Arthur stood at the center of the clearing, arms folded as he observed the organized chaos unfolding around him. The goblins moved with a rhythm that had only emerged after weeks of patient training—what had once been a disorderly rabble now carried a semblance of purpose, each creature aware of its role.
"Split the wood evenly, stack it by the wall," he called, pointing toward the half-finished palisade at the edge of the settlement. "We'll need it ready before the rains come."
A group of goblins carrying crude hatchets barked acknowledgment in their guttural tongue.
"Ghrak-tuk! Mrruh-kaa!" one shouted, the others echoing with sharp, clipped grunts as they hurried to obey.
Each movement was clumsy but determined, requiring Arthur's steady hand to adjust and correct. He could see the sweat beading at their brows and the strain in their shoulders as they lifted the heavy bundles, their small frames wobbling under weight that would be trivial for a human.
One goblin, eager to impress, saluted with both hands and promptly fell backward into a pile of straw. Arthur didn't flinch. "You'll get there," he muttered, stepping over the creature as if it were part of the terrain.
Nearby, smaller goblins worked at a rough carpentry bench Arthur had overseen. Their stubby fingers struggled with the uneven tools, hammering planks together or tying them with coarse ropes into rudimentary stools and tables.
The splintered wood smelled faintly resinous in the sun, the clatter of mallets striking wood echoing across the clearing. Each clang and scrape of wood struck out in irregular rhythm, filling the air with the raw music of labor.
Arthur crouched beside them, inspecting each piece, straightening a misaligned plank with a precise push. The tactile sensation of smooth wood beneath his fingers, the subtle vibration of each strike, was oddly satisfying—proof that order could be forced from chaos.
"Good. Keep them sturdy. No wobbling legs — we'll use them for the mess hall."
The goblins yipped in rapid-fire response, one even slamming a fist against his chest with pride. "Rak-taa! Rak-taa!" Their jagged teeth glinted in the sun, the raw pride of creatures slowly learning mastery reflecting back at him in small sparks.
At the far edge of the clearing, others tended the small plots of crops Arthur had ordered planted weeks ago. Bent over the earth with crude bone tools, they dug into the soil, planting and watering with painstaking care. Arthur stopped, hands on his hips, and gestured to the tallest goblin.
"Water them slowly, not too much at once. Strong roots are what will keep these plants alive."
The goblin blinked, then grinned widely, chattering back: "Grahn'ru! Shakka-maa!" Arthur nodded briefly.
Despite the roughness of their words, he had learned to read the intention: obedience, and even pride—but each action required correction, his presence constant.
He could feel the heat of the sun on his back, the grit of dirt under his boots, the faint scent of damp earth and leaves—a symphony of raw labor that mirrored the rhythm of his control.
At the edge of the camp, several larger goblins dragged bundles of sticks and logs, hauling them back to the growing walls. Arthur raised his voice above the clamor, authoritative yet measured:
"Two groups: one for the walls, one for firewood. Don't mix them!" The goblins answered with synchronized cries, their guttural voices echoing against the clearing:
"Grukk-tah! Grukk-tah!"
The entire camp thrummed with life, the sound of labor blending with the smell of smoke from the central firepit, the earthy tang of freshly turned soil, and the subtle scent of the surrounding forest.
Birds called faintly from the treetops, insects hummed along the edges, adding layers to the natural chorus.
Arthur's gaze swept across the clearing, mentally calculating efficiency, noting which goblins lagged, which doubled back to repeat tasks.
The limited capacity of the goblins demanded constant supervision, and his role was not just leader—it was organizer, teacher, and constant regulator. Each decision, each correction, carried weight, shaping not only their labor but the future of the settlement itself.
For the first time, Arthur allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. This was no longer chaos—it was structure, progress, a semblance of civilization rising in the wild.
Beca emerged from the barn, her movements shy but deliberate. She walked with a soft, swaying gait, the sun glinting on her horns.
She held a basket woven from coarse straw, filled with berries, and moved to Arthur's side, her tail giving a soft flick against his leg.
"Moooh... is it good, master?" she asked softly, her gaze taking in the camp. "You... you have so much work. I can help. I can carry the logs for you. I'm strong." She offered, her voice full of earnestness.
Arthur shook his head gently, placing a hand on her cheek. "No. That's not your job, Becca. You give me milk. You're my companion. That's all I need from you."
Beca's eyes softened, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. "Moooh... I'm happy to serve, master."
Merlin, his childhood friend, appeared at the edge of the clearing, her cloak trailing lightly behind her as she stepped among the busyness. Her eyes swept over the half-built walls, the neat rows of crops, and the improvised carpentry sheds. She exhaled softly, a note of wonder in her voice.
"This place…" she murmured, her lips curling faintly. "It feels more alive than the village itself."
A goblin, carrying a bundle of sticks, saw Merlin and let out a yip of delight.
The goblin dropped its bundle with a thud and scampered toward Merlin, arms flailing in a gesture that was equal parts greeting and chaotic celebration.
"Snrrk! Shakka-maa!" it chirped, circling her like a dog unsure whether to worship or fetch.
Merlin raised an eyebrow, her cloak fluttering as she turned to Arthur. "They're… enthusiastic."
Arthur gave a dry nod. "They think you're some kind of forest priestess or queen. You smell like herbs, and you release their urges. That's enough to earn devotion."
Merlin arched an eyebrow, her lips curling into something between amusement and challenge. "Herbs and urges? That's all it takes to rule goblinkind?"
Arthur didn't smile. "They're simple. You soothe them. You don't threaten them. That's rare."
Around them, the goblins continued their work, but several had paused to glance at Merlin, their eyes wide and twitchy with reverence. One of the smaller ones approached, arms outstretched, and wrapped itself around her leg with a wet grunt.
"Mrruh-kaa! Mrruh-ka!"
She patted its head gently, letting it cling. "Hello again, buddy. Still clingy, I see."
Another goblin joined in, pressing its mossy forehead against her hip. Merlin didn't flinch — she welcomed the contact, even leaned slightly into it.
Arthur watched, arms folded. "You encourage them too much."
"They respond to kindness," she said, stroking the goblin's ear. "Not just commands."
"I don't have the kind of 'kindness' they listen to," he said, his voice flat.
Merlin let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound almost a snort.
From behind him, Beca shifted slightly, her tail flicking once. She stepped closer, her voice soft.
"Master… do you want me to help with the fields tomorrow? I can pull the plow. I'm strong enough."
Arthur turned to her, his gaze steady. "No. You stay close. You give milk. You keep me company. That's your place."
Beca's cheeks flushed, her ears lowering in quiet pride. "Muuuh… I like being near you."
Merlin's smile thinned. "She's very obedient."
Arthur didn't respond. He simply placed a hand on Beca's shoulder, firm and reassuring.
One of the goblins nearby let out a grunt and pointed at Merlin. "Mrruh-kaa!"
Another goblin nodded solemnly. "Mrruh-Mrruh-kaa"
Merlin laughed. "That's devotion, Arthur. Even if it's a little… damp."
Arthur sighed. "It's goblin devotion. Which means it lasts until they see your... You know."
"Wow, that was blunt, Arthur," Merlin said teasingly, placing a hand near her pelvis. "Here I am trying to keep things light, and you go reminding everyone they're basically thirst goblins."
Arthur didn't flinch. He just gave her a sideways glance, dry as ever. "I'm not wrong."
Merlin smirked, fingers still resting casually near her hip. "No, but you could've let the moment breathe before dragging it into the swamp."
A goblin nearby, catching the gesture, let out a delighted grunt. "Mrruh-kaa!" It clapped its hands and began hopping in place, clearly misinterpreting the mood.
Beca, who had been quietly standing nearby, shifted closer to Arthur, her tail curling protectively around her leg. "Muuuh… they never act like that with me."
Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. "That's because you don't let them fuck you. They know better."
Beca's cheeks flushed, her ears twitching at the word.
"Muuuuh…" she murmured, a soft sound that carried more warmth than embarrassment.
Merlin raised an eyebrow, her tone playful. "Feeling possessive today, are we?
The goblin knelt dramatically at Merlin's feet, presenting a crooked stick like it was a sacred relic. Merlin accepted it with theatrical solemnity, then whispered to Arthur: "This is a twig."
"It's a holy twig now," Arthur replied, arms crossed.
Becca giggled softly, her tail flicking. "Moooh… they're silly. But they work hard."
Merlin glanced at her, eyes lingering on the horns, the gentle sway of her posture. "And you, Becca? How do you feel here?"
Becca looked around — at the goblins hammering, planting, stacking, and occasionally falling over. Then she looked at Arthur, her voice quiet but firm. "I feel… safe. I feel useful. I feel like I belong."
Merlin smiled, a rare softness in her expression. "Then this place is more than alive. It's growing."
Arthur turned back to the clearing, watching as a goblin tried to carry three logs at once and promptly collapsed into a wheelbarrow. He sighed. "Growing sideways, maybe. But growing."
"Grak-graa!" It dropped the sticks and ran toward her, wrapping its spindly arms around her tight in a rough hug.
Merlin let out a genuine, surprised laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in her chest. "Oh! Not so tight, little one!" she said, her voice warm and amused as she gently pushed at its arms. She knelt down, her robes pooling around her, and carefully petted their heads.
A second and third goblin joined the hug, all grunting happily. "You're all doing such a good job. Yes, you are." The goblins snuggled into her, their rough bodies seeking her touch.
She looked at Arthur with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "They're so… friendly."
Arthur let out a short, hollow laugh. "Yes, they are 'friendly' with you."
Arthur watched the interaction, a knot forming in his stomach. The goblins didn't hug him. They obeyed him, but they didn't touch him with affection. He knew why. They were his tools, not his friends.
Merlin rose, her gaze sweeping over the camp before settling on Becca. "She looks tired, Arthur.
"She's not built for this hard work, is she?" she said, her voice laced with a possessive undertone. "It's… sweet of her to offer, but her skills are so much better used elsewhere."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Her skills are for me. That's all that matters."
Merlin's smile widened, sharp and knowing. "Of course. But I can do so much more. My magic can guide their hands, make the wood lighter, the tools sharper. I can make them… perfect. Wouldn't that be better? It would save you so much effort."
He observed her shift, restlessness marking her stance. Merlin, usually so composed, seemed small here, uncertain. And yet the thought of her presence, properly directed, had merit. She could handle the simple spells, keep the goblins in line, and make sure the camp didn't fall apart.
"If you're serious," he said finally, voice calm, steady, "we'll prepare a house for you. Not a grand one. Something functional, close to the center."
Merlin's eyes lit up, a flicker of raw desire visible. "That will be enough," she said, her voice a low, throaty whisper. "Having to walk all the way back to the village every night is horrible. And it's so far."
Arthur's expression softened slightly. He'd never considered her nightly walk. "What will you tell your uncle?"
Merlin's eyes flashed with a steely resolve. "I owe him nothing. He never taught me. He never cared about me. I'll just leave. He'll notice when the meals stop arriving, not before."
"Don't tell me you were doing... that with your uncle Robert too?" he asked, his voice low with horror.
Merlin flinched, her body tensing. She shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze.
"Of course not," she said, but her voice was devoid of its usual certainty.
Arthur's stomach twisted. It seemed he had found a new, lower floor for her, each revelation worse than the last. Well, he thought, we're not a couple. It doesn't matter to me.
As the goblins continued their work, their voices forming a strange, choral backdrop, Arthur stepped closer to the nearest group, guiding them with precision, correcting their stance, adjusting the piles of wood, murmuring instructions that were both sharp and patient.
Each movement was a lesson in authority, and the goblins absorbed it quickly—efficient now, and slowly becoming self-sufficient.
Meanwhile, Beca hovered near the edge of the clearing, quiet and watchful. She had been helping subtly, carrying small bundles, handing tools to the goblins. The soft breeze ruffled her hair, her tail flicked nervously, and her ears twitched at every sound of his voice.
When he looked toward her, she bowed her head, letting him assess her work without complaint. Her body was submissive, shy, but attentive in every action—her way of offering herself for his notice without words.
Arthur paused for a moment, watching her small, careful movements, and allowed a brief glance of approval—a nod, a gentle hand pressing against her shoulder as he passed.
Beca's chest rose with a quiet, trembling sigh. She didn't need to speak. Her obedience, her timidity, and her devotion were her words.
Merlin watched in silence, a small smile playing on her lips, her hands still caressing the goblins. The little creatures, as if feeling the energy, snuggled into her legs, seeking her touch. She looked at Arthur, her eyes sparkling with a possessive fire he was beginning to recognize.
The day pressed on. Arthur moved from task to task: correcting a poorly built bench, demonstrating a proper chopping technique, checking the irrigation of the crops. Each instruction was measured, designed to extract as much productivity as possible from creatures that were, by nature, only half as capable as humans.
The goblins worked harder, motivated by the combination of authority and the quiet satisfaction of doing well.
By the time the sun began to dip, painting the clearing in shades of gold and red, the walls had grown taller, the wood neatly stacked, the crops watered and aligned, and the carpentry shed taking a usable shape.
Watching a goblin water the crops with a ladle, Arthur sighed. "Innovative. Wrong, but innovative."
Arthur allowed himself a satisfied exhale, eyes scanning the camp: organized, productive, and alive with controlled chaos.
Beca remained close to him, quiet, her tail flicking in the fading light. Her subtle shyness, the careful attentiveness to his guidance, and the faintest glimmers of suggestion in her posture spoke volumes.
"Milky tonight?" she whispered, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the rustling leaves.
Arthur choked on a breath, a short, sharp cough that he quickly tried to disguise. "Sure," he managed to say, his voice a little gruff.
A shy, happy smile spread across Becca's face, a brief flicker of light in the dimming afternoon.
Merlin, watching from the edge of the carpentry shed, narrowed her eyes in suspicion, her gaze shifting from Becca's happy expression to Arthur's slightly flustered face.
Arthur's presence, firm and commanding, had shaped the day. And though he didn't need to speak words of approval, his actions—the guiding, the correction, the steady oversight—were a promise of care, order, and something unspoken but deeply understood.
The goblins, weaker in capability, required constant correction and repetition, yet under Arthur's meticulous direction, they were beginning to function as a true workforce—his "family," bound to him through the progenitor goblin's link.
Beca's human efficiency shone all the more in contrast, and Merlin, observing, could not hide the mix of envy, admiration, and obsessive longing as she considered the only path that could keep her close to him.
By the evening, the clearing was no longer just a place of labor—it was a living, breathing testament to Arthur's authority, patience, and strategic vision.
The walls stood taller.
The crops were aligned.
The goblins moved with purpose.
Beca remained close, quiet and efficient.
Merlin had taken her place in the barn, fulfilling her role without protest.
A queue of goblins had formed, twitching with anticipation as they waited for her to start.
And Arthur—he no longer commanded a camp. He presided over a foundation.
A rhythm had taken root.
Obedience had become instinct.
Structure had become culture.
This was no longer survival.
It was the beginning of dominion.
A kingdom, crude and crawling, was rising from the soil.
And at its center stood Arthur—silent, watchful, absolute.