Xerum crept through the winding corridors, the stolen torch casting dancing shadows on ancient stone walls. The fortress seemed to breathe around him, every distant sound making him freeze in place. His hands had stopped shaking, but dried blood still flaked from them with every movement.
A glint caught his eye from a partially open door - something reflecting his torchlight. Pressing against the wall, he eased the heavy door open with agonizing slowness. The room beyond made his breath catch.
Shelves lined the walls, laden with crystalline structures that pulsed with inner light - mana stones in various sizes, some as small as his fingernail, others as large as his fist. Between them sat chunks of raw gold and silver ore, precious gems, and bundles of herbs he recognized from his training as rare alchemical ingredients. A fortune in resources, precisely what they'd been sent to gather.
"Too convenient," he muttered, but filled his pockets anyway. If he survived, these would be invaluable. If he didn't... well, it wouldn't matter either way.
The next chamber stopped him cold. Weapons racks stretched into shadows beyond his torchlight, but these weren't crude goblin implements. He recognized the craftsmanship immediately - these were from his realm. Standard-issue swords identical to his own hung in neat rows. Shields bearing the familiar iron banding of his home fortress leaned against the walls. Armor stands displayed the leather gear of countless portal expeditions.
His mind rebelled against the implications. This wasn't merely a stockpile - it was a collection. A trophy room.
How long had this been happening?
The sound of approaching footsteps sent him diving behind a rack of shields. Two goblins entered, their armor more elaborate than the one he'd killed earlier. They moved with military precision, checking corners as they passed.
"*Kraazt uk maruk*," one growled to the other, gesturing at the floor. Xerum glanced down - he'd left bloody footprints. Cursing silently, he gripped his sword tighter.
The goblins split up, moving down different aisles. Xerum waited until the closer one passed his position, then struck. His blade found the gap between helmet and armor, just as they'd trained. The goblin dropped without a sound.
Its companion spun at the movement, already drawing a wickedly curved blade. This one was faster, more skilled. It parried Xerum's first strike and countered with a slash that would have opened his throat if he hadn't stumbled backwards. His shield caught the next blow, the impact numbing his arm.
They traded blows in the narrow space between weapon racks, neither able to fully swing in the confined area. The goblin pressed forward, forcing Xerum to give ground. His back hit a wall. The goblin's yellow eyes gleamed with victory as it drew back for a killing blow.
Xerum dropped his shield and grabbed a spear from the nearest rack, thrusting it through the goblin's chest. The creature's momentum carried it forward, driving the spear deeper until the point erupted from its back in a spray of dark blood.
The silence that followed seemed deafening. Xerum retrieved his shield with trembling hands, noting absently that he'd gotten better at killing. The thought brought no comfort.
A new doorway caught his attention - heavy oak banded with iron, far more substantial than the others he'd seen. The goblin's key ring yielded after several attempts.
The stench hit him first - copper and rot and something worse. His torch revealed a circular chamber, its walls carved with symbols that seemed to drink in the light. At its center stood a raised platform, channels carved into its surface leading to gutters in the floor. Dark stains marked well-worn paths to drainage grates.
But it was the far wall that drew his gaze and turned his stomach. Bodies hung from hooks like slaughtered cattle, still dressed in the leather armor of portal recruits. He recognized faces from his training group, their expressions frozen in final moments of terror and agony. Some had been systematically butchered, their bodies carved open with surgical precision. Others showed signs of ritualistic mutilation - symbols carved into flesh, organs removed and arranged in patterns he refused to understand.
Serra, the only other soldier he'd built some modicum of a relationship with during his training, hung near the center, her eyes mercifully closed. The goblins had saved her for last, making her watch as they worked their way through the others. The evidence of what she'd endured was written in bloody scripture across her skin.
Xerum's knees hit the stone floor as his legs gave out. Bile burned his throat as he retched, the torch clattering from nerveless fingers. They'd never been meant to survive. This wasn't a resource gathering mission - it was a sacrifice. A payment in blood and suffering to keep the goblins from their realm's borders.
How many other groups had ended here? How many collections of weapons and armor lined these halls, taken from those who'd come before?
When the sickness passed, Xerum found his hands had stopped shaking. The cold emptiness inside him had crystallized into something harder. Something dangerous.
He'd been raised in a dying realm, taught that survival justified any cost. But this... this was beyond survival. This was monstrous. And he would ensure that whoever orchestrated it - goblin or human - would pay in full measure.
First, though, he had to survive. And somewhere in this fortress of horrors, there had to be answers.