The upper hallways were luxurious. They were practical. These two statements could only make sense in the context of obscene wealth. Cozy bedrooms, studies, and lounges opened up to either side. There were clever drawers and storage spaces, and multipurpose furniture everywhere, packed full with personal sundries. Doors had scuff marks on their elaborate painted scroll-work, and cracked vases stood proudly with ruinous evidence of past repairs.

There was a three hundred year old door-jamb with little lines cut into the perfumed [Ocre-Joy Cedar] wood at a scattering of low heights. Rhode couldn’t recognize the marks next to each line, but in the world that he’d come from, these would have been names, or maybe years.

He shook his head. He was slowing down. Rhode made a tight fist and trundled ahead. Thinking he could sneak up on anything waiting for him would be beyond stupid.

Rhode wasn’t fully aware of his reasoning. He wasn’t making choices based on instinct, and nor were they fully rational. At the start of the night, he’d decided that his own species, his own people were his highest priority, and he’d committed to see it through. He wasn’t in a state of mind to second guess himself now, no matter how he felt he could be making a mistake.

[Sensory Dissociation] felt like his body was running too fast for his own self. His mind was falling behind, and watching the homunculus pull ahead. The top of his head kept clipping the ceiling ever time a decorative element dipped even a half-inch lower than its regular clearance.

What was his plan if he found his people? Talk to them. He would be able to trust them, and they would trust him. Probably. Every building needed a foundation. This is where he would begin.

The Hero’s pace slackened. He stopped. A squad of ten soldiers in sea-foam blue and campfire-red had been waiting for him. Several of them had been sitting in rickety chairs. They set their drinks down carefully onto the floor and set playing cards behind on their seats. Casually they gathered together.

Rhode hadn’t seen those colors together before. There was something more put together about these uniforms. Their lines were more crisp, the shoulders more elaborate. But nothing about their clothing restricted range of motion. There wasn’t any chain visible over their tunics, or a hint of armor underneath either. As to their arms –

Rhode had never seen a real musket before, with its sharp, protruding bayonet: the ancestor of the rifle predated his own lifetime by a century. He mistook them for some kind of impractical goblin spear, until the seven armed members of the squad hiked their guns up to their shoulders. Everything about these men and women was at a comfortable ease.

“Goodman Irving,” spoke their captain. His mouth quirked up at the corner, and he reached up to adjust his little cylindrical cap. “Boss-man figured you’d be on your way. We’re all mighty pleased to see you’re all right. Or mostly so.”

Rhode inspected them. He thought on how far back the other hallway’s connector had been. He looked ahead and entertained a little fantasy that he could politely excuse himself and squeeze through. The gaps between the soldiers and the walls were very narrow.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Tonight’s really been terrible, hasn’t it?” The homunculus spoke wistfully to the ceiling.

He closed his eyes and reached inside himself. Last time he’d done this, it had been an accident: instinctive. Now he tried to control it. Just a tiny spark of connection between [Hibernate] and [Vigorous Ichor], where he borrowed just a tiny bite from one to feed the other. Calmly, he stepped aside towards a closed doorway. His fingers curled around the frame, and his fingernails dug into the gap between the flushing and the wall.

The soldiers weren’t sure what he was doing. Two of his fingernails tore a little, and he winced. But an ugly creak sounded out as the framing nails came loose. The whole plank tore loose from the wall as he ripped it free. Where the end had splintered, Rhode knocked the section off, and then hefted the remainder up. It wasn’t particularly thick, but it was taken from a door intended for elves, and even while broken was as tall as a goblin.

None of the soldiers pointed their muskets directly at Rhode. But they spread out into a staggered formation, three ranks deep. “Let’s talk about this, big guy,” the captain offered. The brightness in his voice didn’t reach his eyes. “And I mean that. It’s been awhile since we’ve had lunch together. Tell me what’s going on. We can’t know what it is you want unless you tell us.”

Rhode felt the weight of the board, and ran his fingers along it. He pinched a splinter out of his finger, and it beaded with a tiny dot of ichor. “Is he here?” the homunculus asked.

It took an achingly long time for the soldier to reply. “Yes,” he said. “But you know I can’t let you through. It’s not my decision, Rhode.”

“You know, it’s funny. I’m trying to recall your face. But I keep thinking the same thing. I’ve never shared a meal with you, man.”

The soldiers adjusted their grips on their weapons. “No,” the captain admitted. “I was really hoping that Officer Weidel had been here for this. But nothing goes to plan, does it?”

“No,” Rhode agreed. “Are you going to let me through?”

“You can’t get away with this. There’s no taking this back.”

A sad smile broke over the Hero’s face. “Oh no,” he whispered. “I’m going [Berserk] with fury. I can’t seem to control my actions. Isn’t that tragic?”

And that moment very nearly could have been the end of Rhode’s story. The captain and the Hero glared at each other, on the edge of a precipice that would surely destroy them both.

Until a soft click announced the opening of a bedroom door just beyond the musketeers in red and blue. Brother Eloft was noticeably tall compared to his fellow goblins. He stepped out through the door wearing his sedate, pale yellow gown of office and wore cotton gloves which were pure white.

“Please. Goodesers. Stand down,” begged the priest.

Rhode’s brows knitted together in a glower. His nostrils flared in surprise. His lips pulled to the side in pain. Slowly, he lowered his door-framing.

Brother Eloft waved at Rhode; and it was a tepid, awkward gesture. “Hey Rhode. I’m sorry for this. The uh – I mean, management says – well I probably can’t say that. But the point is, please join us inside.”

The soldiers held on to their guns for a moment longer. “We’ll need a direct order, Goodebrother Eloft,” requested the captain softly.

“Yes,” the healer declared firmly. He held one cupped hand out low and a gleam of metal was barely visible from between his fingers. “This comes straight from management. Let him through.”