Storm watched as his leader, Ezra, vanished into the forest with unsettling speed, leaving only a rush of air in his wake. The goblin let out a low sigh. Strong? Sure. But ridiculous is more like it, he thought, shaking his head to clear the envy creeping into his mind. Storm adjusted the straps of his armor and set off toward his first target, moving with practiced ease through the dark. Unlike humans, Storm didn't need a torch—his natural goblin sight pierced through the shadows effortlessly, giving him an edge in stealth.
It didn't take him long to arrive, but his heart sank when he laid eyes on the base. Seriously? This for my first one? he muttered under his breath. Towering stone walls encased the compound, with guards stationed on top. Torches flickered along the perimeter, and the unmistakable glint of weapons revealed that the sentries were well-equipped.
Storm sighed, rubbing his temples. "Figures." He scanned his surroundings, spotting a tree close enough to the wall to give him a vantage point. He scaled it with ease, his small frame and nimble fingers making quick work of the climb. Settling into the branches, he closed his eyes briefly and activated an aether technique his father had taught him. A faint green glow enveloped his eyes as his vision sharpened, zooming in on the details of the base.
He began counting. Twenty guards on the wall, armed with crossbows. They didn't look sloppy, either—disciplined and alert, not the usual ragtag cultist crew. Storm muttered a curse under his breath and climbed back down.
Moving closer to the wall, he prepared for the next step. From a pouch at his hip, he pulled out a throwing dagger with a thin rope attached. With precision, he hurled the dagger upward, embedding it into the wooden ledge of one of the watchtowers. Testing the rope to ensure it was secure, Storm began climbing, his movements quiet and deliberate.
When he reached the top, he crouched low, keeping out of sight of the guards. Peering down into the compound, he spotted nearly fifty cultists milling about the courtyard below. Some were unloading crates, while others appeared to be practicing combat techniques. Storm frowned and magnified his vision further, scanning the area for anyone who looked important.
His enhanced sight landed on a man clad in thick, blackened plate armor, standing near the center of the base. The man was massive, his oversized battle axe resting against his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Even from his perch, Storm could feel the man's commanding presence. That's gotta be the leader, Storm thought, his brow furrowing.
Satisfied he'd seen enough, Storm carefully descended the rope, landing softly on the forest floor. He pulled the dagger free and coiled the rope, tucking it back into his pouch. This base is no joke, he mused, slipping back into the shadows. And my luck says the next one won't be any better.
Without wasting another moment, Storm set off toward his next destination, the unease in his gut growing stronger with every step.
Storm trudged through the forest, the cool night air brushing against his green skin as he approached the next base. He hoped—prayed even—that the last base had been the strongest he'd have to deal with, but deep down, he knew better. Luck wasn't something he relied on.
He sighed heavily, shaking his head as he trudged forward. Outwardly, Storm carried himself with a confident, almost cocky demeanor around others, but in truth, he was always wrestling with fear. He'd learned to fake bravery—most people never saw past his smirk or quick-witted remarks—but deep down, he knew what he was. Short, wiry, and far from physically imposing, Storm wasn't built for close combat. His skills lay in his aim and his ability to stay far away from the real danger. He preferred fighting with his rifle or using explosives. Anything that let him keep his distance.
Then there was his Ice Aether. People assumed it was a deliberate choice, a calculated affinity he'd mastered to improve his precision with ranged attacks. Storm never corrected them—it was easier to let them believe he was a strategic genius. The truth, however, was far less impressive.
It had happened years ago, during a harsh winter hunting trip. He'd been separated from his group while tracking prey, and in his carelessness, he'd fallen off a cliff into a frozen ravine. The cold had been unbearable, and he'd instinctively used all the Aether he could muster just to stay warm. Desperation drove him to unconsciously absorb the surrounding Ice Aether in the environment, changing his affinity entirely.
The transformation had been frightening at first. His natural Aether felt foreign, sharper, and colder than ever before. But it also saved his life. The freezing temperatures no longer bothered him, and he was able to climb out of the ravine and survive the night. Over time, he learned to use his newfound Ice Aether to complement his explosives, freezing shrapnel mid-air or creating sharp ice fragments to add to the devastation. It wasn't what he'd wanted, but it was undeniably effective.
Now, as he approached the next base, Storm clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. The memory of that icy ravine resurfaced, reminding him of how far he'd come. "You're still here, aren't you?" he muttered to himself. "Coward or not, you've made it this far."
With a deep breath, he pressed on, his eyes scanning the dark forest for any signs of the base ahead.
Storm finally came upon the next base and stopped dead in his tracks, nearly losing his balance in shock. The place didn't look like some ramshackle hideout—it was a fully fortified military outpost. High stone walls loomed in the darkness, lined with torches casting flickering light across the perimeter. Guard towers dotted the corners, each with armed sentries scanning the forest. It was the kind of setup that should've drawn the kingdom's attention ages ago.
How the hell haven't the guards cracked down on these fools already? he thought, biting back a curse. But this wasn't the time to question politics. He had a job to do.
Storm took a deep breath, steadying himself. He pulled the goggles from his forehead down over his eyes, letting their lenses snap into place. With a faint glow, he channeled Ice Aether into his eyes, enhancing his vision and sharpening his focus. Everything around him became crystal clear, each detail of the base illuminated as if under daylight.
He crouched low, staying hidden within the tree line, and brought his rifle to his shoulder. It wasn't for shooting—yet. He looked through the scope, using it to zoom in and get a better count of the people stationed at the base.
His heart sank as he scanned the perimeter. Guards patrolled in pairs along the walls, their armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight. At least thirty armed cultists were stationed on the exterior alone, and that didn't account for whoever—or whatever—was inside.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. This place was far better defended than the first base. If the leader here was even half as strong as their setup implied, Storm knew this one was going to be a problem.
But he kept at it, carefully counting the guards and making note of their patrol patterns. His goggles allowed him to magnify his view further, letting him pick out details that might be useful later. His stomach twisted as he spotted a group of robed figures gathered near a large central tent—mages, no doubt.
After a few minutes, he whispered to himself, "That's enough for now. No need to push my luck." Storm climbed back down from his perch and melted into the shadows of the forest. He'd report back and let Ezra know what they were dealing with. Something told him this wasn't going to be as simple as they'd hoped.