The forest had two kinds of silence.
One was peaceful—birdsong fading at dusk, wind whispering through leaves, water moving somewhere far away.
The other was a warning.
This silence was the second kind.
The metal-men stood frozen near Mogrin's snapped tripwire, lantern hooded, weapons half-raised. Their breath made pale ghosts in the damp air. The moths drifted in slow circles above the blood-stained ground, glowing faintly like floating embers.
And behind them—past the thin wall of ferns and shadow—something moved.
Not fast.
Heavy.
Branches creaked as if a thick weight leaned into them. Leaves trembled without wind.
A low growl rolled through the trees, deep enough to vibrate in my ribs.
Mogrin's fingers clenched around my sleeve so hard the fabric pinched. His eyes were wide, round, wet.
"Vark," he breathed, barely sound. "Big… come."
Boss was somewhere above, hidden in the canopy. I couldn't see him, but I could feel the tribe's tension—dozens of goblin bodies held still, listening, ready to scatter.
The humans did what humans did.
They tried to understand.
"Bear?" one of them whispered.
"No," another murmured. "Listen to that."
A third voice, colder: "Back up."
They shifted into a tighter cluster, shoulders angling outward, spear tips lifting, sword hands steady. Professional. Efficient. The kind of people who didn't get eaten on their first day.
The darkness behind them rippled.
Then it stepped out.
At first my brain refused to label it. It was too large to fit in the "wolf" box, too sleek to fit in "boar," too wrong to be anything normal.
It looked like a wolf made by something that hated wolves.
A worg.
It was taller at the shoulder than the humans' hips, long-bodied and thick-necked. Its fur was dark and coarse, with old scars cutting pale lines through it like lightning. One ear was torn in half. Its jaws were too wide, its teeth too long, overlapping like a saw. Its eyes were a dull amber that didn't shine like the Needlewolves' did—these eyes didn't need to reflect light to be terrifying.
They held their own.
The worg didn't charge.
It walked out of the shadows like it owned the space between trees. Like it had decided this patch of forest was part of its body, and everything else was a foreign object.
It sniffed the air. Slow. Deliberate.
Blood. Humans. Goblins.
Its nostrils flared.
Then it turned its head toward the metal-men.
The humans stiffened.
"Worg," the spear-man said quietly, and the word carried weight. Recognition. Fear.
So they knew.
Of course they did.
The spear-man lifted his weapon, voice low but firm. "Back. No sudden—"
The worg moved.
Not like a wolf. Not like a predator chasing prey.
Like a blade falling.
It crossed the distance in a blur, silent on the wet ground. One moment it was standing in the ferns, the next it was inside the humans' formation.
The first man didn't even scream.
The worg's jaws closed around his shoulder and neck together, teeth punching through leather like it was paper. The force of the bite lifted the man off his feet. The worg twisted its head once.
Bone popped.
The man's arm didn't tear cleanly. It peeled, tendons stretching like wet rope, snapping one by one. Blood sprayed in a thick arc across leaves.
The body dropped, twitching, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
The humans shouted—real panic now, not controlled whispers.
"Down!""Light it—!""Move!"
A sword flashed. It bit into the worg's flank.
The worg didn't flinch.
It turned its head and bit the swordsman's wrist.
Crack.
The hand bent the wrong way, then came off with a slick rip that made my stomach lurch. The sword fell into the mud. The human screamed, high and broken, and the worg slammed its shoulder into him, knocking him flat.
Then it bit down on his face.
Not the cheek. Not the throat.
The face.
Its teeth sank into nose, mouth, eye socket—everything soft. The scream became a wet gurgle.
The worg lifted its head.
Half a face came with it.
The human's body convulsed and then went still, limbs twitching like dying insects.
The moths brightened, excited by the sudden feast of blood.
The last human—a woman with a staff and a hood—raised her hands, voice sharp, words unfamiliar. Something sparked in her palm, a thin flare of light.
The worg snapped its head toward her.
Its amber eyes locked on hers.
For a moment she froze, like prey caught in headlights.
Then she ran.
The worg didn't chase immediately. It watched her flee, as if evaluating. As if deciding whether she was worth energy.
She stumbled over the snapped tripwire line.
Her boot caught. She fell hard into the mud, staff clattering away.
She tried to crawl.
The worg walked to her. Slow again. Unhurried.
It placed one paw on her back, pinning her down. Claws sank through cloth into skin.
She screamed, trying to twist.
The worg lowered its head and bit the back of her skull.
Crunch.
The scream ended.
The worg lifted its head with a piece of bone still stuck between its teeth like a trophy.
My entire body had gone cold.
Not fear-cold. Shock-cold.
The kind of cold that came from watching something kill with such effortless certainty that the concept of "fighting back" became a joke.
Mogrin made a tiny noise, like a squeak trapped in his throat.
I clamped a hand over his mouth instantly.
His eyes rolled toward me, panicked.
"Quiet," I breathed into his ear, forcing the word through clenched teeth. "Not sound."
He nodded so fast his headband slipped.
Above us, somewhere in the branches, I heard a soft clicking sound—goblin signals, scouts communicating without words.
Boss hadn't ordered an attack.
Because Boss wasn't stupid.
The worg stood over the human corpses and sniffed again, muzzle dripping. It turned its head slowly, tasting the air.
Then it lifted its nose.
Toward the village.
Toward goblin scent.
Mogrin's body went rigid.
I felt my instincts—my goblin instincts—surge forward like a tide.
Run. Hide. Small. Quiet.
My human brain tried to protest. We need a plan.
My goblin body didn't care.
The worg began walking toward the outskirts, where the first huts began, where trappers had been working, where young goblins hid.
A trapper goblin—thin, nervous, proud—sprang up from behind a root with a sharpened stake and a short spear. He was shaking, but he held his weapon like courage.
He shouted something in goblin-speech. A challenge. A threat. Maybe a prayer.
The worg turned its head toward him.
And the trapper made the worst mistake you could make with a worg.
He advanced.
He tried to defend.
He jabbed the spear at the worg's chest.
The spear point scratched fur. It didn't even pierce.
The worg's amber eyes narrowed slightly.
Then it lunged.
It didn't bite his throat.
It bit his stomach.
Teeth sank in deep. The goblin's scream was instant, high and raw, and then the worg yanked sideways.
The goblin's abdomen tore open like cloth. Intestines spilled out in steaming loops, slapping onto the mud. The goblin's hands flew down, trying to hold himself together, fingers sliding on his own slick insides.
He screamed again, but it turned into choking sobs as his legs buckled.
The worg shook him once, like a toy.
Something snapped inside.
The goblin went limp.
The worg dropped the body and stepped over it without looking back.
Mogrin's eyes were huge, his face pale-green and trembling.
I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him backward hard enough to make him stumble.
"Back," I hissed.
Mogrin blinked at me, confused through terror. "We… we help?"
"No," I said, and the word came out like a growl. "Avoid worgs. Always."
Mogrin's mouth opened, then shut. His eyes flicked toward the dead trapper goblin—toward the spilled organs already being nosed by moths—and something in him understood.
He nodded.
We moved. Not running—running made noise—but sliding between roots, ducking behind trunks, keeping low. My shoulder throbbed from the earlier trap strike, every movement sending pain up my neck. My palms still stung where Needlewolf quills had punctured them. Blood seeped somewhere under my ragged clothes.
The worg prowled into the outer ring of huts.
Goblins scattered in panic, some grabbing young, some grabbing meat, some grabbing nothing but their own fear. Boss's earlier discipline cracked under the weight of pure predator presence.
The worg snapped at a fleeing goblin and caught its leg.
It didn't pull the goblin back.
It yanked once and the leg came free at the knee, bone and tendon tearing with a nauseating stretch. The goblin screamed and fell forward, crawling, leaving a smear of blood.
The worg stepped on his back and bit down on the base of his spine.
The goblin's body jerked and then stilled.
Every death drew the moths closer. Their glow pulsed brighter with each fresh wound, turning the scene into a sick lantern-lit nightmare.
Boss finally barked an order from somewhere deeper in the village.
"Hide! No fight! Move!"
His voice cut through panic like a blade—but not everyone listened.
Grub burst out from behind a hut, roaring like he was trying to be brave enough to become real.
"Worg!" he shouted. "Grub smash!"
He charged with a heavy club made from a branch, crude spikes hammered into it.
For a heartbeat, part of me wanted him to succeed. Not because I liked him, but because if Grub could hurt the worg, it meant the world still had fairness.
Grub swung.
The club slammed into the worg's shoulder with a solid crack.
The worg flinched.
Just barely.
Grub grinned wildly. "Ha! Grub—"
The worg turned and bit Grub's club.
Not the hand.
The club.
Its jaws closed on the wood and crushed it like dry bones. The spikes snapped. Splinters flew.
Grub's grin died.
The worg lunged and clamped its jaws around Grub's forearm.
Grub screamed and tried to pull back.
The worg didn't yank.
It held him there and chewed.
Teeth ground into bone. The sound was wet and crushing. Grub's scream turned into animal sobs as his arm shattered inside the worg's mouth.
Then the worg released him.
Grub stumbled back, clutching his ruined arm, shock on his face.
The worg stepped forward and snapped its jaws shut on Grub's throat.
No shake this time.
Just pressure.
Grub's eyes bulged. His feet kicked. His hands clawed at the worg's muzzle, sliding on blood.
Then his body went slack.
The worg dropped him.
I felt Mogrin's whole body tremble.
He looked at me like he was waiting for me to say something that made it okay.
I didn't have anything like that.
All I had was the rule, hammered into me by blood.
Avoid worgs. Always.
Unless…
Unless you couldn't.
Because the worg was moving inward now, toward the deeper root hollows, toward where young goblins hid.
Toward Mogrin's hut.
Toward our hut.
My mind snapped into planning mode so hard it almost hurt.
A worg was too strong to fight head-on.
But even strong things had legs. Balance. Momentum.
Traps.
The trappers' snares wouldn't stop a worg. Not a normal snare. The worg would rip free and then kill whoever set it.
But a pit…
My eyes darted over the ground.
Roots everywhere. Soft soil in patches. Leaf cover. There—near the edge of a collapsed root arch, the ground dipped slightly, darker with damp. A natural hollow, half-hidden by ferns.
A pit could go there.
Not deep enough to kill. Deep enough to break a leg.
If a worg broke a leg, it would still be dangerous, but it might retreat. Predators didn't like injuries.
And I had rope.
Human rope.
Tripwire line.
It had been snapped, but the trappers had been collecting it—Boss had ordered them to find more. I saw a bundle of pale line near a trapper's pile, abandoned when panic hit.
I grabbed Mogrin's wrist. "Come."
Mogrin stumbled after me. "Vark, what—"
"Quiet," I hissed, then forced goblin-simple. "Help. Dig. Fast."
Mogrin blinked, then nodded hard, eager for purpose.
We darted behind a hut, staying low. The worg's growls and the goblins' screams filled the air, punctuated by wet tearing sounds that made my stomach twist. The moth-light flickered between trunks like moving fireflies.
I snatched the pale rope bundle. It was thin but strong, braided in a way vines weren't.
My human brain supplied an image of a warehouse pallet strap.
My goblin hands didn't care. They just pulled.
We reached the natural hollow. I dropped to my knees and started clawing at the soil like an animal. Dirt packed under my nails. Roots scraped my fingers. Pain flared in my palms, but adrenaline shoved it aside.
Mogrin dug beside me, panting.
"Dig," I growled. "Big hole."
"Big hole!" Mogrin echoed, as if repeating made it truer. He dug harder, dirt flying.
We widened the hollow quickly, throwing soil behind us, using a flat piece of bark as a scoop. Not deep—my arms weren't long enough for deep. But deep enough that if something stepped wrong, its weight would collapse the edge.
Then I grabbed a fallen branch and laid it across the top, propping it at a slight angle.
A cover.
I wove the pale rope around it, tying quick knots the way I'd watched the trapper do yesterday. My fingers moved faster than my thoughts, copying muscle memory I didn't remember having.
I stretched the rope outward between two roots at ankle height.
Not a full tripwire to swing a log. Just enough to catch a foot, shift weight, make the ground give.
Mogrin stared, awed. "Vark… trap?"
"Not trap," I panted. "Trick."
Mogrin nodded like that was genius.
The worg's growl sounded closer.
My skin prickled.
A goblin screamed nearby and cut off abruptly.
The moths brightened again.
"Now," I breathed. "We go."
Mogrin grabbed my sleeve, but I shook him off. "No. You hide. There." I pointed behind a thick root.
Mogrin's eyes widened. "Vark hide too!"
"I… watch," I lied.
He hesitated, then obeyed, crouching behind the root, hands over his mouth.
I backed away into a shadow and waited.
The worg emerged between huts, muzzle wet, eyes calm. It moved like it owned the ground. Like everything else was temporary.
It sniffed, head lifting.
Its gaze turned toward the deeper hollows.
Toward where young goblins hid.
It padded forward.
One step.
Two.
Its paw hit the pale rope.
The rope snapped taut around its ankle.
The worg's weight shifted slightly.
That was all it took.
The leaf-covered edge of the hollow collapsed.
The ground gave way with a soft crunch.
The worg's front leg plunged down, and its body lurched forward.
It didn't fall completely in—it was too big—but the sudden drop twisted its shoulder and forced its weight onto the trapped leg.
It snarled, deep and furious, and tried to yank free.
The rope bit into fur and skin. The branch cover shifted. Soil crumbled further.
The worg's leg bent wrong.
A sound cracked—bone, or joint, or something inside that wasn't meant to break.
The worg roared.
The roar made every goblin freeze.
It dragged its leg free with brute strength, tearing the rope, ripping out chunks of root and soil. Blood darkened its fur where the rope had cut.
But its front leg didn't move right anymore. It hung slightly off. When it stepped, it favored it.
Injury.
The worg glared toward the pit like it wanted to murder the concept of ground itself.
Its eyes flicked, scanning.
For the trapper.
For the one who did it.
I held my breath so hard my chest burned.
The worg sniffed again, nostrils flaring. It took a step toward my shadow.
My blood went cold.
Then, from deeper in the forest, a sharp goblin call rang out—Boss, ordering retreat, calling the tribe inward.
The worg hesitated.
Predators hated uncertain fights. Injuries changed math.
It snarled once, then turned away, limping slightly as it moved back toward the shadows where it had come from.
Not fleeing.
Withdrawing.
Like it would remember.
Like it would come back when the forest was quieter and goblins were less prepared.
I exhaled shakily.
Behind the root, Mogrin popped his head out, eyes shining. "Vark! Vark make forest bite!"
I grabbed him and yanked him back down. "Quiet," I hissed. Then, softer: "Good job digging."
Mogrin beamed like I'd crowned him.
In my vision, a faint blue glow shimmered.
A new window slid into place, small and crisp.
Skill Acquired: Snarecraft (Basic)
Under it, a simple line:
Snarecraft (Basic): Improves efficiency when creating improvised snares, trip-lines, and pit covers.
It vanished a second later.
I stared after it, heart pounding.
So the system wasn't just levels. It watched what you did. It rewarded survival.
Good.
That meant I could become useful fast.
We stayed hidden until the worg's presence faded and the screams died down into whimpers and harsh breathing.
The moths drifted away, disappointed.
The village looked… smaller afterward.
Not physically. But emotionally. Like the forest had taken a bite out of it and left the tribe wobbling.
Bodies lay where they'd fallen. Blood soaked into moss. A few goblins sat in shock, staring at nothing.
Boss moved through it all with grim efficiency, barking orders. "Drag dead. Hide smell. Move meat. No fire."
He paused by Grub's body, looked down, and said nothing.
No ceremony. No pity.
Just the cold acceptance that the forest took what it wanted.
When Boss reached the collapsed hollow, his gaze landed on the torn rope, the disturbed soil, the broken edge.
His good eye narrowed.
He looked around once.
Then his eye locked on me.
"How worg hurt?" he asked.
My throat tightened.
I could lie. But goblins had noses. They would smell the fresh soil on my hands, the rope fibers, the new blood.
"I… make pit," I admitted. "Rope. Cover."
Boss stared at me for a long moment.
Then he grunted. "Clever."
Relief tried to rise—
—and then Ear-Torn shoved forward, eyes hard. "Clever bring worg," he snapped. "Weird-head bring metal-men. Weird-head bring bad."
Murmurs rippled. Hungry fear seeking a target.
"Vark weird.""Vark talk clean.""Vark make moth.""Vark make noise."
Mogrin stepped in front of me without thinking, small body trembling but stubborn. "No! Vark save! Vark stop worg!"
Someone laughed. "Little scout love weird-head."
Boss raised a hand. The laughter died.
He looked at the gathered goblins—fearful, angry, wounded. Then he looked at me again.
"Bad come anyway," Boss said slowly. "Forest is bad. Humans is bad. Worg is bad."
The crowd quieted, but not convinced.
Boss's gaze sharpened. "But Vark… make pit. Worg leave. That is good."
Then his voice hardened. "Still. Vark bring trouble fast. Many eyes on Vark."
He leaned closer, low enough that only I and Mogrin could hear.
"Live is quiet," he murmured. "You… loud."
I swallowed.
Mogrin clutched my sleeve. "Vark not loud," he whispered, desperate.
Boss straightened. "We move deeper tonight," he announced to the tribe. "No more outer huts. Scouts watch. Trappers work. Scavengers take everything."
He turned away, orders already flowing.
But the murmurs didn't stop.
As goblins dragged bodies and packed meat, I felt eyes on me from every direction—measuring, resentful, afraid.
I had helped.
I had saved lives.
And it didn't matter.
Because in a tribe that lived by fear and hunger, a "different" goblin was always the easiest thing to blame.
Mogrin stayed pressed against me, whispering like a charm again.
"Big-think keep us live," he said.
I looked into the dark where the worg had vanished, where the forest waited with patient teeth.
Somewhere out there, it limped away.
And I knew—deep in my gut, deeper than thought—that it would remember the smell of the one who made the ground bite back.
And next time, it wouldn't walk into my trap.