Del’s sobs eventually subsided into quiet shudders, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gulps. The storm of emotion that had wracked him left an aching emptiness in its wake. His limbs felt heavy, almost unresponsive, as if his body were reluctant to rise and face what had just happened.

He lifted his head slowly, reluctant to look. But he couldn’t avoid it forever. The goblin’s lifeless form lay mere feet away, face-down in the dirt. The knife still protruded from its back, the hilt gleaming faintly in the muted light. Dark streaks of drying blood spread across the creature’s torn tunic, seeping into the earth beneath it. The rich crimson had already begun to blacken, stark against the soft greens and browns of the forest floor.

Del swallowed hard, forcing down another wave of nausea. He didn’t want to move closer, didn’t want to touch it—but the thought of just leaving the body there, untouched and unexamined, filled him with a strange, gnawing unease. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

‘What am I supposed to do now?’ The question lingered in his mind, the answer stubbornly elusive. He felt adrift, like a man suddenly cast into a sea with no idea which way to swim.

Misty’s soft nudge against his mind brought him out of his spiral. He turned his head to find her sitting a short distance away, her golden eyes fixed on him. There was no judgment in her gaze, only quiet patience and a faint undercurrent of concern.

“Hey, girl,” he croaked, his voice hoarse and brittle. The sound felt strange in the stillness, almost out of place. Misty blinked at him slowly, her tail twitching.

Del exhaled a shuddering breath and pushed himself up onto unsteady feet. His knees wobbled, threatening to give way, but he steadied himself against the tree. His eyes flicked back to the goblin, and he forced himself to take a step toward it.

The creature’s body looked smaller now, its stillness robbing it of the menace it had carried in life. Its clawed hand, outstretched as if in some last act of defiance or desperation, made his stomach twist again. The knife in its back seemed almost too large for the frail frame, its presence grotesquely final. He crouched hesitantly, grimacing as the faint, metallic tang of blood mixed with the earthy smell of disturbed dirt.

“I... I didn’t want to do this,” he whispered, the words falling into the silence like stones into a deep well. It felt absurd to speak to the dead, but the alternative—to say nothing, to do nothing—felt worse. “I didn’t have a choice. You were going to kill me.”

The justification sounded hollow even to his own ears. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince—the goblin, himself, or the quiet, listening forest.

Shaking his head, Del leaned back on his heels, wiping clammy hands on his trousers. He couldn’t sit here forever. The world wasn’t going to stop for him to process what had happened. But the weight in his chest refused to lift.

Misty padded over, brushing against his leg as if to anchor him in the present. He reached down to touch her fur, grateful for her presence.

“It’s okay, Misty,” Del murmured, his hand moving instinctively to stroke her soft fur. The rhythm of the motion calmed him slightly, grounding him in the here and now. “I’ll be okay; that just hit me harder than I thought. You did great, though, girl.” Misty rolled onto her back, grappling his hand playfully as he tickled her belly, her purring a steady counterpoint to the chaotic thrum of his thoughts.

“My little ginger ninja,” he said with a faint smile, his voice still raw. The words felt strange in the aftermath of everything, but they helped. He took a long, deep breath, the shudder in it betraying the storm still roiling inside, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘So survival’s not all sweet treats and roses,’ he realised bitterly. ‘Del, my old son, I think we’re going to find this more challenging than I imagined.’ The enormity of his situation began to settle over him, a weight pressing on his chest and refusing to lift. He wasn’t naive enough to believe this was the last time he’d have to fight, the last time he’d have to kill. The word—kill—sent a chill racing down his spine. He clenched and unclenched his fists, as though he could release the tension by sheer force of will.

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This was the reality now. He had to adapt or he wouldn’t make it.

“What do you think we should do now?” he asked Misty, his voice breaking the heavy silence.

Misty glanced at him, then disdainfully at the goblin’s body. She padded over, sniffed it once, and then turned her back with a flick of her tail. A few purposeful scrapes of her paws sent dirt scattering over the creature’s head and neck, her disdain as clear as if she’d spoken aloud.

“Well, I guess that settles your opinion,” Del muttered. “Alright, I suppose we should clear up here and move on before scavengers come to gnaw on its bones.”

Standing, he approached the goblin’s body. The knife was still embedded in its back, and he grimaced as he reached for it. The hilt felt cold and slick in his hand, and when he pulled, the blade came free with a nauseating squelch. The sound turned his stomach, and he swallowed hard against the rising bile. He quickly wiped the blade on the goblin’s ragged shirt, the dried blood smearing rather than coming off cleanly.

Rolling the body over, he couldn’t suppress a muttered, “Damn, you’re one ugly little mofo.” The goblin’s lifeless features were grotesque—its beady eyes rolled back, a hooked nose dominating its face, and sharp, uneven teeth set in a mouth far too large.

Del’s gaze lingered on the creature for a moment longer. ‘This was someone’s life,’ he thought, an uncomfortable prick of guilt rising in him. ‘Not human, but still…’ He shook his head, trying to push the thought away.

He crouched and began gathering anything useful. With his own bow broken, the goblin’s crude weapon would have to do. He slung the quiver of mismatched arrows over his shoulder and picked up a small knife and a crude sword, the blade pitted and poorly balanced but serviceable. A quick search of the goblin’s pouch revealed a few round copper tokens—likely currency.

‘Waste not, want not, Del,’ he told himself, though the action made him feel like a grave robber. ‘No different than digging for change down the back of the sofa.’ The attempt at levity fell flat, and the weight of his actions pressed on him again. This wasn’t just survival—it was responsibility. For himself. For Misty. For everyone back at home and everything that lay ahead.

The air around him felt thick, the faint earthy scent of the forest mixed with the metallic tang of blood. It clung to his nostrils, making it impossible to forget what had just happened. A distant birdcall pierced the quiet, and for a moment, Del found himself envying its freedom.

“I really don’t like this,” he muttered aloud, the words barely audible. “The reason I’m here, the responsibility of it all—it’s just too much. I wasn’t built for this kind of pressure.”

But there was no choice. He had to carry on, adapt, and ultimately survive.

Del turned to his broken bow, hoping for some way to repair it. A quick inspection confirmed what he already suspected—it was beyond saving. Still, he carefully removed the string. Spares were something he couldn’t afford to waste, especially when he had no idea when he’d find more.

He started toward the sound of running water, detouring briefly to retrieve the arrow he’d fired earlier. Pulling it from the bush, a thought struck him: ‘If Mr. Green was a scout, who was he scouting for?’

It was possible the goblin had simply been hunting, but he couldn’t assume that. If it was part of a group, others might be nearby. And if it didn’t return, someone might come looking for it.

Del crouched, sending a mental nudge to Misty. He pictured the stream they were heading toward, then imagined more goblins lurking between them and the water. Misty tilted her head, watching him with a look that bordered on bemusement. Then, with a small meep, she disappeared into the undergrowth, her movements silent and swift.

Del adjusted his gear, ensuring nothing would rattle or clink, and moved carefully through the woods. His senses sharpened with every step—the rustle of leaves overhead, the distant trill of a bird, the faint snapping of twigs underfoot. The tension in his body coiled tighter with each passing moment.

He kept up a whispered mantra to himself as he moved. ‘Keep low, mind that twig, loose stone—careful, Del. No tripping. Pause, listen. Okay, carry on.’ The rhythm steadied his nerves, a small comfort in the oppressive quiet.

The faint scent of damp earth grew stronger as the woods sloped downward, the sound of rushing water growing louder. His muscles ached from the tension of moving so cautiously, and his breath came heavier than he’d like.

Finally, he reached the stream. Misty sat on a flat rock nearby, gnawing contentedly on a fish. She looked up at him with a quizzical expression as if to ask what had taken him so long.

“I’m not as fast or as sneaky as you,” Del said indignantly, shrugging off his pack. “Of course you got here first.”

He knelt by the stream, splashing the cold, refreshing water over his face before filling his bottle and taking a long drink. The chill seeped into his hands and face, calming the lingering adrenaline coursing through him.

With a groan, he settled back onto a smooth slab of rock, placing his pack beneath his head. “Wake me if you hear or see anything, girl,” he told Misty, his voice softer now. “I need a small nap to get rid of this tension.”

Misty gave a short mewl of assent before returning to her fish. Del closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion and lingering unease pressing him into the rock.