This broken house, just how I last saw it.

The same burndown furniture, further eroded by the passing of time. The rain, the snow, the wind, it all has left its mark on it, whether I see it or not.

Blackened wood, and scorched stone, even her body was left there, now only bones, as if this was some cursed ground that no one can set foot on.

I lift the cauldron, slightly melted by the heat of the fire so long ago, and manage to secure it in its old place, right above the fireplace. I fill it with water from a wooden bucket, and I finally feel the warmth on my face, from the sun raising to greet me.

Fire.

The fireplace is lit by my hand, stained with fresh blood. I look at it, fire and I have had a lengthy relationship, I went through it when I was just born, in a desperate attempt to save my life as everyone I knew, my brethren were slaughtered.

Brother's who I never got to speak with, put themselves in front of me to shield me from danger, and ultimately, gave their lives unknowingly to help me survive. Without them, every single goblin that died inside that cave, I probably would have died.

The warmth of the fire is a reminder of that moment.

And inside the red flames, I see the face of many, of Makur, of Orokur, of Dubby, of Maeld.

Fogosh.

I was brought to this world like this house.

Missing pieces, shattered, aware that I had a form before, a purpose, but now in this flesh and inside this world, I was trying to build myself up. Like this house, I had a form, a floor, the leftover walls, windows, and doors.

So I tried.

Through deed and thought I tried to make myself whole again. To be the human I felt that I was once, to be kind, helpful, grateful, and hopeful.

It was you who gave me the chance to do it, Ismeina. Maybe you didn't mean it, after all, you were trying to incite me into an assault, give you an excuse to kill me, but you never raised that knife, you never struck with that axe.

So many times you could have claimed vengeance, for what I did to you. For what I took from you.

I only knew a bit of your story, of your past, but I get the impression that you too, were a broken home.

As I stand up, I look at the ground and see the knife, the wooden bowl, the meat, vegetables, and spices. Just how I remember it, back when I entered the trance I took what I could from Fogosh's skills with scouting, but I also went further and memorized how you cooked the stew.

I want to make it for you, as I was supposed to the last time I saw you when I was meant to cook it with you.

That was the chance, to be better. To be like you.

Broken house as you were you rebuild. That daughter, your angel, the angel whose wings I tore clean from her back, she was the wood with which you rebuild the walls that gave you safety, and the roof that put above that kept the rain away, still there but not killing the fireplace, and the windows that you could look through and get lost in.

It must have been tough, the house not as pretty, not as durable as the first time it was built. But it was now more than a house, it was a home.

And I took it away from you.

I walk up to the ingredients on the ground and sit in front of them, I take the knife in my bloody hands and begin cutting, just how I remember it, the same way you did.

When I entered this house and ate the stew you probably left on the table to draw me in, to kill me, I could have never imagined how important you would become to me. You were more than a caretaker or a teacher, more than a friend.

You were the best of humanity. I know you were.

Who else could tolerate living with the murderer of their daughter? To house him, feed him, teach him. I don't think I will ever see this amount of kindness anywhere else.

I wonder if you were in the same position as I was.

To feel like you have to make a choice, to either rebuild the house or abandon it.

Everything is cut, so I pour it inside the cauldron and let it boil, I would like to smell it, but right now all I can smell is burning wood, with a little bit of roasted meat.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I turn to my side, to what's left of the table, and see the many times I cooked for you, standing on a chair because I was too short, as you make me repeat words, and phrases, all while you look out the window, lost in thought.

You were beautiful.

I walk deeper into what's left of the house, passing near your room I can see you kneeling in front of the statue, begging for an answer, or a sign of the divine that told you what to do. As I walk deeper I peek inside what was your daughter's room.

What type of person was she? Dreaming of commodity, a family, a home. The same thoughts all the humans I killed must have had.

The same Makur had.

And I walk into what was once my room. I wonder, who would my life have been if I was born into this house? Like a human, as your son.

I would have cared for your daughter, I would study my hardest, I would have made sure that you were safe, and I would have used your skills and knowledge to help others. Who knows, maybe I would have gone to different villages and cities and explored the world as I tried to heal and bring everyone closer.

You would have grown old, and died peacefully.

You could have grown old, had you not chosen mercy.

Had you not chosen forgiveness.

If you had just killed me, a nameless goblin, a wretched goblin, no one would have known, or cried me, or seek revenge because of it. You would have done something no one would ever say was wrong.

But you were that good.

"But she was that good"

I walk back, I don't want to get lost in thought while the stew is cooking, or it may burn.

My war picks are stained with blood, and they lay on the ground, at the entrance of this house, even if having no walls every place is an entrance, and I will still respect it and keep those tools of war away.

"War, death, violence"

I know this world is plagued by it, roaming bands of monsters, guards in every place, every road, no matter how deep I find myself inside this kingdom. Destroyers, every single one of them.

But who am I to blame them? I am Rokan.

No matter what I do, or what are my intentions, everything dies the moment I lay hands on it, everyone suffers. I thought it once after I killed that man for no other reason than he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I am a monster.

This skin is not what makes me a monster. It is my actions, my desires, and my thoughts.

I can't rebuild this house, Ismeina. I just can't.

I'm not as strong as you, and I have no one left to make it a home even if I managed to somehow rebuild it. And what is an empty house but a fancy tomb?

Looking at the bubbles on the surface I pour in the spices, the last ingredient, and with the wooden bowl in my hand I take as much of the stew as possible, I fill the bowl to the top.

I walk up to the broken table, I still see you sitting there. And I leave the bowl on the ground, this food is for you, I made it just how you used to.

"It is time, dumb fuck"

Taking the wolf pet my short amber hair is revealed, It started growing a few weeks ago.

"Happy birthday," the voice says, mocking as always, as it chuckles.

I look at it one last time, this skin is what kept me alive. Ushkur, the white wolf in orcish. A part of me that I wanted to pretend I didn't have.

A convenient mask I could put on and suddenly my actions would no longer be mine. I would be someone else. But it was always me, I am the white wolf.

Ismeina, this is the last time I will speak to you.

I don't want you to see what I have become, what I will do, the path I have chosen and I can't walk back.

Picking up the pelt and the wooden bowl I step out of the house, taking a bit of time to pick up my war picks and rest them on my back. I look back, at the source of the blood in my hands, and the smell.

Children weep their parents, some of their corpses on the street, guards, and women that ran away or tried to face me. This village of less than fifty is now only a handful of orphans. As their houses burn, they gather around the bodies of their parents.

I carry the pelt and wooden bowl into the woods and reach the clearing where I have now buried your skeletal remains, they didn't bother giving you even a proper burial, I found your bones where I last saw them.

Surrounded by white flowers as pure as you, the sun will shine on this spot every day, and even if the forests are burned, you will always look at the sky. I hope you are at peace, and that you forget about me, that you don't care about me.

I'm not worth it.

I place the pelt and the bowl next to you. I have made my choice.

I can't live with humans, I know no matter what I do they will always see me with hate and distrust. And I can't live with monsters, because for what I am they will look down on me, and use me.

A lowly goblin, a vermin, dumb, stupid and weak.

There is no place in this world for me.

A knight thinks of the sweet girl from his home village, the daughter of the witch. The girl that loved him and waited for him every morning, and he had made up his mind, bought the rings to propose and live a life with her, but that night he slept with another woman, one last time he thought, only to wake up an hour later, and reach the clearing to find that a single hour, a single choice can change it all. Losing the love he didn't value at the hands of a goblin.

A princess slept, nightmares of horrible memories inside a cave. How she was captured in one of her many escapades, reckless princess, foolish princess. She feels the pain, and the shame, and remembers it all clearly, the face of her cursed child holding a dagger as he set her free, and the face of the first goblin that raped her, his orange hair, his many bronze piercings. No one is safe from evil, not even the princess.

An orc reaches the great and busy halls of an orcish monarch, he kneels, his funny eye bringing laughter to the guards for only a brief moment, before he speaks of betrayal and how a goblin had brought death to his son in exile. The mother screams in agony and collapses on the ground, as the king boils in anger and sets his sights on the human lands, he will find the goblin.

A goblin sits inside an empty, demolished tower, hugging himself, shaking, hungry, and angry. He is not coming back, he has been left behind once again, and as tears fall from his one eye he screams into the rising sun, a scream of pain, of wrath, as a promise to find vengeance, to punish the goblin that abandoned him. His idol, his friend, his enemy.

There is no place...So I will make my own.

I won't need this pelt any longer, I am the white wolf, the monster.

And if the world is made to crush me, then I will build a new world for myself. A new house.

A Kingdom.