The smell hit them before the cave came into view—rot, filth, and iron. Arin tugged his scarf higher over his nose, gagging as he peered into the shadows yawning before them.
"So this is it," he muttered. "The Goblin Nest."
Lyra crouched at the edge of the treeline, her silver-gray eyes scanning the cave mouth. She had tied her long black hair back, her sword resting loose at her hip. Calm. Ready. Always steady, no matter how dire the quest seemed.
"Remember what the guild report said," she whispered. "At least thirty goblins, maybe more. Two hobgoblins leading them. We clear it out, we get twelve Silver Marks each, plus bounty for every goblin ear we bring back."
Arin nodded, gripping his training steel sword. "Got it. Stick together, don't rush, kill fast."
Lyra smirked faintly. "Good. Maybe you're learning after all."
Into the Dark
They moved quietly into the cave. The air grew damp, filled with the sounds of dripping water and faint, guttural growls echoing deeper in. Faint torchlight flickered against jagged walls, casting shadows that seemed to lurch like living things.
Arin's heart pounded, but his grip was steady.
The first goblin came stumbling out of the dark, its beady yellow eyes glinting as it raised a crude axe. Lyra's blade flashed, and the goblin fell before it could scream.
"One," she whispered.
They pressed deeper. Soon, they found the heart of the nest. A large cavern opened up before them, goblins squatting around a fire pit, tearing into half-burnt meat. Crude weapons lay scattered.
At the far end, two hulking hobgoblins growled, tusks jutting as they argued over a carcass.
Arin swallowed. "So… thirty goblins, two hobgoblins."
Lyra smirked, drawing her sword. "Just another day's work."
The Battle
The goblins smelled them before they struck.
A chorus of shrieks erupted, weapons raised, eyes gleaming with malice. The swarm rushed forward.
"Left flank!" Lyra barked.
Arin moved instinctively, his blade arcing in a clean swing that split a goblin's chest. Another lunged, and he kicked it away, spinning to slash down a third.
Lyra was a storm—fluid, deadly, precise. Every strike ended a life, her blade painting arcs of crimson in the firelight.
But numbers pressed them hard.
A hobgoblin roared, hefting a jagged club the size of Arin's torso. It charged, shaking the ground.
Arin braced, but Lyra's hand shot out. "No! That one's mine!"
She darted forward, blades clashing in a furious dance. Sparks flew as she ducked beneath the monster's swings, her strikes carving shallow cuts into its thick hide.
Meanwhile, Arin faced the second hobgoblin.
It swung its axe, the blow smashing stone where he had stood a heartbeat ago. The shockwave nearly knocked him off his feet. He rolled, scrambled up, and slashed desperately at its side. The blade bit shallowly, but it was enough to enrage it further.
The hobgoblin's roar shook the cavern.
A Risk Worth Taking
Arin's breath came in ragged bursts. His arms trembled under the weight of the fight. He couldn't win in a direct clash. He needed a risk.
His eyes darted to the cavern ceiling—stalactites hung sharp and heavy, some already cracked.
If I can bring those down…
He baited the hobgoblin, feinting to the left, then sprinting toward a cluster of loose rocks. The beast followed, roaring in blind rage.
At the last second, Arin dove aside and swung his sword into a thin support stone. Cracks spiderwebbed up the wall. With a thunderous crack, a mass of rock and stone speared downward, crushing the hobgoblin beneath it.
Dust filled the cavern. Silence followed.
Arin coughed, stumbling back to his feet. His arm throbbed from the strain, but when the dust cleared, the hobgoblin lay motionless under the rubble.
He looked across the cavern—Lyra stood over her fallen foe, her blade dripping red, chest heaving with exertion.
Their eyes met, and for the first time, she grinned at him—not the smirk of mockery, but genuine pride.
"Well done," she said.
Arin grinned back, exhaustion and triumph flooding through him.
Bonds Forged in Blood
By the time the last goblin fell, both of them were drenched in sweat and blood. They collapsed by the fire pit, too tired to speak at first.
Finally, Lyra broke the silence. "You think you're weak, don't you?"
Arin blinked at her. "…I mean, compared to you—"
She cut him off. "Don't. You're not weak. Not anymore. You fought a hobgoblin alone and won. That's strength, Arin. Strength that's yours, not mine."
Her words sank deep, warming him in a way no fire could.
For the first time since coming to this world, he felt it—like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't an outsider anymore.
Maybe he was becoming an adventurer.