He left the hall with the same firm, determined step as always, leaving me alone with my mother. She looked at me for a moment, wearing the same tired expression she had carried for years. She said nothing, but her hand briefly touched mine before pulling away. Perhaps it was her way of telling me to take care or a silent farewell she couldn't allow herself to speak aloud.
I climbed to my room and began to prepare my things, though there wasn't much to pack. The sword was already belted at my waist, and its weight alone made everything feel more real.
We didn't take long to set out for the North. The cold wind greeted us as soon as we crossed the fortress gates, sweeping away the last embers of home's warmth. I rode alone on horseback, mounted on an old, sturdy mare that had once belonged to one of my brothers before he was given something better. It was a silent symbol of my place in the family: useful, but not indispensable.
Behind me marched the newly recruited peasants and the local militia, all on foot, stumbling along the frozen path. The peasants were simple men, their faces hardened by fieldwork and the harsh northern life. Some were no older than fifteen; others looked fifty. They carried sharpened sticks, makeshift spears, and threadbare clothes that barely protected them from the cold. They walked in silence, heads bowed, as if marching toward their own graves.
The militia, on the other hand, moved with greater confidence. There were six of them in total, armed with bronze-tipped spears and leather armor that creaked with every step. They were veterans, men accustomed to the sight of blood, yet even they kept their eyes fixed on the horizon, aware of what lay ahead.
I, with the iron sword my father had given me strapped to my belt, also carried a spear like the militiamen and wore a fitted leather armor over layers of thick wool. My horse was the only mount, and though I tried to ride slowly to avoid straying too far, I couldn't help but feel the group's resentment. A mount meant status; it meant I was different, though deep down, I didn't feel that way.
"Not so fast, boy!" called one of the militiamen, his voice tired and slightly mocking. It was Günther, the grizzled veteran who had seemingly taken it upon himself to watch over me. He walked with his spear resting on his shoulder and a furrowed brow.
"Unless you want us to leave our legs behind on this damned ice."
I nodded and gently pulled the reins. I didn't respond. I could feel their stares digging into my back, though no one dared say more.
The path north was slow and grueling. Snow blanketed the ground like an uneven shroud, and the wheels of abandoned carts jutted out of the drifts like old bones. The hills flanking our route were bare and silent, the leafless trees looming like unsettling shadows stretching toward the gray sky.
I had heard stories of what awaited us: abominations, twisted monsters born from the uncontrolled mana of dungeons. No one knew exactly how these fissures appeared in the world, but everyone understood their danger. Some claimed they were a curse from the god; others, that they were wounds torn into the very fabric of Aeranor. The only certainty was that the creatures emerging from them had no place in this world.
And then there were the goblins. Günther had warned us we would likely encounter them before reaching the dungeon. Goblins rarely fought in daylight; they preferred to ambush from the shadows, striking when their prey was exhausted or distracted. They attacked in hordes, relying on numbers to overwhelm enemies far stronger than themselves.
"Have you ever seen a goblin, lad?" Günther asked during a midday rest.
I shook my head as I dismounted and took a sip of water.
"Ugly as sin, with sharp teeth and eyes that burn in the dark. Small, yes, but don't underestimate them. If they catch you alone, they'll tear you apart like starving dogs." He wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and glanced toward the hills. "Always count on them watching you."
"Always watching?" I repeated quietly, unsettled.
"Always," Günther said gravely. "Goblins are like rats: if you see one, there are a hundred more hiding nearby."
"Always watching." Those words clung to my mind as I climbed back onto my horse. The wind had picked up, and every shadow in the forest seemed to shift suspiciously.
Night fell before we could find a suitable place to rest. We took shelter in a clearing near a frozen stream. We lit two small campfires, just enough to keep warm without drawing too much attention. The peasants huddled together, gripping their makeshift weapons. The militiamen kept watch, though I couldn't help but notice how their eyes drifted toward the trees more than they patrolled the camp.
I sat near the fire, clutching my spear and staring at my sword, still strapped to my waist. The iron seemed to absorb the glow of the flames, as though it held its own shadow. I wondered if I would ever wield it as my father expected—if I could ever become the man this sword demanded I be.
"The first night is always the worst," Günther murmured, sitting beside me and handing me a piece of hard bread. His gaze drifted into the darkness. "Tomorrow, if we're lucky, we'll reach the dungeon. If not, the goblins will find us first."
"And if they do?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.
Günther smiled without humor and struck the ground with his spear, the sound dull and ominous.
"Then, Konrad Falkenstein, I hope that sword of yours is worth what it looks like."
I swallowed hard and looked out beyond the flames. The night was vast and cold, and somewhere in the darkness, something was watching us.
The blood fell in thick, dark streams onto the ground, mixing with the filthy snow. The stench of iron and torn flesh struck me like an invisible fist, and I felt my stomach churn. I tried to hold back the little I'd eaten that morning, but the nausea doubled me over, my shaking hands still gripping the spear.
The bodies of the goblins lay scattered among the trees—small, twisted, their eyes wide open as if they still couldn't comprehend what had happened. There couldn't have been more than six or seven, and the remains of their little hunt still hung nearby: skinned rabbits dangling from makeshift ropes. Those creatures hadn't looked like warriors, but that didn't matter. The battle had begun as quickly as it had ended.
Everything had been a blur of screams, spears, and bodies colliding. I barely remember reacting when one of the militiamen shouted, "Goblins!" Then, it was as though my body moved on its own.
I had seen one of them—larger than the rest—charging with a crude spear made of splintered wood. I watched as it hurled itself at a trembling peasant, who was unable to lift his sharpened stick in time. Günther had leapt between them, his bronze-tipped spear sinking into the goblin's chest with a dry crack—a sound that still echoed in my ears.
Another goblin, little more than a swift shadow with a knife, lunged at me with unexpected speed. All I could do was lower my spear and thrust it forward. The bronze tip struck its stomach, and the small creature let out a shriek that pierced my bones before collapsing to the ground, writhing and clutching at the wound.
Now, as the air filled once more with heavy silence, I looked at the aftermath. A peasant lay on his back, a broken spear beside him and a dark stain spreading across his shirt. Another sat trembling against a tree, tears streaming down his face, his stick still gripped tightly in his hands.
"Are you all right, boy?" I heard Günther's voice close to me. When I looked up, he was already wiping his spear clean with a rag. His expression was unreadable, as though he had just finished a mundane task and not killed two goblins in mere seconds.
"Yes… yes," I managed to mumble, though my voice betrayed me at the end. I lowered my gaze to the goblin I had killed. It was small, no taller than my waist, its greenish skin a mess of scars and thin bones. In life, it had been fast, noisy; now, it was nothing more than another body in the snow.
I tried not to look at it too long. I tightened my grip on my spear, the wooden shaft still vibrating faintly in my hands.
"The first time is always like this," Günther continued in a softer tone. "But listen well, boy: better them than you. They're nothing but rats with knives."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure he believed me.
Around us, the other militiamen began gathering the goblins' weapons—a few crude spears and worn knives made of bone and stone. Useless to us, but still proof of what had happened here.
"Everyone alive?" Günther asked, raising his voice so all could hear.
A chorus of murmurs and nods answered him, though one of the peasants—the one who had frozen—had to be helped to his feet. He stared blankly at the scene, as though his mind was still left behind.
We had other encounters with goblins after that, and this time we weren't unscathed. At first, the attacks were small, almost like improvised ambushes: a pair of them leaping from shadows or dropping from trees to catch us off guard. They were easy to repel, though they still frayed my nerves. But as we advanced further north, their numbers began to grow—and so did their confidence.
The last time was the worst.
They came from everywhere: between the bare trees, behind piles of snow and frozen mud, and even from barely visible holes in the ground. There were more than a dozen of them, and what they lacked in strength they made up for with cunning and numbers. This time, they didn't attack directly with weapons; they stayed just out of reach of our spears and began hurling stones.
The rocks whistled through the air like crude projectiles, striking with brutal force against shields, heads, and bodies. The hardened snow made them ricochet with dull thuds, but when they hit, the damage was clear. A peasant, a thin man with a tired face, took a stone to the temple. He dropped instantly with a groan, his sharpened stick falling from his hands.
"Shields up, damn it!" Günther roared, raising his spear and using his small wooden shield for cover. "Form a wall, now!"
The militia obeyed immediately, forming a tight line with their makeshift shields raised and their spears pointed outward. The peasants tried to follow their example, but many of them had no shields. Some raised their arms; others tried to hide behind the soldiers.
I stood in the middle of the formation, clutching my spear tightly, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear the shouting.
"Konrad, stay behind!" Günther shouted, glancing back at me over his shoulder. His voice cracked like a whip through the freezing air.
I nodded clumsily, stepping back and raising my spear into a defensive position. But it did little to make me feel safer. The goblins remained just out of reach, shrieking and taunting in their incomprehensible language as they continued pelting us with stones, their aim disturbingly precise.
One militiaman grunted as a rock struck his arm, making him stumble for a moment. Another peasant cried out when a stone hit his leg, falling to the ground and covering his head with his hands.
"Advance!" Günther finally ordered. "Charge, damn it! Don't just stand there like fools!"
The militia broke formation and began advancing slowly toward the goblins, spears pointed forward. It was a desperate tactic: moving to force the enemy to retreat or fight up close. But the goblins weren't stupid. They knew they couldn't win in a close fight. They shrieked and laughed in their high-pitched voices as they began to pull back between the trees, staying just beyond our reach.
One of them, however, stayed too long throwing stones and was struck by Günther's spear. The bronze tip pierced through its chest with a dry crack, and the goblin let out a shrill, agonizing cry before collapsing into the snow. Thick, dark blood stained the white ground.
"Cowards!" Günther growled, shaking his spear to free the body. "Go back to the hole you crawled out of!"
The goblins finally scattered, vanishing into the forest shadows with swift, agile movements. Their shrieking gradually faded until only the sound of the wind and our ragged breathing remained.
I looked around, trying to process what had just happened. Two peasants were on the ground—one unconscious, an open wound on his head where a stone had struck him. Another clutched his arm tightly, his face pale and trembling. The militia, though still on their feet, were exhausted, several of them wiping blood from shallow cuts.
"Damn goblins…" Günther muttered, scowling toward the trees. "They never attack unless they're certain they have the advantage. This isn't normal."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Günther turned to me, his expression dark. "It means something is driving them toward us. The dungeon, maybe. Or something worse. Goblins don't hunt this far unless they're desperate."
I swallowed hard and looked down at my spear, my hands trembling slightly. I couldn't forget the stones flying through the air, the screams, the sound of bodies hitting the ground. My first encounter with goblins had been quick and brutal, but this… this was different. It felt as though we were being watched, hunted from the shadows.
"What now?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Günther sighed, running a hand through his sparse beard. "Now we rest just long enough to tend to the wounded. Then we keep moving. The dungeon isn't going anywhere, but we will if we stay here too long."
The peasants began to lift the unconscious man with clumsy, awkward movements, while the militiamen kept watch, their eyes darting constantly toward the trees. I slumped down onto a fallen log, feeling exhaustion press down on me like a weight.
I glanced at my sword, still strapped to my side. Pure iron—a relic of better times. But a sword wasn't much use when stones flew from the darkness and the enemy always stayed out of reach.
"They're always watching," I remembered Günther's words.
I couldn't help but turn and look toward the forest, toward the shadows that surrounded us. Even though the goblins were gone, I couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was still watching us.
"This was just a small group," Günther murmured beside me, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "If we're finding scouts this close to the road, it means the tribes are on the move. This isn't over."
I looked again at the trees, beyond the shadows where the branches twisted into a dense, impenetrable canopy. Günther was right. This battle had been quick, but it wasn't random. Goblins didn't hunt this far from their dens unless something was driving them—us or the dungeon.
"Let's keep moving," Günther finally said aloud, spinning his spear in his hand. "If we stay here any longer, we'll find worse than this lot."
The small column began to move again, this time in silence. The peasants no longer spoke among themselves; they barely lifted their gazes from the ground as they trudged forward, shoulders slumped. The militiamen kept their spears ready, their eyes fixed on the shadows between the trees.
I lingered behind for a moment, gripping my spear tightly.
As I stared at the goblin's body—the one I had killed—I couldn't help but feel that something had changed within me. The fear was still there, tied to my chest like a knot I couldn't untangle, but there was something else, too. A cold understanding.
This hadn't been training in the fortress. It wasn't a lesson from my father or a weapons master. This was the reality of the North. Here, there was no mercy or margin for error. You either survived, or you died.
And I had survived.
But that didn't mean I always would.
After that first encounter, we had other clashes with goblins. These weren't quick ambushes like before. Their numbers grew, and they seemed to move with a calculated confidence, as though they knew their advantage wasn't in strength but in their ability to wear us down.
They attacked from a distance, hurling stones with makeshift slings. Their small bodies allowed them to move swiftly between the trees, while we, with our long spears and heavy movements, couldn't maintain the safe distance we needed. The spears—so effective for impaling enemies head-on—became cumbersome when projectiles flew at us from every direction.
A stone grazed past my head, so close I felt the rush of air and the burn on my ear. Another struck a peasant in the leg, sending him to the ground with a wrenching scream. I watched him writhe, clutching at his thigh as the rest of the group tried desperately to close ranks.
"Cover yourselves! Hold the line!" Günther shouted, his voice booming over the chaos.
But holding the line was easier said than done. The goblins didn't engage in close combat; they stayed just out of reach, shrieking and laughing in their high-pitched voices as they pelted us with stones. Some peasants, terrified and unsure what to do, tried to shield themselves with their hands, while others fled a few steps before being shouted back into formation by the militia.
The only iron weapon in the group was my sword, strapped to my side. But it wasn't a miraculous tool. I couldn't use it against enemies who wouldn't come close, who kept us under constant attack as if they enjoyed watching us suffer.
"We're breaking their line!" Günther finally roared, raising his spear with fury. His voice was the only thing keeping the formation together. "Advance! Push toward them!"
The group obeyed. We advanced with desperation, shouting and brandishing our weapons. The militiamen—hard, seasoned men—led the charge, and the peasants did what they could to follow. I moved with the group, my spear raised, trying not to shake too much.
One goblin, overconfident, stayed exposed for too long as he hurled a stone. Günther reached him first, his bronze-tipped spear punching into the goblin's stomach with a dry sound. The goblin screeched—a mix of shock and agony—before collapsing.
That seemed to break something in the others. Seeing us charging toward them with fury, the goblins quickly retreated, vanishing into the trees like rats fleeing from fire.
We stood in the clearing, breathing heavily. The snow was spattered with dark blood and small, twisted bodies, lifeless and still. Around us, silence fell once more, but it wasn't a peaceful silence. It was tense, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.
Günther looked around, his brow furrowed. His leather armor was stained with mud and blood, and his spear still dripped.
"This isn't normal," he said finally, his voice low and grim. "Goblins don't attack like this without reason. They aren't this organized unless something's pushing them."
"Like what?" I asked without thinking, my throat dry.
Günther turned to me, his gaze hard. "Like a dungeon, boy. Like the very damn thing we're headed for."
I swallowed and looked away. Günther's words settled like a cold weight in my stomach. If the goblins were acting this way, it meant the dungeon we were about to find wasn't just a wound in the earth—it was something worse. Something driving them out, forcing them to attack, to hunt.
I looked down at the ground, at the body of another goblin that had died near me. Its mouth hung open in a twisted grimace, and its empty eyes still stared at the gray sky. For a moment, I could've sworn it was still watching me.
We regrouped. Two peasants were gravely wounded—one with a broken leg, the other with an open wound on his arm that wouldn't stop bleeding. The militia was exhausted, but they remained on their feet, cleaning weapons and adjusting their armor.
"We can't stop here," Günther said at last. "If we stay, they'll come back with greater numbers. We have to reach the dungeon."
I nodded, feeling my legs trembling under my weight.