---
The hall quieted, goblins leaning in on benches and barrels, waiting to see what the human sidekick would say.
Harold swallowed hard. His cloak was still sticky with grease. His staff leaned against the table, chipped and useless. He could feel a hundred yellow eyes burning into him, waiting for him to claim one of the two doors the King had thrown open.
Greg elbowed him, bones rattling. "Boss, this is a no-brainer. You're already the Royal Necro-Chef! Look at that branding. It sings."
"It shrieks," Harold muttered.
The Goblin King's grin widened. "Well, sidekick? Crown or road? Stay and serve in glory, or leave with your Hero in safe passage?"
"I…" Harold started, but his throat closed up. Both paths reeked of disaster. One smelled like garlic, gravy, and a life of servitude in a goblin kitchen. The other smelled like a trap wrapped in polite words.
From the far end of the table, Arion coughed. His golden hair stuck together in clumps, his armor still smeared with soup. But he managed to stand, swaying only slightly as he raised his sword high.
"Safe passage," he said hoarsely, and then louder: "We demand safe passage!"
The goblin hall erupted into laughter.
The King's tusks glinted. He threw his arms wide. "So be it! At dawn, your safe passage shall be earned—" his voice rose, booming over the crowd, "—in the Arena of Trials!"
The cavern shook with cheers. Mugs slammed. Drums thundered.
"ARENA! ARENA! ARENA!"
Harold's knees nearly gave way. "Oh, wonderful," he croaked.
Greg hopped onto the table, throwing his arms up like a cheerleader. "YEAH! Arena time, baby! Boss, you're undefeated—don't break the streak!"
The goblins jeered and laughed, already throwing bones down as wagers. A scrawny one at the edge of the table yelled, "Three silver says the skeleton trips before the fight starts!"
Another shouted back, "Five silver says the human cries for his mother!"
Coins clinked, bets rolled, and the feast turned into a carnival of Harold's impending doom.
Two guards grabbed him by the arms, hauling him to his feet. His boots slipped on spilled ale as they dragged him toward the doors at the back of the hall. Greg clattered after them, waving at the cheering goblins like he was on parade. Arion, ever the paragon, promptly collapsed back into his chair with a muttered, "All according… to plan…"
The doors slammed shut behind them, the roar of the crowd echoing in Harold's skull.
He was shoved into a stone corridor that smelled of damp earth and torch smoke. Chains rattled somewhere in the dark. Goblin graffiti scrawled across the walls read things like GRAK RULES and Trolls smell worse than us.
The guards marched him down toward a set of barred doors. One kicked them open, revealing a dank chamber with straw on the floor, a bucket in the corner, and a bench that might have been comfortable two centuries ago.
"Your royal suite," one guard sneered, shoving Harold inside.
Greg stumbled in after him, his skull bouncing against the wall before clicking back onto his spine. "Cozy!" he chirped.
The doors slammed shut. The lock clanged.
Harold slumped against the bench, dragging his hands down his face. "I'm going to die tomorrow."
Greg sat cross-legged on the straw, sockets glowing cheerfully. "Or you'll win again! Think positive. You've got poultry power on your side."
"Greg," Harold said flatly, "I am not winning a second time by accident. There aren't enough bones left on that table to build another undead buffet."
"True." Greg tapped his jaw thoughtfully. "But what about bones in the arena? Imagine what's buried under there. Bet it's like an all-you-can-eat buffet for necromancers."
Harold blinked. For once, Greg might have said something useful.
He groaned anyway. "If there are bones, they'll be goblin bones. And goblins are probably terrible minions."
Greg leaned in, sockets glowing mischievously. "Better terrible minions than none at all."
Harold let his head fall back against the wall. He didn't know what scared him more—tomorrow's trial, or the fact that Greg's optimism was starting to sound almost rational.
From outside, faintly, he could still hear the chant echoing through the stone.
And for the first time in his life, Harold wished he really had stayed home and learned to bake bread.
---
The cell smelled of straw, rust, and damp stone. Harold sat on the splintering bench, cloak heavy with dried ale, eyelids sinking as exhaustion gnawed at him. He hadn't slept in two days, unless one counted fainting from stress.
Greg, however, was in his element. He'd already built a straw throne in the corner, draped his flamingo shirt across it like a royal cape, and was waving at imaginary peasants.
"Boss," he said cheerfully, "this is leadership training. Every great hero spends a night in a dungeon before glory. You're just ticking the box."
"I'm not a hero," Harold muttered.
Greg leaned forward, bony elbows on bony knees. "Not with that attitude."
Before Harold could reply, footsteps clanged down the corridor. Two goblin guards appeared, one with a tray, the other rattling a set of keys. The tray was shoved between the bars with all the ceremony of a bucket being kicked.
"Dinner," the first guard grunted.
Harold eyed it warily. A slab of grayish meat, a hunk of stale bread, and a cup of liquid that glowed faintly green.
Greg gasped, scooping up the cup immediately. "Mountain Dew of Destiny!"
"Don't drink that!" Harold barked.
Greg sloshed it around in his skull, sockets glowing. "Mmmm. Tastes like goblin hospitality."
The second guard leaned against the bars, smirking. "Better eat up, human. Tomorrow's entertainment needs to be lively."
"What happens in the Arena?" Harold asked before he could stop himself.
The guards exchanged a grin. "Sometimes it's beasts. Sometimes it's puzzles. Sometimes it's just everyone in the stands throwing spears at you until you fall over."
"Lovely," Harold said dryly.
The first guard tapped his tusk thoughtfully. "I'm betting three silver you won't last past the first wave."
"Four," the second countered.
"On who?"
"The skeleton. He'll trip, fall apart, and distract the human."
They both laughed, walking off down the corridor as their voices echoed: "Arena, arena, arena…"
Greg leaned against the bars, calling after them, "I'll make you eat those words! Literally! I'll cook them into a stew!"
Harold groaned, massaging his temples.
---
The night dragged. Goblins came and went, jeering through the bars, dropping coins onto the floor like offerings for Harold's inevitable demise.
One tossed a chicken bone at his head and shouted, "Animate this, Chef!" Another just sang the Arena chant off-key until a guard told him to shut up.
Harold tried to sleep on the bench, but the chants, the rattling, the laughter—it all clawed at his nerves.
Greg, on the other hand, refused to let him wallow.
"Boss," he said, pacing in circles, "we need a battle plan. First: cardio. Let's run drills!"
"No."
Greg dragged Harold off the bench anyway, ignoring his protests. "Jumping jacks! Ready? One! Two! Three!"
"I'm not doing jumping jacks at midnight in a goblin prison!" Harold hissed.
"Okay, Plan B," Greg said, hands on his hips. "We use psychology. You walk into the Arena and scream something terrifying like, 'FEAR MY MEATBALLS!'"
"That's not terrifying."
"It is if you believe it," Greg insisted.
Harold buried his face in his hands.
But when he peeked through his fingers, Greg was actually standing straighter than usual, shoulders squared, sockets glowing bright with… well, something.
For a flicker of a moment, Harold wondered what it would be like to face the Arena with even half of Greg's absurd confidence.
Then Greg tripped on his own foot bone and faceplanted into the straw.
"Never mind," Harold muttered.
---
Hours passed. The torches outside guttered low. At some point, Harold must have drifted into half-sleep, because the next thing he knew, Greg was shaking him awake.
"Boss. Boss! It's time."
A deep drumbeat rolled through the corridors, shaking dust from the ceiling.
The goblins' chant rose again, distant but growing louder as the crowd gathered above.
The barred doors screeched open. Two guards stood there with spears, grinning. "Showtime."
Harold's stomach dropped to his boots.
Greg snapped his jaw back into place and saluted. "Ready, coach!"
The guards hauled Harold up by his arms and shoved him into the corridor. He stumbled forward, heart hammering, the roar of the crowd growing with every step.
Stone gave way to light. The corridor ended in a set of massive iron gates. Beyond them, Harold could hear stamping feet, jeering laughter, and the low growl of something inhuman.
The drums pounded louder.
Greg leaned close, sockets glowing. "Remember, boss: confidence. And if that fails—skeleton poultry."
The gates groaned as chains rattled and pulleys creaked.
Sunlight lanced through the cracks.
The Arena yawned open before them, full of teeth.
---