The first thing Finn noticed was the smell. A damp, rancid stench filled his nostrils, so foul it made him gag. His entire body felt cold and weak, sprawled out on something rough and damp that prickled against his skin. But that wasn't right—his skin didn't feel like it used to. It was smoother, thinner, and strangely sensitive.
Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. The world swam into focus—jagged stone walls, flickering firelight casting ominous shadows, and creatures. Strange, hideous creatures. Small, greenish figures shuffled about in the distance, their bodies hunched, their yellow eyes glinting in the dim light. Their guttural grunts and sneering laughter echoed off the walls of what Finn could only describe as a cave.
"What… the hell?"
The thought rang sharply in his mind, though when he tried to speak, all that came out was a thin, high-pitched croak. "Gak...?" The sound startled him, and his tiny body flinched involuntarily.
It was then that he noticed his hands—small, clawed, and green. He stared at them in disbelief, turning them over as though they might suddenly look normal again. They didn't. His breathing quickened, panic setting in. He tried to sit up, but his limbs were weak, trembling under even the smallest effort.
"What's happening? Where am I? Why can't I—"
Finn froze mid-thought as memories resurfaced. Just moments ago, he'd been on his way home, trudging through the city streets after a long, uneventful day at the accounting firm. His mind had been preoccupied, half-listening to the whir of cars and the muffled buzz of his phone in his pocket. And then… what? A blinding light? A noise? It was all too hazy to piece together.
But this? This was something else entirely.
Finn forced himself to focus. He looked around again, heart thudding wildly in his chest—or whatever organ he had now that passed for one. The creatures—goblins, his mind supplied from some distant well of fantasy knowledge—were everywhere, clumped together in the dimness of the cave. They were bigger than he was, thicker, their faces crude and cruel with yellow teeth jutting from their mouths. They barked at each other in harsh, guttural tones, occasionally breaking into sharp laughter as they argued or gnawed on scraps of meat.
Finn felt his stomach turn.
"Am I… one of them?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself. No, no, no. This isn't real. It can't be real. But when he opened them again, nothing had changed. His small, frail body was still there. His green hands, his too-large eyes, his shivering form curled atop a nest of filthy rags and dried leaves.
A wave of sound rumbled through the cave, and Finn instinctively shrank back, curling into himself. A large goblin stomped past him, its hulking figure looming as it tossed a bone over its shoulder, narrowly missing Finn's head.
"Runt," the creature grunted dismissively, not even sparing him a glance.
The word cut through Finn like a knife. He didn't understand their language, but he knew an insult when he heard one. The realization struck him like a hammer to the chest: They don't care about me. They don't even see me as one of them.
And why would they? Finn was tiny, weak, sickly compared to the rest. A newborn goblin—if that's what he really was—didn't seem to have much of a place here.
The other goblins paid him no mind, too caught up in their own lives to notice the runt on the cave floor. Finn shivered again, the cold air gnawing at his fragile body. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, though he fought them back.
"Pull it together, Finn. Think. What do I do now?"
But no answer came. He had no phone, no home to go back to, no idea where he was or why this had happened. All he had were questions, and the flickering firelight didn't provide any answers.
Somewhere deeper in the cave, a deep, guttural roar sounded. The goblins quieted for a moment, their yellow eyes darting toward the noise before resuming their chatter. Finn couldn't see what caused it, but something told him he didn't want to.
His mind raced, his pulse thudding like a drum. He wasn't just in another world—he was trapped in it. And not as a hero, not as a knight, not even as a human. He was a goblin. A weak, pitiful, newborn goblin.
The irony would've been funny if it wasn't so terrifying.
Finn curled his knees closer to his chest, his thin arms wrapping around them for warmth. In the distance, the goblins ate, laughed, and fought, uncaring of the tiny runt struggling to exist among them.
"I don't belong here," Finn thought bitterly, staring at the cave wall. But as the cold deepened, as his exhaustion weighed heavier on his small frame, he realized something far worse:
It didn't matter whether he belonged or not. He was here now.
And if he didn't find a way to survive, he wouldn't be here for long.
Three Days Later
Finn had grown. Not just in size, but in strength, too. His limbs, once frail and weak, had filled out with surprising speed, the rapid growth typical of goblins. In just three days, he had doubled his previous size and now stood shakily on his feet, his small but muscular frame more akin to the other goblins in the cave. This was normal, he soon learned. Goblins grew quickly—survival in this brutal, unforgiving environment demanded it. They reached adulthood by the age of ten days, a harsh reminder that in this world, time was as unforgiving as the predators that roamed it.
The days blurred together as Finn spent his time exploring the dark, sprawling cave, trying to adapt to his new reality. The language of the goblins had started to make sense, too—simple grunts and snarls, a harsh, guttural dialect that seemed to make up for its lack of finesse with sheer intensity. The more he heard, the more he understood, though speaking it was another matter. He had tried several times to speak, but whenever he approached the other goblins, his words were met with disdain.
"Go away, runt," one would snarl. "Not for you," another would mutter, shooing him off with a flick of its hand. Even the weaker, smaller goblins, the ones that looked more like him—small, scrawny, and frail—treated him with cold indifference. To them, Finn was just another pitiful child, another runt, unworthy of attention or respect.
The worst part was that he understood why.
Every time Finn saw the others—goblins born around the same time as him—he couldn't help but feel a sense of shame. The others were already out hunting. They were learning to stalk and capture small creatures, their instincts guiding them to survive. But Finn? All he could do was walk, falteringly at first, and talk. And neither of those things were useful.
He watched the other baby goblins as they padded across the cave's uneven ground, small hunting weapons in their hands, their movements swift and practiced as they cornered rats and lizards with ease. He saw them proudly drag their prey back to the elders, who either applauded their efforts or tossed them aside to make room for the next child. Finn felt the gnawing realization that they were already starting to earn their place in the cave's brutal hierarchy. And Finn? He was still struggling to do the one thing he knew how to do: walk and talk.
"What am I doing wrong?"
He had tried to join them. On his small adventures around the cave, he had spotted the others hunting, sneaking between shadows, and ambushing the smaller creatures that dared venture too close. Finn had even attempted to approach a few of the weaker goblins, trying to show them he could be useful. He'd hoped to join them—maybe even to prove he was worth something. But each time, his words were met with mockery.
"Go away, runt."
It stung every time, a reminder of how far below the others he truly was. The harshness of the words, combined with their dismissive gestures, left him feeling smaller than ever. Each failure chipped away at his confidence.
He'd had enough time now to understand the cave's pecking order. The weak were discarded, left to fend for themselves, while the strong dominated. Goblins grew quickly—at ten days old, they were expected to be fully capable of surviving on their own. For those that couldn't keep up, the world was merciless. Finn had seen it before. He had witnessed the older goblins leave behind the weakest, the sickliest, the ones who couldn't hunt, couldn't fight. They were left to die, and the cycle would continue.
Finn's heart sank as he surveyed his small, frail body in the reflection of a murky puddle. No matter how much he tried, how much he grew, he couldn't escape the fact that he was still just another runt.
But somewhere, buried beneath the frustration, anger, and self-doubt, a flicker of determination began to burn. He might not be like the others. He might not have the instincts they did, the strength or the skills. But Finn wasn't done yet. He wasn't ready to be forgotten, to be discarded as just another worthless goblin.
"I'll show them," he whispered to himself, though his voice was barely more than a hoarse croak. He didn't know how. He didn't know when. But he would find a way to survive. And maybe—just maybe—he could prove that he was more than just a runt.