The mountain path wound downward, snow crunching beneath boots and hooves. Eric rode ahead, his cloak snapping in the wind, while Caelum trudged behind with their gear strapped across his shoulders.
"We're almost there," Eric called back, his voice carrying over the cold air. "The Sanctuary lies just beyond the ridge. But you should know what we're walking into."
He gave a brief account of the goblins—their growing army, the fortified caves, the threat looming over the Sanctuary. His tone was grim, but his eyes flicked toward Caelum, watching carefully.
"So," Eric asked, testing him, "how do you feel about all this?"
Caelum adjusted the weight of the twin swords at his waist, his breath steaming. "All I know is… if we don't act fast, we'll end up in a fate far worse than death."
Eric's brows lifted. He gave a short nod. "Good. You're starting to think like a hunter."
Determined to reach the Sanctuary before nightfall, Eric spurred his horse forward. "Keep up, boy!"
Caelum gritted his teeth, jogging faster, the treasures clinking in his pack. "Easy for you to say—you're riding!"
Eric smirked. "Consider it training. Besides, if you reach first, I'll tell the priestess it was you who woke the bear, beat it up, and stole its treasure."
Caelum's eyes widened. "What? No! You wouldn't—"
"Oh, I would," Eric said, grinning. "Let's see if you can prove me wrong."
He urged his horse faster, snow spraying behind him.
Eric chuckled to himself. Maybe I overestimated the boy. He was on his deathbed two weeks ago. No way he keeps up with this pace.
Then, out of nowhere, a voice rang out behind him.
"Come on, old man! Is that the best you've got?"
Eric turned, startled. Caelum was leaping from tree to tree, his movements sharp and agile, keeping pace with the horse.
Eric's smirk widened. "Well, I'll be damned. Look at you, flying through the branches like a squirrel."
Caelum grinned, breathless but defiant. "Better a squirrel than a lazy rider who lets his horse do all the work!"
Eric barked a laugh. "Careful, boy. Keep talking like that and I'll make you carry the horse too."
Caelum landed lightly on the path beside him, keeping stride. "Fine. Just don't cry when I reach the Sanctuary first."
Eric's eyes gleamed, pride hidden beneath his teasing. He's stronger than I thought. Right to push him. He's becoming more than just a student.
As Eric and Caelum pressed toward the Sanctuary, far across the land the chief of an outlying village returned home. He had left the council at the Sanctuary with grim news, escorted by a small band of hunters. His people gathered quickly in the square, anxious for answers.
The chief's voice rang out, heavy with dread.
"Listen to me. The goblins are coming. If we do not leave, if we do not move toward the Sanctuary, this village will fall. I will not lie—the fate that awaits us if we stay is worse than death."
The villagers murmured, fear rippling through the crowd. Mothers clutched their children, elders leaned on staffs, and the sick were carried on stretchers.
One of the hunters stepped forward, trying to calm them. "We have more than enough time. The priestess said the goblins would be trapped for the winter. We can prepare—"
Before he could finish, the village bell tolled. Its iron cry split the air, sharp and merciless.
The chief's face drained of color. "The bell… invasion."
Chaos erupted. The chief raised his hands, shouting over the panic. "Stay calm! Let the hunters handle this!"
But another hunter stormed forward, grabbing the chief by the shirt, his voice raw with anger. "Why are they here now? Your priestess assured us we had a year to prepare!"
The chief staggered, stunned, but one of the escort hunters pulled the man's hand away, speaking firmly. "Let go. Listen. From what was said in the council, Seris and her party were hunted by goblins outside the fortress. These must be the ones who followed them back. Scouts—not the full army."
The chief's breath caught. "Scouts… already this far?"
A female caster stepped forward, her staff glowing faintly, her voice sharp but steady. "Do not waste time with blame. We will hold them here. Chief, focus on your people. Get them moving. Every heartbeat matters."
The bell tolled again, closer now. Shadows shifted at the edge of the forest. Goblin war cries pierced the air, shrill and merciless.
The chief turned back to his people, his voice breaking. "Go! To the Sanctuary! Take only what you can carry. Hunters, casters—form ranks! Hold the line!"
The villagers scattered, mothers dragging children, elders supported by trembling hands. The hunters who had escorted the chief drew their blades, forming a wall of steel. The caster lifted her staff, light flaring against the encroaching dark.
And as the goblins poured from the trees, the first battle of the outlying village began.
The goblins poured from the treeline, shrieking war cries that split the night. Panic surged through the villagers until the female caster stepped forward, her staff raised high.
She whispered ancient words, her voice rising into a chant. Runes flared in the air, glowing like molten gold. Then, with a thunderous crack, fire descended from the heavens. It struck the earth, roaring into a wall of flame that stretched across the village's edge.
The villagers gasped, then cheered, their fear momentarily replaced by awe. Children clung to their mothers, pointing at the blazing barrier. Even the farmers, clutching pitchforks and bows, felt courage stir in their hearts.
Grime, the hunters' leader, did not smile. His voice was sharp, cutting through the cheers.
"Don't celebrate yet! That fire won't hold them for long. Form a line! Defend the people!"
The young men who could fight stepped forward, gripping crude weapons. Farmers raised their bows, arrows trembling in their hands. The handful of hunters tightened their ranks, blades gleaming. Beside them, two casters prepared their chants, runes already swirling around their staffs.
Then the goblins answered. Arrows rained down from the treeline, black shafts whistling through the air. Screams erupted as villagers fell—some wounded, some dead. Mothers dragged children back, elders stumbled, blood staining the snow.
Grime's jaw tightened. He knew they could not hold for long. He turned to his men, voice steady despite the chaos.
"Fall back! Lay Boomstones as we retreat. Buy them time!"
The hunters obeyed, scattering along the path, planting the enchanted stones. Each one pulsed faintly, a promise of fire and thunder.
"Messenger!" Grime barked. A boy barely old enough to fight stepped forward. Grime gripped his shoulder. "Run to the next village. Tell them what's coming. Tell them we're buying them time."
The boy nodded, fear in his eyes, and sprinted into the night.
Behind him, the villagers fled, glancing back as their home was swallowed by fire. Explosions ripped through the streets as the Boomstones ignited, tearing goblins apart in bursts of flame and stone.
From the ridge, the villagers watched their village burn. The sky glowed red, smoke curling into the heavens.
The casters raised their staffs once more, voices rising in unison. Runes spiraled above them, vast and terrible. Then the heavens answered. Meteors streaked across the sky, fireballs raining down upon the village. The ground shook as goblins were crushed, trapped, and incinerated beneath the storm.
The villagers wept as they watched—their homes destroyed, their lives uprooted—but they also saw hope. The goblins had been stopped, if only for a moment.
Grime stood at the edge of the ridge, his face lit by the firestorm. His voice was low, meant only for himself.
"We bought them time. That's all we can do."
The villagers of Willowsmere did not look back. Their homes burned behind them, the night sky painted red with fire and ash. Hunters carried what they could—bundles of grain, tools, and weapons—while others lifted the old and the sick onto carriages. Women and children were placed on horses, their faces pale with fear, while the rest trudged on foot through the snow.
Grimes, their leader, carried a boy in his arms—the son of a farmer who had fallen in the defense. The child's eyes were wide, silent tears streaking his cheeks.
Grimes bent his head low, whispering to him. "Stay strong, lad. Live. Grow up, and fight as your father did. His courage runs in your blood."
The boy clung to him, and as Grimes spoke, the villagers turned their eyes toward him. He straightened, his voice rising above the crunch of boots and the creak of wagons.
"People of Willowsmere! Do not despair. We will survive this. We will beat them back. And when the time comes, we will rebuild what was lost. Hold your heads high—we are not broken yet!"
A murmur of hope rippled through the weary crowd. Farmers tightened their grip on pitchforks, mothers held their children closer, and the hunters walked taller, their blades gleaming in the moonlight. Under Grimes's lead, they pressed on toward the next village.
But behind them, in the ruins of Willowsmere, the goblins regrouped.
From the shadows stepped one of the red goblins—the very same Seris had seen in the fortress. His eyes glowed with malice, his body cloaked in black runes that pulsed with deathly energy. He raised his clawed hands, and a shield of black magic shimmered around him.
He roared, the sound echoing like thunder across the burning village. Then he knelt, dipping his claws into the blood of his fallen kin. With deliberate strokes, he began to draw a vast sigil across the ground, encircling the ruins.
Blood was what he had in abundance.
The red goblin chanted, his voice guttural and foul, calling upon the dark lords he worshipped. The corpses of the slain villagers were dragged into the circle, their lifeless bodies offered as sacrifice.
The sigil flared, swallowing the dead in a wave of shadow. The ground trembled, and from the ashes and gore, the goblins who had been cut down by hunters began to rise.
But they were no longer living.
Their eyes were hollow, their flesh twisted. They felt no pain, no hunger, no rest. They were dead, yet they marched again.
The red goblin threw back his head and laughed, a sound that chilled the night. His laughter echoed through the burning ruins, a promise of horrors yet to come.