I sat in the tiered stands overlooking the arena pit, surrounded by goblins and hobgoblins. Hours ago, these same creatures had been cheering for my execution. Now their bloodlust had found a new outlet.
I couldn't blame them. I was also eager to see what Corvin was capable of. The Knights of Aurelion were brave and skillful combatants. There was little doubt in my mind that someone like Branek was a capable warrior.
But Corvin - he was still young. Inexperienced.
Branek sat to my right, visibly uncomfortable amid the horde gathered around us.
"Stranger," he said quietly. "Before this begins, I have some... questions."
"I'll answer what I can," I replied.
After a long stretch of silence, he finally asked, "Who are you? What are you?"
I turned to Branek and gave him a gentle, almost amused smile.
"There it is," I said softly. "The questions everyone's been circling."
My gaze drifted back to the pit below. Bloodmaw's headless corpse still lay where it had fallen, the iron-barred door I'd torn free discarded beside it, the wooden gate still raised. No one had dared clean it yet.
"I'm not from this realm, Branek," I said at last. "But I'm not a god either. If I had to put a name to it… I'm somewhere in between."
Branek leaned back slightly.
"You're not a god?" he asked. "Then… Aurelion-"
"Doesn't exist," I cut in. "At least, not as you were taught."
To Branek, it felt like blasphemy. Even after swearing himself to me, fourteen years of devotion and belief did not shake easily.
"The faith you followed was built by your own kind," I added. "A way to keep men, elves, and dwarves obedient."
"I… I don't understand," he said.
"The Knights. The Brotherhood. The Order," I replied. "They work the same way I keep these goblins in line. Fear, wrapped in comfort. Where I promise the goblins punishment, the priests promised Aurelion's followers paradise."
We stared ahead, the roar of the arena dulling.
"Aurelion will welcome you in death to tranquility," I went on, echoing the old doctrine. "So long as you obey these rules. So long as you don't step out of line."
"Then you clearly know... Who is the real Aurelion?"
"Well, firstly, that's not his true name," I said with a crooked grin. "And he was a lot like me… only far younger and more optimistic."
I let the words hang before finishing quietly.
"He saw goodness where others saw rot. He thought the world could be guided, nurtured, so he tried to help." My smile thinned. "Then he was stung. This world hurt him, and when it did… he chose to leave."
The revelation weighed heavily on Branek. He still harbored doubts about my words; there was little to separate my rambling from the fevered prophecies of roadside heretics. The difference lay in what he had witnessed - my abilities.
"How?" the knight asked.
I cast him my eyes. "How what?"
"How did our world hurt him? If Aurelion was like you, how could anyone?"
Down in the pit, from beneath the gate that once held the ogre, a single goblin emerged. He was large for his kind, though still no bigger than Urzak. Clad in blackened, mismatched armour, he carried a rusted iron shield and a serrated blade.
This was Corvin's opponent: Skorn.
I had not chosen him - he had been nominated by the goblin-folk.
Skorn turned to the stands and raised his sword. Dozens of goblins answered with shrill cheers. Tonight, he was their champion; he represented them. He was the one they chose to prove that goblins were superior in combat.
From the opposite entrance, Corvin stepped into view. Still clad in silver armour bearing the Lion of Aurelion, he gripped his claymore and kite shield tightly. His arrival did not earn the same adoration as Skorn's. The goblins booed and mocked him, leaping at the railings in an effort to unsettle him.
Even from where I was seated, I could see their attempts were working. Corvin was anxious.
The two combatants met at the centre of the pit, stopping two yards apart.
Skorn cast a single glance at Bloodmaw's body and scowled.
"Skorn make you like Bloodmaw," he snarled, venom thick in his voice. "Skorn drink gruel from your skull, and Skorn take place beside boss."
Corvin swallowed and responded. "Try it, foul beast."
The tension was palpable. The crowd around Branek and me swelled in volume, their excitement building with the promise of violence. It was in their nature to adore bloodshed, and I couldn't deny them this fight much longer. I wasn't that cruel.
I stood, now the tallest figure in the stands, and raised my left hand.
Instantly, Corvin and Skorn shifted into their battle stances. Corvin held his shield forward, sword poised to strike. Skorn crouched low, shield raised, blade angled at his side.
Smiling, I glanced back at Branek and answered. "The world took his loved one."
My hand dropped, a sign for the battle to commence, and then sat back down.
The combatants engaged. Corvin and Skorn collided in a clash of sword and shield, iron ringing out across the pit.
Blows came in rapid succession - left, right, high, low - each strike met with a block or a sharp parry. The exchange was fast, almost frantic, neither willing to give ground.
Corvin's greater size began to tell. With every shove of his shield and every heavy swing, he forced Skorn back step by step, pressing the advantage early. But the goblin's nimbleness kept him alive. Skorn stayed low, almost crouching, his shield absorbing the worst of Corvin's onslaught.
When Corvin drove him down even further, confident he had him pinned, Skorn suddenly burst sideways. In a flash of motion, the goblin slashed out, his blade biting into the back of Corvin's right leg.
Corvin was driven down onto one knee, Skorn's blade having punched clean through the back of his poleyn. The goblin wasted no time, smirking as he raised his sword and brought it crashing down toward Corvin's head.
Steel rang out as Corvin just managed to snap his shield up in time, the blow skidding off its surface instead of splitting his skull.
The goblin hammered at Corvin's raised shield with feral fury. Each blow rang louder than the last, his voice rising with every strike.
"Die!" Clang.
"You!" Clang.
"Stinkin'!" Clang.
"Man-filth!"
The blows came faster. Skorn leaned into the assault, spittle flying as he tried to batter Corvin's guard apart through sheer savagery. The shield shuddered with every impact.
Corvin grit his teeth and endured.
Then - he surged forward.
He twisted his shield upward at the last moment, knocking Skorn's blade high, and slammed his shoulder into the goblin's chest. The impact sent Skorn stumbling back a step, boots skidding.
The knight then rose from his knee with a roar, ignoring the pain in his leg, and brought his sword around in a brutal horizontal arc. Skorn barely managed to catch it on his shield, the force ripping the goblin's arm wide and numbing his grip.
The crowd hissed and howled.
Skorn recovered quickly, ducking low and slashing at Corvin's wounded leg again. But Corvin anticipated it this time. He pivoted, taking the cut across his greave instead of the joint, then brought his shield down hard.
The rim of the shield crashed into Skorn's snout.
Bone cracked.
Skorn shrieked and reeled back, blood spraying. Before the goblin could recover, Corvin stepped in close - too close for Skorn's curved blade - and drove his sword pommel into the goblin's temple.
Skorn collapsed to one knee, dazed.
Corvin stood over him, chest heaving, sword ready.
The arena fell silent. Goblins and hobgoblins turned their eyes to me, waiting - breath held - for my reaction, for my decision.
I felt it then. The absolute authority. The absolute power.
Corvin looked up, seeking my approval.
I rose from my seat once more and lifted my arm, my hand extended, thumb held in neutral.
Skorn glanced over, genuine fear flooding his eyes.
My wrist twisted. The thumb turned upward.
The signal was given.
Corvin's sword plunged into Skorn's eye, impaling the goblin's skull. His body spasmed violently for a heartbeat, black blood spilling around the wound and crawling down the knight's blade.
The crowd exploded into cheers. Somehow, the brutal sight of one of their own being executed thrilled them. What had begun as an attempt to intimidate the human had twisted into something else entirely. Admiration, perhaps, or the savage respect goblins reserved only for strength.
They roared Corvin's name in broken Orcish, stomped their feet, clashed weapons against shields and bone railings.
Corvin now stood alone in the pit, sword still dripping. His leg bled freely, dark against the churned earth, but he did not kneel.
"Ahem!" I said.
The effect was immediate. The Gore Pit went quiet as all revelry ceased. Cheers died in throats. Drums stilled. The hundreds of eyes snapped back to me.
"Corvin lives," I said calmly. "And your champion does not."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
I gestured toward Corvin. "This is strength tempered by restraint. Discipline sharpened by pain. Remember that."
The goblins resumed their roars of appeasement. Weapons and fists were raised and lowered in frantic motions.
Below, Corvin finally raised his blade triumphantly. A goblin attendant crept forward and dragged Skorn's corpse away by the ankle, leaving a dark smear in the dirt.
I turned slightly toward Branek.
"He'll walk with a limp for a few days," I said.
Branek nodded, pride and concern warring on his face. "He fought well."
"Yes," I agreed. "Now they'll think twice about trying something."
Two hours later, we stood once more within the encampment.
The change was unmistakable.
From the upper terraces down to the cavern floor, the mountain hollow overlooking the valley had been scrubbed clean. The heaps of gnawed bones were gone. Blood, ash, and filth had been washed from the stone, and the crude ritual symbols were stripped from the walls entirely.
Beneath the grime, pristine dwarven craftsmanship revealed itself: clean-cut stone blocks, precise joints, and angular runes half-worn by time.
Kragmôr was still a goblin hold. But it was beginning to remember what it once was.
Even my personal tent had been tended to - courtesy of Nib.
Strung above the tent flaps on a length of rope hung the severed heads of the shamans and Bloodmaw, swaying like grim warding charms.
Inside, the chests had been sorted and organised with care, their contents arranged neatly rather than haphazardly dumped. The central table had been cleared of clutter and scrubbed until its surface reflected the candlelight. And behind the chair - where once there had been nothing but a mound of straw and a filthy sack - stood an actual bed, its frame sturdy, its blankets clean.
Corvin, Branek, and I sat around the table, our goblets filled with wine and our plates stacked with meat. Lamb, pork, pheasant, all cooked and without much subtlety. It was filling, if nothing else.
We learned quickly that goblin-folk had little love for vegetables or fruit. Even the bread they'd prepared was dense, and more like a survival ration than food meant to be enjoyed.
Branek let out a quiet huff of laughter, lifting his drink. "When I imagined a goblin mountain stronghold, I didn't think the greatest hardship would be the cuisine."
I smiled, my mouth filled with chewed pork.
"Wait until you need the garderobe," I said lightly. "You'll want to brave the blizzard."
I looked across the table at Corvin. He'd raised a chunk of bread to his lips, but he hadn't bitten into it. His smile was gone. His eyes were locked on the tabletop, unfocused, as if staring through the wood.
"Corvin?" I asked.
The goblin fires outside crackled faintly, the sound distant. Corvin's fingers tightened around the bread until it crumbled slightly.
"...I feel awful," he said quietly. "My mind feels cold, and my body numb."
Branek glanced over at him. "You look it too, brother. Pale as milk."
I didn't comment immediately; I studied Corvin instead. His posture, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly.
I wiped my mouth with a cloth and stood, then approached the tent entrance. I pushed one of the flaps aside.
Two goblin guards snapped to attention outside, spears clutched tight, eyes wide with the terror of creatures who knew exactly who stood before them.
"Fetch me Nib," I said, calm yet firm.
They didn't hesitate. One bolted immediately, nearly tripping over his own feet as he disappeared into the encampment.
I let the flap fall and returned to the table, my expression unreadable.
Corvin watched me now, uncertainty creeping into his eyes. "Stranger… am I dying?"
Branek shot him a sharp look. "Don't be foolish."
I pulled my chair back and sat, folding my hands together.
"No," I said after a moment. "Not yet."
That, at least, was true.
"But you are sick," I continued. "I suspect the Skorn's blade was laced with something. A contingency plan, no doubt."
Corvin's throat bobbed. "Contingency?"
Before I could answer, hurried footsteps approached the tent. The flap rustled. Nib slipped inside, breathless, bowing so low his long nose nearly brushed the floor.
"Boss call," he said quickly. "Nib here. What's wrong?"
"Steward," I said, my tone leaving no room for debate. "Fetch me Skorn's sword. The one he used against Corvin."
Nib straightened at once.
"Nib do that," he said quickly. "Skorn body in butcher tent. Nib retrieve sword for Boss."
He didn't wait for dismissal. The goblin spun on his heel and scurried out through the flaps, nearly colliding with one of the guards as he went.
"I suspect when he cut your leg," I then said, gaze fixed on Corvin. "It got infected... Or perhaps the goblin dabbled with nefarious poisons."
I leaned back slightly in my chair, folding my hands, never breaking eye contact with Corvin.
"Poison?" Branek asked, voice low.
"Or worse," I replied calmly. "Goblin-folk aren't subtle, but they are inventive. Foul brews, corpse-filth, alchemical rot. Anything to make a clean cut turn into a slow death."
I lifted the wine bottle and presented it to Branek.
"Pour it over the wound," I instructed. "It'll sting, but it should slow whatever filth that blade carried."
Branek accepted the bottle without question and moved to Corvin's side. Corvin shifted awkwardly in his chair and extended his injured leg back, gripping the chair's spine for balance. The cloth wrapped around his knee was stiff with dried blood.
Branek unwound it carefully.
The flesh beneath was swollen and discoloured, the cut rimmed with a sickly green-grey hue that crept outward like frostbite.
Branek frowned. "That's not right."
He tipped the bottle.
Wine splashed over the wound, soaking into the gash and spilling down Corvin's leg. Corvin gasped sharply, teeth gritting as the alcohol bit deep.
"Easy," Branek murmured, steadying him. "Breathe, brother."
Moments later, the tent flap parted, and Nib slipped in, holding a wrapped bundle with both hands.
"Boss," he said quickly. "Skorn sword."
I took it from him and peeled back the cloth. The blade was crude, its edge scored with grooves, dark residue wedged within them like dried tar.
But it didn't glisten like poison. It throbbed, faintly, as if the sword itself were breathing.
I felt it the moment my fingers closed around the hilt. This wasn't alchemy or venom.
It was dark magic.