur when he dared approach. Her eyes shone with feverish devotion, tears streaking her cheeks. "Each one will prove my love. Each one will bind me to you."
Arthur said nothing. He could not deny what he saw—an obscene miracle unfolding in his own stables.
By the fifth day, the first brood was no longer crawling things. They were half his height already, their bodies wiry, fast, and hungry. Their claws tore through chickens, their teeth cracked bones with ease. And yet—they obeyed the goblin male, clustering around him like pups to a wolf.
Arthur stood at the fence, watching as the creatures circled the yard. Merlin leaned against the stall's frame, her belly still swollen—already quickened with another litter. She gazed at the half-grown spawn with pride, her arms folded over her stomach as though they were her offering to him.
"See?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from sleepless nights. "They'll guard your farm. They'll fight for you. No man will ever dare touch Hollowmere again."
Hollowmere — the name he chose for his future settlement — offered more than just that.
Arthur's jaw clenched. The sight of them turned his stomach—yet he could not deny their strength. In less than a week, four half-grown goblins already moved with the instincts of predators. By the next week, what would they be? Soldiers? Monsters?
The village would not understand. If word spread, Hollowmere would burn.
That night, Arthur sat alone by the hearth, staring into the flames. From outside came the shrill laughter of the brood, chasing each other under the pale moonlight. Merlin's soft voice drifted with them, crooning lullabies twisted into something feral.
He pressed a hand to his brow, torn between revulsion and the whisper of possibility.
If he let them live, they could make him powerful. More than just a farmer. A warlord, perhaps.
If he culled them now, in their sleep, the nightmare would end—but so too would Merlin's devotion.
Arthur shut his eyes. He knew by dawn he would have to decide.
Three were born. Not four, not five—three.
Arthur stood over them as they squirmed in the straw, their skin pale and slick, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. By the end of the second night they were already crawling, gnashing their tiny teeth on wood and bone, their claws leaving scratches across the planks.
Merlin sat nearby, exhausted but radiant, her arms wrapped around her knees as she watched them with a feverish smile. "They're strong, Arthur. Even now. You'll see."
He ignored her voice, his mind running in sharper lines. Three was a manageable number. Small enough to control, but enough to test what he'd only whispered to himself in darker moments.
If goblins bled, they gave experience. If they gave experience, then these creatures—her spawn—were a renewable resource.
Arthur's hand clenched at his side. The thought was grotesque, yes. But the truth cut deeper: he needed strength.
The world beyond Hollowmere didn't forgive weakness. If he could climb levels faster than fate intended, break past the years of waiting that crippled lesser men, then perhaps… perhaps all of this filth had a purpose.
He glanced at Merlin. She stroked one of the broodlings as if it were a child, humming some broken lullaby. Her devotion blinded her—she would never question him, never suspect his intent.
Arthur's lips curved in a humorless smile. "Three will do."
That night he sharpened his blade, listening to the hiss of steel. His pulse quickened at the thought of what would come: the first strike, the rush of power, the numbers climbing within him.
Yet even as the anticipation burned, another thought gnawed at him. When the cooldown came—whether days or years—what then? Would he have to wait, or would Merlin simply provide again, swollen with another brood, her body turned into his ladder to ascend?
The fire crackled. Outside, the newborn goblins chittered, restless in the dark. Merlin's soft voice carried with them, tender and unyielding.
Arthur exhaled slowly. He had already chosen his path.