Gribble huddled in the corner of the family hut, curled tight on his father's worn bedroll. The rough weave scratched his cheek but he didn't care. It still smelled faintly of Grubnik - woodsmoke, leather, the spicy musk of goblin sweat. Gribble clutched the wooden figurine to his chest, a tiny warrior with a fierce snarl. His father had carved it for his last birthday. Grubnik had laughed, ruffling Gribble's wispy hair. You'll grow into a mighty fighter soon enough, my boy. The memory tore at him, raw and jagged. The hut yawned with emptiness, the cold spaces where his father and grandfather should be.

Days bled into weeks. Gribble picked at his meager meals, tasteless mush that stuck in his throat. Around him, the village bustled and chattered. Goblins cast him sideways looks, pity mingled with relief. Not their loved ones lost to the darkness. Gribble wanted to rage at their moving on, their lives marching forward while his crumbled. Grubnik and Gnarltooth would stride through the rickety gate any moment. They had to. The alternative was too vast, too crushing to consider.

In the still dark of night, Gribble's grief ambushed him. Voices whispered just beyond the edge of sleep - Grubnik's gruff rumble, Gnarltooth's creaky cackle. Phantom touches ghosted over Gribble's fevered skin. His father's callused palm on his cheek. His grandfather's gnarled hand clasping his shoulder. Waking was drowning, the knowledge of his loss slamming into him anew each bitter dawn.

Gribble clung to his father's parting words like a fraying lifeline. Be strong. Endure. But how? His small body turned traitor, wasting and weakening by the day. Scavenged roots and mushrooms sat like stones in his stomach. Weapons felt clumsy in his trembling grip. The other goblin whelps sensed weakness, pouncing with vicious glee. They shoved him, ground his face into the mud. Spat insults that sliced to the bone. Gribble seethed, the last ember of his spirit flaring. But his limbs betrayed him, heavy and uncooperative. Hot tears of shame blurred his vision as the bullies' laughter rang in his ears.

Under Grimrock's rule, the village curdled, turned rancid with fear. Goblins scurried to obey barked orders, ducking blows and kicks. Gribble's uncle took special relish in tormenting him. Dung duty, latrine scrubbing. Each stumble earned a cuff to the head, each slowed step a snarled insult. Runt. Worm. Burden. The words burrowed deep, echoing in the hollows of Gribble's chest.

Summoned to Grimrock's hut, Gribble dragged his feet, dread coiling in his gut. The room stank of stale sweat and rotted meat. And there, mounted like trophies, Grubnik's bow. Gnarltooth's spear. Gribble ached to snatch them, to cradle the last pieces of his father and grandfather. Grimrock loomed, his lips peeled back in a sneer.

“These are mine now. Like everything else in this dung heap. Including you, runt.”

Gribble stared at the packed dirt floor, the part of him that burned to fight, to avenge, guttering.

Life ground down to brutal simplicity. Scrounge enough to survive. Avoid Grimrock's rages. Hoard strength for the next battle, the next day. The goblins turned on each other like starving rats, snarling and snapping for every scrap. Gribble's once friends, his fellow whelps, slunk away when he drew near. His misery was a stinking pelt they feared to catch.

Gribble slumped against the palisade wall, the rough logs digging into his back. Beyond, the Misty Forest beckoned. He could slip away, melt into the sheltering dark. Leave the gnawing ache behind. A shred of memory stilled his feet. Grubnik's iron spine as he taught Gribble to set snares. Gnarltooth's craggy face as he recounted tales of the ancestors. Gribble shut his eyes, let their remembered strength settle in his bones. He was a son of chieftains. He would not run.

Gathering his flimsy dagger and fraying sack, Gribble limped toward the forest edge. Foraging was a rote process now, numb hands scrabbling for anything remotely edible. His stomach pinched and growled. Gribble let routine lull him, muscle memory guiding his movements. In the green-tinged light, he could almost pretend Grubnik shadowed his steps, could almost hear his grandfather's throaty laugh on the wind. He cradled the memories close, fragile wisps of brightness against the smothering dark.

A twig snapped, dry and sharp. Gribble whirled, heart battering his ribs. Krub and Griz sneered from the shadow of a massive oak, their eyes glinting with malice. “Well, well. The runt's crawled out of his hole.” Griz fingered the rough blade at his hip. Gribble's gut clenched. Krub took a step forward, his meaty fists flexing. Looks like we get to have some fun.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Gribble ran. Blood roared in his ears. Underbrush whipped his face, tore at his clothes. Behind him, Krub and Griz whooped and cackled. The stupid runt's making it a chase! Gribble's lungs burned, his legs wobbling. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Krub barreled toward him, a crazed light in his piggy eyes. Griz loped behind, his blade glinting as he slashed at the foliage.

Gribble's foot caught on a root. The ground rushed up to meet him, driving the air from his chest. Copper flooded his mouth. A heavy weight slammed into his back, crushed him into the dirt. Krub straddled him, one ham-sized hand pinning Gribble's face into the loam. Where you running, maggot? Gotta pay the toll for using our woods. Griz giggled, a nasty sound like snapping bones.

Krub hauled Gribble up by his hair, forced his head back at a neck-cracking angle. Something glinted in the brute's other fist - a rusted blade, pocked and pitted. Krub brought it to Gribble's cheek, traced the curve of bone with the dull edge. “Maybe we take an ear. Or a finger. Remind you of your place.” Gribble thrashed, feeble as a minnow in a bear's jaws. Krub laughed, his breath a fetid blast.

White-hot rage ignited in Gribble's core. It flooded his limbs, burned away the haze of pain and fear. His father's voice reverberated in his skull, strong and sure. You are a chieftain's son. A warrior born. The strength sleeps in your bones. Gribble's eyes snapped open, fixing on Krub with laser focus.

Gribble reared back and slammed his forehead into Krub's nose with a gristly crunch. The brute reeled, squealing. Gribble rolled, scrabbling for a weapon. His fingers closed on a fist-sized rock. Griz lunged, bony hands grasping. Gribble brought the stone down on the weasely goblin's temple with a sickening crack.

Krub lurched to his feet, blood streaming from his ruined nose. Gribble squared his shoulders, the rock heavy in his fist. The young goblin barely came to the brute's chest. But he stood his ground, chin jutting in defiance. He would not scurry. He would not cower. Never again.

A slow grin spread across Krub's broad face, a hungry hyena's leer. The boss'll like this. Runt's got some fight after all. Grimrock had been watching from the trees' shadow, his eyes narrowed assessingly. String the whelp up. Let's see what he's really made of. The brutes seized Gribble, their grips crushing. The stone tumbled from numb fingers.

They left him dangling by his wrists in the village square. He hung limp, a slab of meat for Grimrock's sport. Goblins gathered to gawk and chortle. See how the mighty Gnarltooth's line has fallen. The chieftain circled him, a mace gripped in one burly fist. The haft was stained rusty brown. “As I told your mewling whelp of a father. The old ways are dead. There are no more heroes. Only the strong and the meat.” Grimrock spat a wad of phlegm, watched it slide down Gribble's cheek. And you, runt, are meat.

The mace rose and fell, the dull impacts jolting through Gribble's strung-up frame. He swallowed his screams. Bit clean through his lip, blood dribbling down his chin. Grubnik's face swam before him, wavering but resolute. Find the strength, my son. This is your crucible. Become the steel you were born to be. Gribble stared his uncle down, poured every ounce of defiance into his glare even as blows rained on his shoulders, his back, his ribs. I will endure, Da. I will make you proud.

Grimrock stepped back, chest heaving. Flecks of crimson splattered his flushed green face. He looked at Gribble as if truly seeing him for the first time. Not a mewling whelp. Not a cringing cur. But a young wolf, battered but unbroken. A son of chieftains with fire in his eyes and steel in his spine. For a moment, the ghost of respect flickered in Grimrock's expression. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar sneer. Leave the meat for the crows. We'll see if it learns.

They cut Gribble down. He crumpled to the blood-churned mud. Every nerve shrieked, every bone ground. He hauled himself up on trembling arms, vision blurring at the edges. One breath. Another. The pain was a living thing, rippling beneath his skin. He pushed through, forced his rubbery legs to hold his weight. Find the strength. Become the steel. Gribble dragged himself toward his family's hut, each step an eternity.

He collapsed on Grubnik's pallet, tracks of salt and copper slicking his cheeks. But beneath the pain, something new kindled in his chest. A small, fierce light that the darkness could not smother. A son of chieftains. A wolf of Gnarltooth's line. Gribble smiled, a feral slash of teeth. The strength slept in his bones. And he would wake it, nurture it. Until it blazed like a holocaust, searing away all who stood against him.

Gribble pushed to his feet, teeth gritted against the scream of torn flesh. He shuffled to the back of the hut, pried up the hearthstone with trembling fingers. Grubnik's hunting knife glinted in the hollow, wicked sharp. Gribble gripped the hilt, felt the strength of his ancestors thrumming in the steel. Grimrock thought him meat. But he would show him what this runt was made of. He would grow strong in the shadows, a viper waiting to strike.

Gribble limped for the forest, the knife a comforting weight at his hip. There were herbs to gather. Roots to forage. A broken body to mend in secret. The days ahead would be lean, cold and hungry. But he would survive. He would grow. And when the time was right, Grimrock would learn the price of underestimating Gnarltooth's blood.

The trees swallowed him, sheltering arms drawing him into the murky green. Home. A son of the forest, a brother to the mist. Gribble slipped into the shadows, melted into the underbrush. But his eyes burned bright in the gloom, two chips of flint struck to life. The strength of the ages flowed in his veins. And soon, all of Darkmire would tremble before it.