After the shaman elders tended to the wounded hobgoblin champions, Thorian approached the venerable Elder Omn. "I trust you won't renege on your word now that your warriors are healed?"

Elder Omn, with golden eyes that shimmered like ancient coins, met Thorian's gaze. "Never," he replied firmly. "Your leadership is evident, King of the Kobolds. To align with you is to elevate our tribes."

Thorian's laughter was rich and genuine. "How refreshing it is to negotiate with one so astute." His attention drifted to the goblins filtering into the clearing. Their eyes darted anxiously, the weight of uncertainty evident in their every move.

"They need reassurance," Thorian advised Omn. "I've shown discipline, now it's time for reward. Speak to them of hope, of the future we'll build side by side. With me, aspirants will find glory, fortune-seekers will unearth treasures, and those thirsting for power will be quenched."

Elder Omn's smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My intuition about you has not failed me, it seems." With a respectful inclination of his head, he added, "Your wish is my command, King of the Kobolds."

Omn rejoined his fellow elders, conveying Thorian's vision with conviction. The dread that Thorian had inspired still lingered like a specter among them, silencing any potential dissent.

Satisfied with the unfolding dynamics, Thorian sauntered over to Brix. "Have you briefed them on the state of the village?"

"I have," Brix responded, his focus not entirely present. “I told them how safe it would be to live inside. I also explained how they all can grow much stronger than they currently are with the help of the guilds and classes.”

Thorian glanced back toward the Elders and champions, who were now rallying their respective tribes. "Excellent. They'll have little difficulty in conveying the nuances to their own people."

As Thorian studied the goblins—witnessing their transformation from trepidation to tentative hope—he lost himself in contemplation. When he finally turned back to Brix, he found him standing uneasily, eyes cast downward in unspoken apprehension.

"What troubles you?" Thorian inquired, sensing the undercurrent of unease in Brix's posture.

A heavy silence stretched between them before Brix found the words. “I’m sorry master, I have disappointed you.”

Caught off guard, Thorian's eyebrows lifted. "Disappointed? Elaborate."

“You gave me this important task of negotiation, yet I failed you,” Brix confessed. “In the end, you had to fight all the champions to cover for my incompetence, master.”

“Incompetence, you say?” Thorian shifted his gaze upwards, staring at the beautiful night sky. “Your physical weakness could be considered an incompetence indeed.”

Thorian's words seemed to weigh on Brix like a stone, pulling his gaze further downward, as if he could disappear into the earth.

"But you misunderstand," Thorian continued, softening his tone. "I don't keep you in my confidence for your magical prowess or physical might. Your true strength lies in the cunning that let you survive our initial encounter, and in the adaptability that's allowed you to thrive among monsters unfamiliar to you."

As Thorian spoke, he watched Brix's countenance gradually brighten. Yet despite the words of praise, an unmistakable emptiness still lingered in the shaman apprentice's eyes. Recognizing this, Thorian sank gracefully onto the ground and gestured for Brix to join him.

"In matters of governance and diplomacy, the scales balance precariously between fear and hope," Thorian began, eyes narrowed as if peering into the very soul of leadership.

"Fear stems from power, from the willingness to wield it ruthlessly—sometimes even cruelly. Words are potent only when backed by the clenched fist that can enforce them." Thorian chuckled, and Brix's laughter softly echoed his own. "Yet, power alone is insufficient. One must also offer hope. Your subjects, your allies, must believe that their lot will improve through their association with you. They must be convinced that tomorrow promises more than today."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

As Thorian shared these insights, his thoughts meandered through the labyrinth of memory, coming to rest on the visage of his great-uncle Aldritch. The figure filled his mind, a stark silhouette against a canvas of contemplative white.

Did I not give them enough hope? Thorian mused before gritting his teeth. No, it was not an issue of hope. It was one of fear. He feared the royal family more than he feared me!

"Master?" Brix's voice punctured his introspection. "Is something amiss?"

Shaking his head, Thorian expelled a long-held breath. "Merely revisiting some unpleasant memories," he said. Refocusing his gaze on Brix, he resumed his earlier train of thought. "Now, as for your role today—you did not fail me. Consider it a collaboration. I embodied fear—the unyielding force they couldn't hope to overcome. You, on the other hand, represented hope. Your eloquence spoke of brighter tomorrows, free from the claustrophobic darkness of these caves and the slow attrition of their ranks. You showed them that under my rule, they could aspire to heights previously unimagined. This is what builds loyalty."

"I believe I grasp your meaning, Master," Brix said, offering a respectful bow. "I'm deeply grateful for your guidance."

As the moon climbed higher in the Sherwood Forest sky, Thorian stood back, allowing the goblins time to digest the seismic shift their lives were about to undergo. This large clearing, so long their sanctuary, would soon be left behind for an unfamiliar landscape peopled by unfamiliar beings. It was no surprise that hesitation pulsed like an undercurrent through the gathered tribes.

Yet, in the strictly hierarchical goblin society, the words of the elders and champions carried the weight of divine mandate. Once their leaders had decreed the course, debate was effectively silenced. Roughly an hour passed—filled with strategic regrouping, the return of scouting parties, and the muted chaos of families collecting their sparse belongings. Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, the three tribes fell into formation and began their exodus toward Wolvendale village.

The journey back to Wolvendale was an arduous one, a trek far lengthier than Thorian or the goblin champions would have required on their own. Their pace was dictated by the slowest among them—the aged, the infirm, the young. Yet the real trial lay in the fact that their sizable caravan did not go unnoticed. The forest teemed with threats: Chaskas, Thri-kreen warriors, and even rival goblins, all converging on them with malicious intent.

Initially, the goblin champions displayed a cavalier attitude toward these attacks. So long as their own safety wasn't compromised, the loss of a few lesser goblins seemed inconsequential to them. Thorian quickly disabused them of that notion.

"Your authority comes from your responsibility," he snapped, his voice a biting wind amid the forest's ambient rustle. "If you expect your subordinates to heed your commands and respect your rank, then you must shield them from the perils that beset this journey. Leadership is not a one-sided affair; it's a contract, a sacred exchange."

Upon the conclusion of Thorian's admonition, Brix swiftly translated his words into their native tongue for the goblin champions. Two of them wore predictably disgruntled expressions, but the other four responded with nods of contemplative agreement. Though the two dissenters muttered under their breath in phrases unintelligible to Thorian, they raised no overt objections.

The shaman elders received much the same directive. Thorian ordered them to extend their healing arts to all wounded goblins, not just the champions they so obviously favored. While there was a ripple of discontent among them, it was muted by the realization that the balance of power had undeniably shifted. They grasped that they had to prove their worth and competence to Thorian, lest they be supplanted by younger, more adaptive shamans. They had witnessed Brix's rapid evolution, and they understood that within weeks, a new generation of shaman apprentices could rise to eclipse them.

After a journey teeming with peril and punctuated by skirmishes, the caravan emerged from the forest's embrace two hours later. Before them stood the outer wall of Wolvendale village, the ground at its base strewn with the carcasses of fallen monsters—a gruesome tableau that bore silent witness to the settlement's own struggles. The guards on the ramparts and in the watchtowers looked down in astonished bewilderment.

Direwolves patrolled the perimeter of the wall, their keen senses alert to any signs of movement among the fallen bodies. They were tasked with ensuring that none played dead amongst the corpses. But when the army of goblins emerged from the dense forest, the direwolves shifted their attention, their eyes locking onto the new arrivals.

Caught in a haze of confusion and curiosity, one goblin strayed from his formation to get a closer look. No sooner had he taken a few steps forward than a direwolf lunged at him, its fangs bared, ready to finish him off.

"Halt," Thorian commanded, stepping forward and raising a restraining hand. The direwolf stopped in its tracks, growling softly as Thorian caressed its neck. "These are our new allies; there is no need for hostility."

The goblin who had nearly met his end fell onto his back, letting out a shrill cry. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared up at the massive wolf, his eyes brimming with terror.

"Return to your formation," Thorian gestured to the goblin, who promptly complied, whether he understood the words or merely the gesture was immaterial.

Once the goblin had rejoined his comrades, Thorian scratched the direwolf behind its ears and nudged it back towards its pack near the wall. He then signaled for Brix to approach him as they made their way toward the village entrance.

"Open the gates," Thorian announced, his voice carrying authority as he strode forward with Brix at his side. "I have returned, and I bring new allies with us."