Mielchor, after making it clear he was ready for action, suddenly remembered he had a question. He took a few steps forward. With a small hop, he passed over a root and then pointed at Eden's backpack, tilting his head while letting out a curious puff.
"What?" Eden whispered. "You want to see what's inside?" he added, sliding the backpack forward and opening it to show him.
Mielchor shook his head: that wasn't it.
"So… you want to get inside it?" Eden asked, confused.
The tiny lizard brought his paw to his snout, thinking. Then he tugged lightly on the backpack, confirming it was about that. Next, he mimed lifting something heavy onto his back, and pretended to walk in place until he looked exhausted under the weight of that invisible load.
"You mean… the backpack's too heavy?" Eden ventured, sounding even more confused.
Mielchor lowered his head with a defeated sigh, as if he couldn't believe how dense his partner was. His gaze dropped to the ground, searching for another way to explain himself, until he found a little twig. He grabbed it delicately, brushed some grass aside, and began to draw clumsily.
What emerged was more scribble than picture: a crooked carriage and, beside it, a sack with an arrow pointing toward the vehicle.
"Uh-huh, sure, a carriage… and a sack…" Eden muttered, trying to sound convinced.
Mielchor, clearly exasperated now, pulled on Eden's backpack again while pointing at the "sack." He traced his claw through the air toward the carriage.
"Kru-uh… krrr-rru… sha-taaah…"
His murmurs broke apart into clumsy attempts at communication. The lizard pointed again at the crooked little drawing, tapping insistently.
"Rrr… rrrrhh–kaaa…!"
Eden blinked several times and tilted his head, as though trying to solve a riddle he didn't trust to make sense.
"The carriage? You're saying… the backpack should be in the carriage?"
Mielchor didn't nod or shake his head; he just swayed it vaguely, telling him he was close enough.
"Oh… I get it… Why didn't I leave my backpack on the carriage?" Eden murmured. He hugged the backpack to his chest without noticing, as if afraid someone might try to take it.
The little lizard raised his arms in triumph, grinning with his snout open, nodding excitedly to show he'd gotten it right.
Eeden looked away and fell still, caught in his own thoughts before letting out, with a half-smile:
"It's just…" He paused, trying to gather his words. "You know me, Mielchor." He forced a confidence that didn't really suit him. "I don't trust people… well, people in general." He hesitated. "I don't even know how to name the cat."
While he spoke, Mielchor looked again toward where he'd seen the Braskyl, but the place was empty now—its meal had vanished.
With frantic hops and muttering sounds, he tried to tell Eden the creature was gone.
"Dammit!" Eden barked, rushing through the bushes toward the spot where the Braskyl had been moments before.
He crouched down quickly, trying to inspect the area, hoping the creature had left some trace.
From the bushes, Mielchor watched cautiously, glancing back over his shoulder now and then in case some wild beast appeared and they needed to run. But sooner or later, he noticed something unsettling: this place didn't look the same anymore. It wasn't the path where they'd been gathering firewood. The small detour had taken them farther than expected… No—more than that. Everything behind them was completely unfamiliar.
The little lizard felt afraid. When he turned to warn Eden, he realized Eden was gone too.
No—he hadn't fled. He simply wasn't there anymore. Mielchor was no longer where he'd been.
"How…?" he thought, confused. He hadn't moved. He'd only turned his head.
Meanwhile, far away, a faint but persistent whistling began. It was continuous, as though whoever produced it didn't need to stop for breath. Slowly, it grew louder—rising from a barely noticeable whisper to something so clear it seemed to echo across dozens of meters. In an instant, it was so close it felt like someone was blowing directly into his ear.
When Eden heard the first note, he froze.
"What…?" he murmured, feeling how the air left him, his hands—once steady—now trembling uncontrollably.
"Did I stray too far from the path?" he thought, heartbeat racing.
The whistle moved—drifting in front of him, then fading toward the left. Eden turned, trying to catch sight of whatever it was, but saw nothing. Then he felt it again behind him, slipping away to the right. He tried to follow, flicking his eyes around, desperately trying to locate the source of that impossible sound.
Then, suddenly, the whistle stopped. Silence swallowed everything for a few seconds—then it returned, now to the left, far through the mist.
Eden, trying to anticipate its movement, turned that way as his hand slid toward his belt, searching for his dagger. But just as he did—when the whistle seemed mere meters away—close enough that he could almost see it—the sound vanished.
And in that same instant, a deep, rough voice—heavy as the night, nothing like human—rose from somewhere outside his field of view.
"Took me long enough to find you."
Eden felt a presence towering over him. The air thickened, becoming a suffocating fog. He spun in place, searching the mist… until he saw it.
A small creature was walking toward him. Its skin was the color of wet earth; its hair, dark as an abyss; its eyes, bright and unnatural—things meant to provoke terror rather than awe. Despite its size, its presence was oppressive, almost unbearable.
"Or maybe…" the goblin murmured, stepping closer. "Mmm, no… What are you?"
Its voice sank into every word, low and discordant—far too deep for its body. Every syllable was a warning.
"Seems one of the tall men," it said, disgust twisted in its tone. "But… I couldn't see you until I came here… so you're not one of the short ones… nor the pointy-eared ones…" It seemed to be muttering to itself, studying him with sinister curiosity.
"I found you because of him," it went on—tone shifting to something almost friendly, though no less alien. "If the lizard hadn't followed you…"
"W-what?" Eden stammered, stepping back. But his legs wouldn't obey. He tripped and fell, sitting right in front of the small being.
Eden wasn't particularly brave, but this… this was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
With trembling hands and almost no strength, he tried to reach his dagger. His numb fingers fumbled, missing again and again, until he realized—with an icy shock crawling up his spine—that it wasn't there anymore.
The creature took a few steps. Its gait was strange—almost silent—but each step echoed inside Eden's chest, as if it was stepping on the air itself.
The fog curled around it, revealing its form more clearly: a small, thin body covered by earthen skin that seemed to absorb light. Its eyes, glowing like burning coals, watched him with a mixture of intentions too contradictory to understand.
"Curious…" the goblin murmured, tilting his head. "You're different. You don't smell like a tall man."
His words brought no relief—only confusion.
"Your kind can't hide from me… yet you…" He stepped closer, inhaling slowly, like a beast sniffing something impossible. "It's like you're not really here, is it?" he whispered to himself.
Eeden swallowed, unable to reply. His heart pounded so violently he wondered if the creature could hear it.
The fog swallowed everything, and in it, the goblin's voice echoed like some ancient, impossible sound bouncing from nowhere.
"What are you?" the creature repeated—quieter this time.
Eden tried to speak—anything—but his throat locked. He didn't know whether to apologize or run, though his legs were still frozen. He hated himself for that—for being weak, for being afraid even when instinct screamed at him to move.
"I… I wasn't… I was just looking for dry branches…" he stammered.
The goblin tilted his head, studying him.
"Men always get 'lost,'" he mused, mocking. His crooked, sharp teeth peeked through. "But you… you don't smell like them. Not like them."
He kept repeating himself, as if trying to convince his own thoughts:"Ashen hair, ruby eyes, pale skin… None of that belongs to the tall men… Well, yes, the skin." He widened his eyes, touching his chin. "No—not the first parts."
Terror ran like ice through Eden's body. He didn't fully understand the goblin's words, but the tone, the look, that unnatural calm within him—froze his blood.
"Belong to the tall men?" he thought, the question echoing through his mind like something misplaced. The little creature kept muttering to itself, never taking its eyes off him, each word peeling away his sanity.
Eden tried to think, to find something that made sense, something to hold onto before fear drowned all reason. Nothing helped.
Silence followed—thick and unbearable—until he could almost hear his own frantic heartbeat.
"When you say 'tall men,' do you mean how some species refer to humans?" he managed at last, voice trembling. He shut his eyes, muscles tightening instinctively, as if his body knew one wrong move might seal his fate.
An unsettling hush swallowed everything the moment the words left his lips.
The small being stopped so suddenly it felt like sound itself had died—save for the frantic heartbeat of a boy who had never left the safe zones of the city.
In that smothered silence, even his pulse faded. Eden stayed frozen, stunned, staring at the creature staring at him. Slowly, the being turned toward him. The light in its eyes blurred—no… twisted—as if anger itself writhed inside them.
"My name is old," it said, grinding its teeth so hard they screeched, a sharp, painful sound. "Old as the earth… and short as life."
Its voice was coarse, grainy, like a thousand tools scraping against pottery. Far off, a deafening whistle began to rise, rushing toward them.
Eden tried to stand. Something deep inside told him this sound wasn't natural, but fear—thick and paralyzing—stole his strength. He barely managed to kneel. The whistle grew, filling the air—devouring thought, breath, all else.
At the last moment, Eden raised his arms to shield himself just as the sound seemed to explode in front of him.
Then—silence.
When he opened his eyes—still drowning in panic—he felt nothing at first. His arms were still there. But then a burning heat spread from his right shoulder down his lower back. A warm trickle hit the ground.
He moved just enough to see it: the little being, grinning with jagged, uneven teeth. And as the first drop of blood touched the earth, its eyes shone with disturbing satisfaction.
Still stunned—caught between shock and searing pain—Eden slid a trembling hand toward his back. Every motion stretched into eternity, as if time refused to move.
Before his fingers reached the wound, they brushed torn fabric. A bit lower, the air touched raw flesh. When his fingertips met his exposed skin, a sharp pain shot through him like a current, erupting from the wound and spreading across his whole body.
The heat—once just a sting—became an unbearable fire. Three long, crude gashes crossed his back, not deep enough to kill, but more than enough to leave a warning he'd never forget.
A strangled cry escaped him. Eden trembled, unsure whether to arch backward or curl forward. In the end, his body gave way. He collapsed sideways, panting, eyes locked on the goblin.
The silence was thick—almost tangible; an invisible substance weighing on tongue and skin.
The goblin stared with kindled eyes, two damp coals trembling with exquisite pleasure. It seemed to enjoy the trembling in Eden's body, as if each shiver was a note in its favorite song. Then, with languid ease, it smiled.
"Well, well…" it murmured, tilting its head with a crack. "You forgot something, don't you think?"
Eden didn't answer. Sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with the blood already running to the dirt.
"Is this how tall men greet now?" the goblin asked, dragging the words, its voice sticky like rancid honey. "What charming manners. I suppose I should call you that, yes? Tall man."
Its tone was a mix of pity and mockery.
It leaned forward until Eden could feel its breath—sour, smelling of rotted earth, rust, and something sweet—sickeningly sweet, like rotting meat.
"Such manners…" it whispered almost lovingly. Then it raised its other hand.
"Nothing to say…?" it went on, taking a graceful step closer, a gesture so falsely polite it was worse than hostility. "I speak to you, I watch you, I seek you… and you can't even introduce yourself."
Its voice fractured, slipping between human and inhuman tones, like something inside its throat tore itself apart trying to speak the language of men.
It tilted its head again and grinned crookedly.
With calm, it brought a hand to its mouth. Its nails were long, curved, black at the root, as thick as dagger tips.
It opened its jaws with a dull snap, pressed its teeth against one nail, and began to bite.
The crunch was dry and uneven—a grinding of enamel against enamel—followed by a wet tug that forced a low sound from the goblin itself.
It kept biting until the nail cracked with a viscous snap. A dark, tar-thick liquid dripped down its chin.
"See?" it said naturally, spitting the broken piece onto the ground. "That's what it means to make an effort to keep a conversation going."
A rough, open-throated laugh shook its chest. It wasn't human laughter—more a malformed imitation; a hollow echo, broken, smelling of hot iron.
The nail piece hit the dirt and began to smoke faintly, releasing a metallic, sweet smell that made Eden gag.
"Pom'r Yateré," it introduced itself at last, bowing its head in a grotesque attempt at politeness. "Though I doubt you'll remember."
Eden's stomach churned. Not only at the scene—not just at the sound—but at the way it spoke: every word felt like a poisoned caress. Something disturbingly alive moved under its gestures, as though it took pleasure simply in discomforting others.
"And you?" the goblin whispered, leaning in until its voice became a warm murmur at his ear. "Won't you tell me your name? I have already told you mine," it added with fake indignation, raising the torn nail like a wilted flower. "Pom'r Yateré."
It smiled, satisfied—like an actor after his best performance.
"And you?" it repeated—this time with a spark of real amusement. "Will you tell me your name?"
Eden tried to respond, but only a broken sound came out—a choked whimper. The air weighed on him; each breath scraped like ground glass.
"No?" Pom'r repeated, tilting his head. "How rude. Your kind used to be more… courteous—back when you still remembered how to speak."
Eeden tried to push himself up, but the ground seemed to swallow his hands. His mind was a silent storm. Pom'r watched him with the cruel patience of a predator that had already decided not to kill yet.
"Ah, I see…" it muttered with false understanding. "You have no manners."
Its smile opened like a wound, showing teeth stained with its own blood—so black they seemed to swallow the light itself.
Eden braced himself on one trembling hand, trying to stand. Pom'r looked at him with mockery and pity blended, like someone watching an actor butcher his lines.
"What now?" Pom'r asked, syrup-sweet. "Will you lift your head and defy me? Clench your fists, swear vengeance?"
Its laugh was a twisted moan—wet and vibrating in the air.
"What do you think you'll accomplish with that stare?" Pom'r went on, leaning close enough their foreheads nearly met. "Do you think if you grit your teeth and breathe hard… you'll rise stronger?"
Its smile warped—a face split between ridicule and pity.
"Ah… poor creatures, always the same. The hero who rises. The wounded who swears revenge."
Its voice fell to a whisper dripping with intimate contempt.
"The old tale. The hero rises from the dust. How dull. How… human."
Pom'r leaned closer, shadow covering Eden entirely.
"Don't fool yourself, boy," it whispered. "It's not courage holding you up."
Then—everything shifted.
Through the mist, a voice called—distant, weak, but clear.
"Eden!"
Pom'r turned slowly toward the sound. His smile vanished, though his eyes kept burning, expectant. Another voice answered. Then another.
Several, calling him from the woods—breaking the oppressive hold the goblin had woven.
The creature stepped back, sliding like a shadow across water, the mist swirling around him.
"We'll meet soon, man who is not man," it murmured—its voice dissolving like cold vapor. "Very soon."
And it vanished as it had come.
Silence returned—but not the same. It pulsed. Breathed with him.
Eden still gasped for air, body caught between the heat of terror and the cold of nausea. He didn't know whether to scream or cry. Everything inside him burned and froze at once.
Far away, a high-pitched cry—almost a wail—tore through the quiet.
Mielchor.