Boss Mokh didn't allow panic to become noise.
He stood on the lowest platform where the Three Crowns' roots knotted into a natural balcony over the slope, spear planted, one hand pressed to his bandaged side. The lake breathed below—dark water, pale mist, reed-banks that looked soft from afar and wrong up close.
A few goblins muttered and shifted. Someone made a choking laugh that wasn't funny. Another hissed, "Small gone. Small gone."
Mokh's good eye cut through them.
"Quiet," he said.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a flat command that carried weight because Mokh had bled for them.
The muttering shrank.
Mokh pointed with two fingers—scout signal. "Search. Three groups. No shouting. No fire. No running."
A trapper grumbled, "If small dead—"
Mokh's spear butt struck the wood once. Thump. The sound made everyone flinch.
"If small dead," Mokh said, voice low, "then we find body. We give forest. We don't scream and call teeth."
Silence.
Mokh's gaze swept the gathered goblins until it landed on Vark.
"You," he said. "You go. You look. You don't do stupid."
Vark swallowed. "Yes."
Mogrin stepped forward instantly, eager and anxious in the same breath. "Mogrin go too. Mogrin see good."
Drukk Ear-Torn's torn ear twitched. He leaned on the railing and sneered. "Mogrin loud. Mogrin touch shiny. Mogrin bring bad."
Mogrin's face pinched. He opened his mouth to protest.
Mokh cut him off. "Mogrin go," Mokh said. "But if Mogrin make noise, Mogrin clean fish guts for week."
Mogrin straightened like he'd been handed a sacred duty. "Mogrin quiet."
Drukk spat over the edge.
Vark didn't argue. He didn't have anything to argue with. He just moved.
They climbed down the root slope toward the shoreline in a small group—Vark, Mogrin, and two trappers who carried rope and stakes more out of habit than usefulness. No one spoke. Even breathing felt too loud.
Vark hated that his brain kept trying to compare it to office emergencies. Fire drill. Deadline. Printer jam that made everyone suddenly pretend they were important.
This wasn't that.
This was the forest, and the forest didn't care about excuses.
At the edge of the waterline, everything changed.
The ground became slick mud that grabbed at feet. The air got colder, heavier, like it had been soaked overnight. Reeds rose in thick walls, taller than goblins, their leaves rubbing together with a faint sound that made Vark's skin prickle.
Mogrin whispered, "Small go in reeds?"
"I don't know," Vark whispered back.
That was the truth. Vark didn't know how to track. He didn't know what prints looked like after mist and wind and a dozen goblins clambering down from the platforms. He didn't have hunter instincts from a previous life.
What he did have was a brain that noticed patterns when it was terrified enough to latch onto anything.
He crouched and stared at the mud.
It was chaos at first—overlapping footprints, smears, dragged reeds. Nothing clean. Nothing obvious.
Then he noticed something that didn't require being a tracker.
A line.
A thin, shallow groove in the mud, like something had been gently dragged. It wasn't deep enough to be a log. It wasn't random enough to be water.
A little trail.
"Look," Vark murmured, pointing.
One trapper leaned in. "That… foot?"
"Maybe," Vark said. "Maybe small… toes drag. Or stick."
Mogrin crouched too, eyes wide. "Small goblin shuffle?"
"Could," Vark said. "We follow slow."
The groove didn't go straight. It curved toward the reeds, faint but consistent, as if someone had walked without lifting their feet properly—like they were tired, or sleepy, or… not fully awake.
Vark's stomach tightened.
They followed, moving carefully.
Every few steps the groove vanished, lost in rippled mud. Vark would pause, stare, feel stupid, then spot it again a little farther—where the mud had been pressed just slightly differently, where reed leaves had been pushed aside in a narrow gap.
It wasn't expert tracking.
It was desperation and luck.
The deeper they went, the thicker the mist got.
The reeds closed around them, shutting out the wider world. The lake disappeared behind green walls. The Three Crowns became nothing but a shadow above, like a dream you weren't sure had been real.
Mogrin's breathing quickened.
One trapper muttered, "Don't like. Too wet."
Vark didn't answer. His throat felt tight.
Then he heard it.
At first it was so faint he thought it was just water—small ripples, distant frogs.
But it wasn't frogs.
It was… organized.
A low, drawn-out croak that repeated, then paused, then repeated again. Not loud, but it sat inside the reeds like it belonged there.
Mogrin's ears twitched. "Hear?"
"Yes," Vark whispered.
The sound made his scalp prickle. Not fear exactly. Something else. Like someone had leaned close behind his ear and hummed in a way that made his thoughts wobble.
He didn't know what magic felt like.
He didn't know what mana was supposed to taste like.
He only knew his mind didn't like this sound.
Vark stopped and held up his hand.
Everyone froze.
"Don't… listen hard," Vark whispered, awkward and unsure. "Just… walk."
Mogrin frowned. "Why?"
Vark swallowed. "Because… it make head… soft."
That was the best he had.
Mogrin's face went pale. He shoved fingers into his ears immediately. The trappers copied him, half-mocking, half-scared.
Vark didn't.
He couldn't. He needed his hands free.
He moved forward, slow, spear low, eyes searching through mist.
The croaking grew clearer.
And then the reeds opened.
Not into a clearing, but into a small pocket of shallow water where the mud dipped. Mist clung low over the surface, curling around ankles. The reeds here leaned inward, forming a natural ring, like the place had been shaped on purpose.
A child goblin stood in the water.
Small. Thin. Barely more than a bundle of limbs and big ears.
Alive.
Still.
His eyes were open, but not looking at anything.
His mouth hung slightly open, and his chest rose and fell in slow, dreamy breaths like he was asleep standing up.
"Small," Mogrin squeaked behind Vark, then clamped his own mouth shut, eyes wide with panic at making noise.
Vark stepped forward, one foot at a time.
The closer he got, the more his head buzzed.
Not pain. Not a sound in his ears.
A pressure behind the eyes, like a gentle hand pushing him to relax.
His shoulders wanted to drop.
His knees wanted to bend.
A thought drifted up, stupid and human:
This feels like the moment right before you pass out on the commuter train.
Vark's stomach lurched.
No. Not like that.
This was… wrong.
His vision blurred at the edges. The reeds seemed to sway in slow motion. The croaking wrapped around him, softening the sharp corners of fear.
Vark's WIL—whatever it truly was—stirred like a muscle waking up. Not knowledge. Not understanding.
Just awareness.
Something was touching him.
He didn't know how he knew. He just knew.
His breath hitched.
He forced himself to inhale slowly through his nose, like he used to do when meetings got tense and he wanted to stop his face from showing it.
In.Out.In.Out.
The buzzing eased a fraction.
He took another step.
The child didn't react.
Vark reached out and touched the child's wrist.
Cold. Wet.
The child blinked once—slow, heavy—and swayed.
Vark tightened his grip. "Hey," he whispered. "Come."
No response.
He tried again, pulling gently.
The child resisted—not with strength, but with the stubborn weight of someone who doesn't want to wake up.
The croaking sharpened.
The pressure behind Vark's eyes thickened, trying to slide him into the same softness.
His knees dipped.
Stop.
The word didn't come from anywhere outside him. It came from the small angry part of him that had survived smoke and teeth and fire by refusing to drift.
Vark clenched his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache.
He yanked.
Not violent. Not cruel. Just firm, like pulling someone out of a chair when the building is burning.
The child stumbled forward and gasped, suddenly aware.
The croaking stopped.
Instantly.
The silence was so abrupt it made Vark's ears ring.
The mist shifted.
And Vark felt it.
A presence.
Not a sound. Not a smell.
A weight in the air, like someone tall standing just behind the reeds, watching through the fog.
Vark froze, child goblin in his grasp.
Mogrin made a tiny whimper behind him.
Vark didn't turn his head.
He didn't dare.
Because he didn't know what he'd see.
The presence lingered for one heartbeat.
Two.
Then it moved.
Not away like a retreat.
Downward—like sinking.
The reeds trembled softly.
Something tall and shadowy slid through the mist just beyond the ring, a silhouette only—broad shoulders, long torso, slow limbs. It didn't step like a goblin or a human. It moved like mud deciding to be a person for a moment.
Vark caught only the outline before it was gone, swallowed by reeds and fog as if it had never existed.
Mogrin breathed, "Bog…"
Vark didn't answer. He grabbed the child goblin under the arms and lifted him, ignoring the mud sucking at his feet.
"Move," Vark whispered.
They backed out of the pocket, reeds scraping against shoulders. The child goblin clung weakly to Vark, eyes wide now, blinking like waking from a long dream.
"Where…" the child croaked, voice tiny. "Why… water?"
Vark didn't have an answer.
They followed their own disturbed path back, faster now but still quiet. Vark's head still buzzed faintly, like the croaking had left a residue.
At the edge of the reeds, the air felt lighter. The wider lake came into view again. The Three Crowns loomed above like a safe, familiar monster.
As they climbed the root slope, goblins spotted them.
A ripple of relief ran through the platforms—quiet, contained, but real. Someone clicked a thankful sound. A trapper exhaled hard.
Boss Mokh limped down to meet them, eye sharp.
"Alive," Vark said, setting the child down gently.
The child swayed, then sat in the mud, staring blankly at his own hands.
Mokh studied the child's face. "He breathe. He see."
Mogrin blurted, too fast, "He stand in water like dumb, and croak sound make head soft, and Vark pull him—"
Mokh raised a hand. Mogrin shut up instantly, cheeks puffed with held words.
Mokh's gaze moved to Vark. "You hear croak."
"Yes," Vark admitted. "It… make head… sleepy."
Mokh grunted. "Bog-water song."
Vark hesitated. "I didn't know. I just… felt wrong."
Mokh nodded once, as if that was the correct answer.
Then one of the scouts dropped down from above, breathing hard.
"Boss," the scout whispered. "Look."
He pointed to a nearby trunk—one of the trees anchoring the lower platforms.
Fresh scratches cut into bark at goblin height.
Not random. Not claw. Clean, deliberate lines carved deep.
Vark stepped closer.
The symbol wasn't language he could read, but it didn't need reading. It hit his gut like cold water.
A boundary mark.
A message.
Mokh stared at it, jaw tight.
Drukk Ear-Torn pushed forward to see, eyes gleaming with "I told you."
"They say leave," Drukk hissed.
Mokh didn't argue.
He just looked out over the lake, mist curling, reeds whispering softly like nothing had happened.
Then Mokh spoke, low enough that only the closest goblins heard.
"We stay," he said.
But his good eye didn't leave the reed line.
Because the message hadn't been carved high for humans.
It had been carved low.
For goblins.
LEAVE.