Chris, Eroll, and Kira stood at the edge of the forest, looking down at the smoldering remains of the village. The acrid scent of burned wood and blood still clung to the air, mixing with the distant chirping of insects from the surrounding trees.
"We need to find the prisoners," Chris said, his voice tight with frustration. "But where do we start?"
Kira flapped her wings from Chris's shoulder, her keen eyes scanning the ground below. "They left tracks heading east. I spotted a path when we were running earlier—crushed grass, broken branches." She fluttered to the ground, pecking at the dirt. "See here? These prints are fresh. They've got a wagon with them—probably the one carrying the prisoners."
Chris nodded, hope flickering in his chest. "So we follow it?"
Eroll crouched beside the tracks, his sharp yellow eyes studying the faint imprints. "We could follow them… but it might not be that easy." He ran a hand along the edge of one of the prints, brushing away the ash and dirt. "They know they've got a head start. If they've got hobgoblins, they'll cover their tracks as they go."
Chris's heart sank. Every minute they spent tracking the goblins gave the captors more time to get away.
"We have to move fast," he said, frustration leaking into his voice.
Eroll's eyes glinted, and a playful grin spread across his face. "Or… we find someone who knows exactly where they're headed."
Chris blinked. "What do you mean?"
Eroll stood, brushing ash from his hands. "There's always one or two goblins too stupid—or too wounded—to keep up." His gaze shifted toward the far side of the village, where a faint rustling could be heard near the broken remains of a fence.
"Survivor," Kira whispered, her feathers ruffling in excitement.
Chris's grip tightened around his sword. This was their chance.
They crept toward the sound, keeping low through the wreckage. Near a pile of broken crates, Chris spotted him—a goblin slumped against the remains of a wagon, clutching his side. His breathing was ragged, and his green skin was streaked with soot, blood, and grime.
"Looks like he didn't make it out in time," Eroll muttered, his sword hanging lazily at his side. The embers swirling around him flickered brighter, casting a faint orange glow on the goblin's terrified face.
The goblin hissed, dragging himself back with a sharp wince, but his twisted leg left him helpless.
Chris stepped closer, rage tightening in his chest like a vice. The memory of the slaughter, the burning homes, and the cages filled with crying villagers filled his mind, stoking the fire burning in his gut.
"Where are the prisoners?" Chris growled, his voice rough with anger. "Tell me now."
The goblin spat at the ground, baring its crooked teeth. "I say nothing to you, mortal filth."
Chris's grip on his sword tightened, his pulse roaring in his ears. The anger twisted deeper, making it harder to think. He stepped forward, towering over the goblin, his sword gleaming in the dim firelight.
"Talk." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Or I swear, the only thing left of you will be ash."
The goblin sneered, though the flicker of fear in his yellow eyes betrayed him. "You'll kill me either way."
Eroll gave a low, amused chuckle, flicking his embers toward the goblin's face. "Maybe. But it doesn't have to be quick."
Chris felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He knew they didn't have time to waste—but the fury inside him demanded satisfaction.
With a snarl, he crouched down and grabbed the goblin's collar, dragging him forward until their faces were inches apart. The fire in his chest burned hot and wild.
"Where. Are. They?" Chris hissed through clenched teeth.
The goblin squirmed, fear flickering like a trapped animal in his eyes. The pressure from Chris's grip and the embers floating around Eroll's blade became too much.
"East!" the goblin yelped, his voice cracking under the weight of panic. "They… they take them to the ruins! The old stone tower! Near the black hills!"
Chris's breath hitched, his heart hammering. Finally—a trail.
Eroll leaned in, his sharp grin cutting through the tension. "How many?"
The goblin stammered, his yellow eyes darting between them. "Many… hobgoblins. And worse. Things from the deep clans. You don't stand a chance."
Chris's vision narrowed, the words you don't stand a chance echoing in his mind like a curse. He wouldn't let this creature tell him what he could or couldn't do.
"Good," Eroll murmured, his embers flaring as he gave the goblin a cold, deadly smile. "Thanks for the help."
The goblin opened his mouth to say something more, but Eroll's sword flashed—not to kill, but with a sharp crack across the goblin's skull. The creature slumped forward, unconscious.
Chris stood there, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The goblin lay at his feet, lifeless save for the slow rise and fall of its chest.
"Feel better?" Eroll asked, resting his sword against his shoulder. His voice was casual, but his eyes gleamed with quiet intensity.
Chris didn't answer right away. The fire inside him hadn't dimmed—it still burned. And it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough until he saw the prisoners free and the goblins dead at his feet.
Kira landed on his shoulder, her feathers brushing against his cheek in a silent reminder to stay grounded. "We know where they are now," she whispered. "Let's move before we waste any more time."
Chris nodded, though the fury still simmered beneath his skin, hot and restless. He wanted to fight. He wanted to tear those creatures apart. But Eroll was right—they weren't ready. Not yet.
"Next time," Chris muttered, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. "Next time, they won't walk away."
Eroll gave him a sly grin, the embers still dancing around his hands. "That's the spirit. Now let's go."
With the goblin's words ringing in their ears, the three of them set off toward the east. The forest around them felt colder, darker—like a reminder of everything they'd lost.
Chris's legs ached, but he didn't care. Every step was a step closer to the people they had failed. He wouldn't fail again.
Kira flew ahead, scouting the path as they followed the goblin's trail through the forest. Eroll walked beside Chris, the embers around him swirling in lazy spirals.
"You did good back there," Eroll said quietly, without looking at him.
Chris gave him a sharp glance. "I almost lost it."
Eroll shrugged. "Anger's useful. As long as you learn to control it."
Chris exhaled, forcing himself to relax his clenched fists. Control. That's what he needed. Not just strength, not just rage—but control.
Kira's voice drifted down from the canopy above. "I see smoke ahead—small fires. We're getting close."
Chris's heart thudded in his chest. This was it. The path to the prisoners—and the path to revenge.
"Time to get to work," Eroll murmured, his grin sharp and dangerous.
Chris nodded, his jaw set with grim determination. There was no turning back now.
The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the edge of the goblin camp, tucked within the dense shadow of the black hills. The towering stone ruins loomed over the forest like a skeleton of an ancient kingdom—a crumbled tower at the center of it all. Fires burned at various points along the perimeter, and hulking hobgoblins patrolled the paths with heavy, deliberate steps.
Chris crouched behind a boulder, his heart racing as he scanned the camp below. Cages lined the far side of the clearing, packed with frightened villagers. Their faces were pale with exhaustion, their bodies slumped in defeat—but they were still alive. There was still time.
Kira landed beside him, her eyes sharp and calculating. "The camp's bigger than I thought… at least three hobgoblins, maybe more."
Chris's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He could feel his rage stirring again, hot and restless, begging to be unleashed.
"Easy, kid," Eroll whispered, settling beside him. The embers around him swirled in tight, controlled patterns—a sharp contrast to Chris's own boiling anger. "This isn't the time to lose your head."
Chris nodded stiffly, forcing himself to breathe. It took everything he had not to charge into the camp and fight them all, but he knew Eroll was right. If they went in without a plan, they'd be dead in minutes.
The three of them stayed hidden, watching the camp from the safety of the treeline. Goblins scurried between tents, carrying stolen supplies and weapons, while the hobgoblins barked orders, towering over the smaller creatures.
Chris's eyes narrowed as he watched one hobgoblin unlock a cage, dragging a young woman out by her arm. She cried out, but no one came to help her—the goblins only laughed.
Chris's fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. "We have to move fast."
"Not yet," Eroll muttered. He pointed toward a patrol circling the camp's edge. "See that? They're rotating shifts. If we time it right, we can get in and out without alerting the whole camp."
Kira nodded. "We'll need to take out the guards quietly." She flexed her talons. "And if things go south, I can set some fires to create a distraction."
Chris took a deep breath, the tension coiling tight in his chest. This was it—the first real step toward saving the prisoners. No room for mistakes.
Eroll leaned closer, his yellow eyes gleaming with quiet determination. "Here's the plan."
He pointed toward the weak spots they'd identified—a gap in the patrol line near the back of the camp, and the unattended cages just beyond the fire pits.
"We move fast and silent," Eroll said. "Take out the guards at the back, free as many prisoners as we can, and make for the forest."
Chris nodded, his pulse steadying as he focused on the plan. This was what he needed—action.
"And if it gets ugly?" Chris asked, his grip tightening on his sword.
Eroll gave him a sharp grin, the embers around his hands sparking dangerously. "Then we make it ugly."
Chris exhaled slowly, the fire inside him still burning—but now it felt controlled, sharper, like a blade waiting to be drawn. He would fight. He would save the prisoners.
And when the time came… he would make the goblins pay.
Chris, Eroll, and Kira crept along the edge of the goblin camp, the soft hum of campfires and the distant sound of chains rattling filling the air. Chris's heart pounded in his chest, every step bringing him closer to the prisoners—and closer to a confrontation that could change everything.
They reached the cages, hidden just beyond the crumbling ruins of the stone tower. Villagers huddled inside, their faces pale and drawn with fear. Chris scanned each face, his heart sinking with every one he didn't recognize.
Then he saw him—Dorian.
The older man lay slumped in the corner of a cage, his body battered, his breathing shallow. Blood stained his tunic, and his once-sharp eyes were dull with exhaustion.
Chris's heart clenched. Dorian had fought to protect the village, and now he was paying the price.
"Dorian," Chris whispered, grabbing the bars of the cage. "Hold on—we'll get you out of here."
Dorian's eyes flickered open, and a faint smile touched his cracked lips. "Chris… you made it," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "Knew you'd come back."
Eroll worked quickly on the lock, using a dagger to pry it open. "Come on, old man. We're getting you out of here."
But even as the lock clicked open, Chris knew something was wrong. Dorian's breath hitched, and his body sagged against the cage wall, as if the life was draining from him faster than they could save him.
"No," Chris whispered, panic rising in his chest. "Stay with me, Dorian. We're going to get you out of here."
Dorian's hand trembled as he reached out, brushing Chris's arm. "It's… okay, kid. You did… your best." His voice was a fragile whisper. "Don't… blame yourself."
And with that, his hand went limp—and his breathing stopped.
Something inside Chris snapped.
The grief, the rage, the guilt—all of it surged to the surface in an unstoppable wave. His heart pounded like a war drum, and everything around him blurred as the raw emotion consumed him.
A strange, searing pain spread across his back, as if something buried deep inside him was trying to break free. His vision darkened at the edges, and the world seemed to slow, the sounds of the camp fading to a distant hum.
"Chris?" Kira's voice sounded far away, concerned but small, like an echo in a storm.
Then came the crack—a sharp, tearing sensation that spread from his shoulders down his spine. Black wings erupted from his back, unfurling in jagged, shadowed arcs.
The force of their release sent a gust of wind through the camp, scattering embers and leaves into the air.
Chris stood there, his new wings flexing involuntarily, sparks of dark energy crackling around him. For the first time since entering this world, he felt the power of his fallen angel form pulse through him—wild, dangerous, and barely contained.
Eroll stared, stunned for once in his life. "Well, damn," he muttered. "Didn't see that coming."
Kira cawed sharply, her wings flapping in excitement. "Chris, you've got wings!"
But Chris didn't feel excitement—only rage. Pure, unfiltered fury. The goblins had taken everything from him.
And now, they would pay.
Before Chris could act, the ground trembled beneath their feet. From the far side of the camp, a towering figure emerged from the shadows—a goblin, but not like the others.
It was taller than a hobgoblin, its skin dark and mottled, with muscles rippling beneath armor forged from scavenged steel. Its eyes gleamed with intelligence and malice, and in its hand, it wielded a massive war axe, humming with latent magic.
The next evolution—a Wargoblin.
The creature snarled, its jagged teeth bared in a vicious grin. "Fools. You think you can leave here alive?"
Chris unfurled his wings, the black feathers gleaming under the moonlight, and charged without hesitation. The dark energy around him crackled to life, sparking with unstable power. He felt stronger, faster—like nothing could stop him.
His sword clashed against the Wargoblin's axe with a deafening ring. The force of the impact shook the ground, sending a shockwave through the camp.
Chris gritted his teeth and pressed harder, feeling the power of his wings driving him forward. For a moment, he thought he had the upper hand—he could do this.
But the Wargoblin was stronger than he anticipated. With a brutal twist, it knocked Chris off balance, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Chris scrambled to his feet, his wings flaring wide as he launched himself back into the fight. Blow after blow, he struck with everything he had—each swing of his sword sharper, faster, and more powerful than before.
The Wargoblin roared, blood trickling from a deep gash across its arm. Chris smiled grimly—he was doing real damage.
But it wasn't enough.
The Wargoblin snarled, its movements becoming sharper and more brutal. It caught Chris's sword mid-swing, ripping it from his hands with terrifying strength.
Before Chris could react, the Wargoblin slammed him into the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. Pain shot through his ribs, and for a moment, everything blurred.
"Chris!" Kira shrieked, diving toward him.
Eroll was already moving, his ember-coated sword flashing as he leapt into the fray. He landed a solid strike on the Wargoblin, forcing it to stumble back, buying them precious seconds.
Chris gasped for air, his wings dragging uselessly behind him. The power he'd unlocked was incredible, but he wasn't ready—he still didn't know how to control it.
"Not now, kid," Eroll muttered, grabbing Chris by the arm and hauling him to his feet. "We gotta go."
Chris's heart screamed for him to fight, but his body wouldn't obey. He was outmatched—and if they stayed any longer, they'd all die here.
With one final look at Dorian's lifeless body, Chris clenched his fists and spread his wings. "We'll come back," he whispered under his breath, the words a promise. "We'll finish this."
Kira cawed urgently from above. "Now, Chris!"
With a grim nod, Chris forced himself to turn away. His wings unfurled, and together, the three of them fled into the night, leaving the camp—and their losses—behind.