Evening had fallen by the time Tryle returned to his hut. It was bigger than most huts in the village, made out of heat-hardened mud-brick and thatched with sedge grass and dried, slightly musky heather. Before Tryle’s father had died, he’d added a reed thrush door that swung stiffly on bamboo hinges, and had also converted the hut to a three-room design with a raised sleeping loft.

Tryle walked to find his mother making dinner in the main room. The delicious aroma of baked bread and salted meat filled the air. A pot of fish stew bubbled in a pot over the fire.

Tryle deposited his pack next to the table. “Hi, Mom.”

His mother looked up from where she was carving a loaf of toasted raisin nutbread on a raised platform of stone. “Oh, hello. You’re back earlier than I expected.”

“They ran out of firestone lanterns,” said Tryle, neglecting to mention that the lantern-keeper had handed out his last two lamps to a couple other goblins after turning him away. “But it’s all right. I have a spare glowstone lying around that I can use.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re raiding if we’re running out of supplies,” Tryle’s mother stacked slices of nutbread on a plate and bringing it over to the small, wooden dining table. “From what I hear, the target is quite a prize.”

Tryle heard the tension in her voice. “The Chief told us it’s farther than where we’ve ever raided before,” he said carefully.

Even though the information in war councils were technically need-to-know, news of the rich human granny and the Berserker Wolf had spread like wildfire. To Tryle, it seemed like everybody except the fighting goblins actually setting forth were anxious about the raid’s potential hazards.

“Really?” his mother said with false high-pitched cheeriness. “That sounds wonderful. I don’t think you’ve ever been outside the Woodlands before.”

“No,” said Tryle. “I haven’t.”

His mother went over to the pot of fish stew and stirred it for about a minute before ladling it into bowls. Tryle got up to take it from her, but she motioned him away. “No, no. Sit. Eat the bread while it’s still warm.”

“I got it, Mom.” Tryle took the hot bowls from her and carried it back to the table.

The stew was delicious. Tryle had tried following the recipe a thousand times, but it never tasted as good as when his mother made it. There was something about the way she seasoned the fish, or how long she let the carrots and turnips simmer, or how much leek she added. There was always an unknown variable.

“How do you feel about your first raid?” his mother asked. “Are you excited?”

Tryle took a bite out of his nutbread, chewing slowly. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I have philosophical differences with the way our village gains resources.”

“You mean raiding?”

“It’s unproductive and boring. If we spent half as much time finding ways to be more self-sustaining as we did with stealing, we wouldn’t have to stay in the Woodlands. We’d be able to live beyond the Great River. We wouldn’t have to hide from humans.”

“But why would we want to live anywhere but the Woodlands? Tryle, you should be proud you were selected this time around. I’m proud.”

Tryle stared at her. “Mom, do you really want me to go?”

“Of course I do! I wish you could have gone on a raid sooner.”

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“Even though we might run into a Berserker Wolf?”

His mother avoided his gaze. “I can’t say I’m not worried, but maybe after this raid, the others will trust you more.”

“Sure,” said Tryle sarcastically. “And one day I’ll also learn to breathe and flap about underwater like the fishes. The village treats me like I’m addled in the head for being interested in magic and science. I’ve never gotten that, and I still don’t.”

His mother sighed. “That’s part of the problem, Tryle. Not everyone thinks you’re insane for wanting to learn.”

“You don’t, you mean. Opal and Anok don’t. And maybe Elder Paz. Everybody else just wants to steal more gold and silver and…and stuff. Useless, meaningless stuff.”

“Yes, they do. In a sense, so do you, Tryle.”

“No, I don’t.”

“We all want to get certain things, which to us may feel like the most important mission we have in the world. And sometimes those things can’t be understood by anyone but you. I’m really glad that you’ve found the kind of treasure you want to have. But just realize that everyone else’s treasure is not the same as your own.”

Tryle shook his head in confusion. “What are you saying, Mom?”

His mother seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “That you have to think about your future here. I won’t be — ah, there’s no good way to this —but I won’t be around forever to protect you, in a way. You’ll have to deal with goblins that think differently from you for the rest of your life. That’s what it means to live in Lundy village.”

Tryle pushed around a chunk of turnip in his stew. “What if…what if I don’t want to stay in the village forever?”

His mother knit her brows. “What?”

Tryle hesitated. He had never told anyone that before, had barely acknowledged it to himself. The idea was only half-formed until he’d spoken it out loud.

In his dreams, he walked on a broad cobblestone road under a blazing blue sky.

On either side stood grand brick houses with dark green mansard roofs; stately marble museums with pearly, vaulted celings and pointed arches; gleaming bronze monuments of dragons and chimeras on full display; and frescoed walls painted in every color of the rainbow.

And on every street corner was a stall of the latest inventions and innovative curios in all of the Woodlands and beyond (indeed, all of the world), each arcane model pushing the boundaries of scientific understanding to their limits. And all the goblins in his village were walking alongside him, marveling at each booth with the same reverence Tryle had known all his life. They asked him questions, and he provided them answers. In doing so, more questions sprung into his mind, concepts for further research.

The air was filled with chatter and laughter and lively scientific debate, a celebration of what each inventor and magical scientist had built and brought to this carnival of ingenuity — this loving spirit of knowledge.

Tryle could only imagine these images from the books he read, and this recurring dream was more a feeling than anything. But his certainty of its realness was like an iron boot on his chest.

“I want to leave the Woodlands someday,” he said. “To study magical science for real. To make wonderful things. I want to be the best scientist I can be. To discover the fundamental truths of our world.”

Tryle expected his mother to laugh, or cry, or rage at him. Instead, her eyes were downcast and sad, almost wistful.

She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment there was a knock at the door of their hut. It swung open to reveal Opal and Anok. Anok’s hair had faded to a light green, as it did every time the sun went down.

Opal said, “We’re gonna go watch one of the pre-raid rituals Gumbo’s friends like to do. Y’know, the kind where they tattoo themselves with whatever dye or brand they can get their hands on. You wanna come watch?”

“I heard they’re going to use a fire crab claw on their armpits,” said Anok gleefully. “It’s gonna be a riot.”

Strangely enough, the prospect of watching Gumbo and his knuckle-headed friends pointlessly stab themselves with animal body parts around the bonfire sounded like a lot of fun. But even though he was about finished with his dinner, Tryle said, “I’m still eating, you guys go ahead without me.”

“No,” his mother said. “Go, Tryle.”

Tryle swiveled. “Are you sure?”

“Have fun with your friends. We’ll talk more when you get back. Just don’t stay out too late. You have an early start tomorrow.”

“We’ll wait outside,” said Opal, and they closed the door behind them.

As Tryle went to put on his boots, his mother said, “Tryle?”

He looked up, his hand on the door.

“Don’t forget about the treasures you already have.”

Tryle nodded. “I know. I’ll be back, Mom.”

He pushed open the door into the brisk night air. Opal and Anok met him further down the main dirt road. Tryle and Opal began walking (Anok limping along gamely with the assistance of a rowan crutch) to where the bonfire was being built in the center of the village, a distinct orange glow flowing along the sides of huts amid distant, high-pitched whoops.

Anok offered him a few candied worm bundles. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

“You thinking about participating?” said Opal playfully. “Get a big ol’ crab claw marking where the sun don’t shine?

Tryle munched thoughtfully on his handful of sweet, dried worms.

“Not really,” he said. “Just thinking about treasure.”