The chittering of goblins reached their ears as they entered the cave. That guttural language of theirs echoing against the cavern walls.
Omi took the front, his skills best suited for infiltration and stealth. "This cave is bigger than I thought it'd be," he whispered, looking around at the wide corridor as they traveled through them.
"It's how they hide," Rowan answered, keeping his voice quiet. "Goblins aren't the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest monsters around. But they're among the few that have actual casters. So when a pack has a shaman, they make use of him."
"Stop yammering, you two," Annie chastised them, firmly gripping her spear. "If they hear us, that brilliant plan of yours goes straight out the window."
Kai let out a soft, admonishing trill, holding onto Sil's shoulder.
"Traitor," Rowan muttered under his breath.
They continued deeper into the cave, the light from the entrance slowly being replaced by the soft blue glow of the mushrooms growing on the walls.
It was eerie, in a strange sort of way. Knowing that with every step they took, they were heading away from the relative safety of the open air, exchanging it for the uncertainty of the underground.
But it wasn't like they had a choice.
Waiting for the goblins to leave their dwelling wasn't something they could do. Taking them out one by one sounded good, but spending the night in the Wilds just might have been more dangerous than whatever lay further in.
Omi suddenly halted his steps, raising a hand.
"Two guards, both Iron I," he whispered.
Rowan tried to glance over Nemir's shoulders, but the mountain of a man blocked his view. His heart started beating faster, his finger twitching, eager to cast. But he forced the excitement down. Fire magic wasn't exactly subtle—especially in a dark cave—and they needed the element of surprise for the plan to work.
Not really much of a plan, Rowan thought. 'Get close and blow them up' is as simple as it gets. But it's effective, so why try and fix it?
"Can you take both of them out quietly?" Annie asked, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to see through the darkness.
Rowan didn't hear Omi's reply, but a few short seconds later, he heard two stifled gasps in quick succession, followed by the telltale sound of bodies hitting the ground.
Guess that answers that.
They continued further in, keeping their steps quiet and weapons ready. Less than a minute of walking later, they reached a small cavern with three branches to choose from.
"What now?" Omi muttered.
Rowan stepped to the front, kneeling down and observing the ground. Trying to find any evidence of movement. He found what he was looking for in front of all three, and he couldn't help but smile.
"Well, that makes things easy," he said after a moment. "I don't think it matters which one we choose. If I'm right, all three are going to lead to a central chamber. But we should try to figure out which path they use the least."
Silvia took it from there, her eyes sweeping over the cavern floor, focused and intense.
It took her a minute, the dim lighting making the task harder than it normally would have been. But like everyone else in the team, Sil was skilled at what she did.
She nodded to herself. "The one to the right."
No one questioned it, and before they knew it, the chittering of goblins once again reached their ears. Only this time, it wasn't just two of them, but a whole pack.
Rowan's hands clenched at his side, his shoulders tensing in anticipation. This was it. The moment of truth. If no one saw them in the next minute, they had a real shot at finishing the quest with ease.
There was still the shaman to deal with, but that was a problem for after he fireballed half the pack out of existence.
Slowly, carefully, the team reached the end of the cave, and the sight that greeted them wasn't encouraging.
"Eldric's grace," Nemir whispered, his grip instinctually tightening around the hilt of his sword. "That's… a lot of goblins."
The cavern was massive. Larger than the Guild Hall by half. Stretching out before them and sprawling far wider than they'd anticipated. Flickering firelight from scattered pits cast wandering shadows on the walls, revealing a grim, makeshift settlement.
Dozens of goblins milled around in a chaotic swarm, their rusted weapons and threadbare armor clinking as they moved between the ragged tents and smoldering cook fires.
From just a glance, Rowan saw at least four or five dozen. Clustered in groups around the fires.
Perfect.
Level:
9
Body:
Iron II [9 Levels]
Core:
N/A
Level:
11
Body:
Iron III [11 Levels]
Core:
N/A
Level:
13
Body:
Iron IV [13 Levels]
Core:
N/A
Level:
7
Body:
Iron I [7 Levels]
Core:
N/A
Most of them were low Iron, but there were more than a few at Iron IV or V.
Rowan took a moment to observe before pulling back behind cover.
He'd seen what he needed to.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of poorly cured hides, charred meat, and damp earth, a nauseating blend that seemed to hang in the air like a haze.
Ramshackle huts made of twisted branches, stretched leathers, and scraps scavenged from who-knows-where dotted the cavern floor, forming a crude goblin village.
The tents were squat and narrow, haphazardly clustered together. To the left of the main encampment, Rowan spotted a larger, well-kept dwelling that set itself apart from the others. Unlike the rest, it wasn't hastily patched together but was adorned with bones and painted symbols that announced their tribe.
Rowan had spent a large amount of his youth neck deep in books. His tutors had been some of the greatest scholars the Kingdom of Vandral had to offer, and they had made sure he'd be ready for his Awakening.
What a waste of time that must have seemed, he thought ruefully.
When he failed to Awaken, that knowledge had seemed so worthless. What use would knowing the various goblins tribes have for him? Or knowing how to track a monster through a forest?
But now, Rowan was grateful for every minute they spent with him.
Not that it would have been hard to guess, he thought, glancing at the tent.
The crest was a fang painted in with blood. And so, with the originality of a newborn moss-fly, the tribe called themselves the Red Fangs.
From what Rowan knew, they were a mid-sized tribe originating from the Spiral Range. A series of mountain peaks connected by wind-currents. They weren't a large-scale threat in the grand scheme of things, but if they were settling here, it might prove dangerous for a city as small as Litwick.
That's two regions over, Rowan frowned. Their migration must have started months ago.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Focus. That information isn't going to be useful if we die.
Rowan tapped Nemir on the shoulder, gesturing for him to stand in front. The man was as wide as a barn door, so he was perfect for the job.
Annie's hand found his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. "Ready when you are," she whispered, her gaze intent as she took in the threat before them. "And knock that smile off your face. It's creepy," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible, but he could hear the thrill in her tone. The same one Rowan felt.
He barely suppressed a grin. "Alright, give me half a minute."
He stood back, moving slightly away from the entrance.
Standing in the open and casting would have been like lighting a beacon, the dim lighting of the cavern the perfect backdrop to announce their presence.
Which would have definitely looked good, but visuals weren't what they were going for.
The rest of the Grove positioned themselves in front of him, already knowing what he needed from them. It was in moments like these that he found himself grateful that he found a team as capable as this. And it was especially gratifying when facing a threat as large as this.
During his quick glance at the village, Rowan had paid special attention to how the goblins were grouped up. But they were walking around, changing positions. He wouldn't have a lot of time to choose his target, which was incredibly important given the spell he was going to cast.
Hopefully, some of them are still in the same place.
The team exchanged looks, silent but tense. Rowan's fingers itched with anticipation as he closed his eyes. His mind raced, ready to get this fight started.
Nemir's grip tightened on his sword, his eyes flickering between the masses beyond the entrance and the quiet, shadowed path behind them. "When you're ready, Jamis."
Rowan nodded, focusing on his Core. Feeling the mana churning within it.
Chant-level spells were a massive jump in complexity compared to Murmur's. Not only was the circuit much longer, but he needed to manipulate multiple strands of mana at the same time.
No point in delaying.
He started casting.
Mana erupted from his Core, hot and unwieldy. Rowan clamped his Will around it and sent it swirling through his channels. Following along a familiar path.
One strand circled around the left side of his chest, heading down his arm and back up again. While the other did the same, only on his right.
The symmetry created a resonance that resulted in a shell forming in the palm of his hand. As it appeared, the darkness of the cave slowly receded, the soft red glow illuminating it like a bonfire.
And that starts the countdown, Rowan thought, a determined expression on his face.
Then, ever so slowly, the intensity started increasing.
Rowan kept his focus on the two strands circulating throughout his body, and with a deep breath, he added another.
It was straining, in more ways than one.
The amount of mana he was manipulating was tremendous. Most mages spend years honing their skills before trying to master a Chant-level spell. It was a requirement to reach the rank of Acolyte in the Tower—the authority when it came to mage-craft in the kingdom—with the second being forming a tier-two affinity.
Rowan wasn't anywhere close to advancing his Core to Peak Orange, let alone Yellow. But there was something to be said about raw talent. Something he had in abundance.
The third strand started entering the shell. Filling it with destructive potential.
Because that was exactly what mana was. Potential. Boundless and ready to be molded. If one knew how.
Rowan waited until it filled the shell to the brim, the glow now intense enough to be seen even from around the bend of the cave.
Panicked snarls and the clamoring of feet against dirt answered him.
"Alright, get ready!" Annie shouted, immediately taking charge now that they'd been noticed. "Sil, do your thing! We hold here until Jamis finishes his spell!"
"Let's hope that's soon," she replied, the twang of her bowstring followed by a pained grunt announcing the start of the battle. "Because I don't have nearly enough arrows for all of them."
Rowan refocused on the task at hand, pushing away everything else in favor of the rapidly forming [Fireball] in his hand.
As more mana poured into the shell—straining against it, trying to expand beyond its means—he increased the speed at which the two threads circulated through his channels. Strengthening it. Giving it the power it needed to hold.
Everything else faded away. Leaving nothing but the euphoria that came with doing something you were always meant to do, and doing it well.
Magic was in Rowan's blood. His lineage was longer than most people knew, and each member of his family was a peerless spellcaster. He was the son of two Archmages, and the grandson of four more. Casting was his birthright, and he intended to make use of it.
To him, magic felt like conducting an orchestra. Every movement, every adjustment, every single flick of his Will building up to something magnificent. All of the parts moving in perfect unison under his command.
Rowan gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he moved ever closer to that balance he was seeking. The strength of his shell contesting against the density of the mana inside it.
When he finally reached it, the radiant orb of burning flame held in his hand teetering on the edge of combustion. Then came the hard part. Imbuing his Intent.
With a deep, calming breath, Rowan got to work.
"They're halfway here!" Annie shouted, but he paid it no mind.
Rowan focused on the raw, consuming force of fire and the disciplined control that kept it contained. It wasn't just the destructive aspect that made the spell work, but the gathering of power without allowing it to spill over—a dance between chaos and order.
He needed a single, cohesive sphere of flame.
"Balance," he whispered, "Sealed Flame."
His Intent burst to life. Giving the spell the last push it needed to manifest. It was crude, and needed more than a bit of work. But it did work. And right now, that was all that mattered.
Rowan didn't waste any time. His eyes opened as he took a hasty step forward, moving around Nemir's bulky form.
He might have been able to cast a Chant, but that didn't mean he could hold it for long.
"Get ready!" he shouted as he rounded the corner, coming face to face with four dozen angry goblins rushing towards them. Their rusty weapons and manic expressions, combined with their sheer number would have normally left him feeling fearful, hesitant—but with the power he held in the palm of his hand, the only emotion Rowan felt was glee.
With a grin on his face, he flicked his wrist and sent the spell flying.