They descended into the city with a controlled vigor and speed that Cheese knew would be unusual in a normal unit. They were few—just twenty-some-odd men—but they were the best of this ragtag force. He knew that, and he knew his mission, but he felt like a boy as he stood behind the shields of his comrades, pushing down the street and into the city proper.

Their mission was simple. While the bulk of their force descended on the city, it was Cheese's mission to reach the heart of Fairhaven and uncover the source of the enemy’s power. The assumption of his father and the other commanding officers was that, like any force when outmatched, these goblins would fall back to the city center and request reinforcements through whatever means were available to them. It was up to Cheese and his men to find out what means these creatures had and do their utmost to impede them.

To that effect, Cheese and his men marched forward slowly and methodically. They paused at every intersection to let Bjorn listen. From there, the aged archer would direct the men toward the center of the now-collapsing lines of sound. Their larger force had entered the city; that much was apparent from the noise. What was not apparent was whether the goblins would mount a dedicated and effective response.

Cheese was largely along for the ride as this unfolded. He allowed Bjorn not only to direct the men but also to take the lead position in the advance. The reasoning was simple: this was Bjorn's city, and he was far more experienced in the art of war.

However, it was Cheese who noticed it first. As they passed alley after alley, he eventually spotted the scuttling of feet in the shadows—a movement at the last moment as the group of men passed. Cheese called for a halt and gestured for Hald and Bjorn to join him.

“What is it, m’lord?” Hald asked, as they looked down a side street littered with half-burnt wooden refuse and collapsed cobblestones.

“Down there,” said Cheese, pointing to a rectangular hole in the ground he had noticed. “I saw a small creature—smaller even than the goblins at the walls—jump down that hole.” Cheese thought of his page and added, “Perhaps it was one of their children. It had the look of a child. Small and green. It waited for the block to pass and then ran there. I don’t believe it noticed me in the rear.”

The older men exchanged a glance, and for a moment, Cheese felt a tinge of red on his neck, flushed with inexplicable embarrassment. It felt as though he were confessing to having struck his own foot in front of his father and grandfather. Yet the young man composed himself as Bjorn replied, “That might explain it.”

“Explain what?” asked Cheese.

“Well, we have sewers here in Fairhaven.”

Cheese looked at him, clearly puzzled, prompting Hald to step in and spare Bjorn the awkwardness. “Tunnels that carry the shite to the water, m’lord.”

Cheese was momentarily stunned. “Really? That’s a thing? Across the whole city?”

The men nodded, and Bjorn continued, “We never determined how they got into the city. As I’m sure you’ve heard, they would simply appear, and we had no idea where they were coming from. If they came from the sewers… Well, if they’re using the sewers as a means of transportation—”

Bjorn’s face suddenly went pale as the implications dawned on him.

But it was too late.

As his mouth opened to speak his fears into existence, a shockwave rippled through the city. A great booming erupted from every direction, and then suddenly Cheese's world descended once again into chaos as he and many others were caught in a series of devastating explosions.

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Rook

Rook was on edge. Things were simply going too well for his liking. In the past few days, nothing had gone this smoothly.

Rook was no general. He had commanded his squad and company in combat, yes, but that was different. As he stood atop the walls of Fairhaven, directing his men, he reflected on this distinction. Commanding men you knew and trusted was far more reliable than what he now faced. The men of Fairhaven were just so damn inconsistent. He would give an order, and it felt almost optional, judging by the sluggish speed with which it was carried out.

As he watched his latest runner disappear into the streets below, Rook wondered if the captain in charge of the reserves needed to be relieved. The man was headstrong—Rook had seen that much in less than two days. A man who clearly craved command. The captain had insisted on leading the charge himself, showing every sign of insult and indignation when left to defend the Mill instead.

Yet, in truth, Rook couldn’t entirely blame him. He doubted he would have been able to ignore the itch in the back of his own mind if he had been left behind. This unshakable urge that something had to be wrong. That this was too easy.

The goblins had fallen back with hardly a fight. That was what the System called the little green men: goblins. Reports from his scouts insisted the creatures had flitted away into alleys and disappeared into thin air. Perhaps it was magic? Rook honestly didn’t know.

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This unease lingered as he heard it: a low echo from beyond the city walls.

Rook turned and spotted the reserves. The 250-some-odd men had abandoned their position at the Mill and were now marching in rank and file toward him. His frustration boiled over, and he turned to the officer beside him.

“Signal them to return. Damn him. If there is a—”

Rook never finished his sentence.

The blast came first, ripping through the wall beneath his feet. The world erupted into chaos as stone and fire consumed the structure, sending him and his men into a deadly fall.

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The world came back to Cheese slowly, like a nightmare surfacing from the depths of sleep. His ears rang with a sharp, relentless tone, and his vision swam in dizzying, chaotic patterns. Smoke curled around him in dense, choking waves, stinging his eyes and filling his nose with the acrid stench of burning wood and something far worse—charred flesh.

His leg throbbed with a pressure so unbearable it cut through his disorientation. When he tried to move, the agony spiked, and he realized why: a massive rock pinned his lower leg, crushing it mercilessly into the rubble beneath him.

Cheese gritted his teeth and took in the scene around him. Blood pooled in dark rivulets across the broken stone, some of it his own, though he couldn’t tell how much. His hands trembled as he clawed at the debris, and he noticed with sickening clarity that his index finger was bent at a grotesque angle, the bone nearly pushing through the skin.

A wave of horror washed over him as he stared at it. His breathing quickened, coming in sharp, panicked gasps that only pulled more smoke into his lungs. His mouth tasted metallic—blood.

With a shaking hand, Cheese grasped his broken finger, and after a moment of hesitation, wrenched it back into place. He screamed. The sound was raw and guttural, but it cut off as blood surged into his mouth. He coughed violently, spitting it out, desperate for air. The coughing didn’t stop, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might choke.

Finally, a single, rasping breath made it into his lungs. Then another. He forced himself to focus. He was alive.

But the rock was still there, immovable, crushing him. His hands scrambled over its jagged surface, searching for leverage, but the dust and rubble offered no purchase. His vision swam again as the smoke thickened, every breath burning his throat.

Cheese closed his eyes, reached deep inside, and summoned his axe. The magical weapon materialized in his trembling hands, and he used the haft to wedge it under the boulder. His arms strained against the weight, his muscles screaming in protest. Inch by inch, the rock shifted, until finally, with one last heave, it rolled away.

He collapsed back onto the ground, panting, but the reprieve was short-lived. His leg—now free—was a ruin. Blood seeped from torn flesh, and the bone jutted at an unnatural angle just above his boot. When he tried to move it, a wave of searing pain shot through him, and he bit down on a groan, tears streaking through the grime on his face.

The ringing in his ears began to fade, replaced by faint, muffled sounds. Moaning. Groaning. The sounds of men dying.

Cheese called out hoarsely, his voice raw. “Help! Is anyone—” He broke off, coughing again, the smoke tearing at his throat.

As the dust began to settle, shapes emerged from the haze. Bodies—too many bodies—lay sprawled across the rubble. He recognized the motionless forms of Hald and Bjorn nearby, their stillness sending a fresh spike of panic through him.

Struggling to sit upright, Cheese took stock of his surroundings. Slowly. Methodically. Every movement was agonizing, every discovery worse than the last.

Cheese forced himself to look. His head swam with grief and smoke, but he scanned the devastation. His first discovery was a young man lying on his side, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. The boy’s helm had been knocked askew, revealing blond hair matted with blood and dirt.

Cheese crawled closer, his mangled leg dragging behind him. “Who is that?” Cheese bit through broken teeth.

The boy blinked up at him, tears streaming down his face. His lips trembled as he stammered, “Torv… Torv, m’lord Bladesman.”

It was then Cheese saw the source of the boy’s agony. His left arm ended at the elbow, the rest torn away, leaving a bloody stump that oozed and dripped onto the stones. Torv’s wide eyes were fixed on the wound, his breath hitching with every sob.

Cheese swallowed back his own rising panic. “Torv. Listen to me. We need to stop the bleeding.”

Torv whimpered but nodded, his gaze darting between Cheese and the gory mess where his arm had been. “I… I don’t want to die, m’lord. Please…”

“You won’t,” Cheese said, though his own voice wavered. He pulled at Torv’s belt, unfastening it with shaking hands and wrapping it around the stump. The boy let out a scream as Cheese cinched it tight, the improvised tourniquet cutting off the blood flow.

“Breathe,” Cheese said firmly. “Focus. You’re alive, Torv. That’s what matters.”

The boy nodded weakly, tears still running down his face. He managed a shaky whisper, “Your leg, m’lord… it’s bad.”

Cheese glanced down at the ruined limb but ignored it. “We’ll worry about that later,” he said, his tone more clipped than he intended.

Another voice broke through the haze. “Torv!”

Cheese turned to see a man staggering through the rubble toward them. Blood streaked his face, and his leather jerkin was torn, but he was upright. The man’s bow was gone, but the quiver on his back was still intact, its arrows clinking softly as he walked.

“Fjorn!” Torv cried, his voice trembling with relief.

The archer dropped to his knees beside them, his breathing labored. “You’re alive, lad. That’s a damned miracle.”

“He’s lost his arm,” Cheese said quickly. “But he’ll make it if we get him out of here.”

Fjorn’s sharp eyes darted to Cheese’s leg, then back to Torv. “And you, m’lord?”

“I’ll manage,” Cheese snapped, though his face betrayed the strain.

Before they could exchange more words, another voice called out through the dust and smoke. “Anyone! I need help! Over here!”

Cheese turned toward the sound. A third man—dark-haired and stocky—was crouched over a prone figure. His hands were pressed to the man’s chest as he looked back toward Cheese.

“It’s Hald!” the soldier shouted. “He’s alive, but barely.”

“I can’t walk,” Cheese rasped, his gaze dropping to his mangled leg.

The younger man nodded grimly and helped him up, bracing him against his shoulder. The other two soldiers carefully lifted Hald, their movements strained but steady. Together, they began to pick their way back through the rubble, retracing the path they had entered by.

The world around them was silent now, save for the occasional crack of distant flames and the muffled sound of their labored breathing. Dust clung to their skin, and the acrid stench of smoke and death lingered with every step.

Cheese bit down on the pain, focusing on each agonizing step forward. There was no time to mourn the dead—not yet.

Not until they were out of this hell.