Once the armchair is as clean as it's going to get, I turn my attention to the floor. The puddle of mead seems to mock me, its golden surface reflecting my disheveled state. "Don't you start," I warn it. "I've had just about enough of inanimate objects giving me attitude today."

After I finish cleaning up the mead on the floors, with a grunt of effort, I heave the mead keg upright, curiosity getting the better of me. Peering inside, I'm surprised to find it's still half full. A wicked grin spreads across my face as an idea takes hold.

"Well, well, well," I drawl, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Looks like the party's not over yet. And everyone knows the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol, right? It's basically science."

Before I can talk myself out of it, I dip my mug into the keg and bring it to my lips. "Bottom's up, you interdimensional fuckwits," I declare to the empty room. "Hope you're enjoying the show."

The mead hits my stomach like a molten cannonball, and for a moment, I think I might actually keep it down. But then the room starts spinning again, and I feel the telltale rise of bile in my throat.

"Oh shi-" is all I manage before I'm bent double, retching violently into the mead keg. The sound of my vomit splashing into the remaining alcohol is possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever heard.

As I'm wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, trying not to retch again at the aftertaste, I hear the creak of the door opening behind me. Slowly, dreading what I'll see, I turn around.

There, framed in the doorway like some kind of medieval tableau, stand Erik and Sean. Erik's face is a mask of shock and disgust, his emerald eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him. But it's Sean who really catches my attention.

The years since I last saw him have left their mark. His once boyish features have hardened, chiseled by time and experience into something altogether more formidable. A thick beard now covers his jaw, peppered with flecks of gray that speak to the weight of his responsibilities. His icy blue eyes, once full of mischief and warmth, now hold a stern, almost forbidding quality.

The set of his shoulders speaks of a man who's seen more than his fair share of hardship, and the way his hand rests casually on the hilt of his sword tells me he's never truly off his guard. This isn't the carefree young man I remember – this is a seasoned warrior, tempered by years of fighting the darkness that lurks at the edges of our world.

For a long moment, we all just stare at each other, the silence broken only by the slow drip of mead from my chin. Then, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter is still on vacation, I blurt out:

"So... who wants a drink?"

Erik's massive frame seems to deflate as he turns to Sean, his emerald eyes filled with a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment. "My deepest apologies for this... unseemly display... even the door was unlocked," he rumbles, his voice a low growl of frustration. "Please, seat yourself at the table. I'll fetch us some mead to wash away this unpleasantness."

Sean's icy blue gaze flicks between Erik and me, a hint of amusement dancing in their depths. "No need for apologies, old friend," he says, his voice rich with barely suppressed laughter. "It's been years since I've laid eyes on the wee lass. Time changes us all, it seems."

As Sean strides towards me, his warrior's grace evident in every step, Erik moves to my side, peering into the keg with an expression that could curdle milk. I can't help but let out a nervous chuckle, the sound high and brittle in the tense atmosphere.

Erik's sigh is so deep and long-suffering that I half expect it to extinguish the fire in the hearth. Without a word, he hoists the keg onto his broad shoulder and storms out of the cottage. A moment later, I hear a resounding thud that makes me wince. Poor keg, sacrificed to the gods of Erik's temper.

When Erik stomps back inside, his face is a thundercloud of barely contained rage. Sean, seemingly oblivious to the tension, looks me up and down with an appraising eye. "Well, well," he drawls, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You're growing up pretty as a picture, aren't you? Though I must say, you smell more like a tavern than a proper young lady."

I force myself to giggle, playing up the role of the chastised child. "Oopsie," I chirp, batting my eyelashes innocently.

Sean turns to Erik, his expression suddenly stern. "Why in the name of all that's holy are you letting your woman near your drink stores?" he demands, his voice sharp with disapproval. "Women aren't supposed to drink, man. It addles their already feeble minds."

Erik's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he visibly restrains himself from lashing out. "In Norway," he grinds out, each word carefully measured, "it's perfectly normal for women to partake. Though I must admit, Lile seems to have... overindulged today, for reasons that escape me."

With a grunt of frustration, Erik sets his massive axe in the corner of the room, the weapon seeming to hum with barely contained power. He lowers himself into the armchair with a weary sigh, only to freeze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What in Odin's name...?" he mutters, lifting his hand to find it sticking to the arm of the chair. His piercing gaze locks onto me, suspicion blazing in those emerald depths.

I look down at the floor, shuffling my feet in what I hope passes for childish embarrassment. "I, um... I spilled some mead earlier," I lie, my voice small and contrite. "Must not have cleaned it up properly. Sorry, Erik."

Sean's booming laugh fills the cottage as he drops into a chair, the wood creaking ominously under his muscular frame. I take the opportunity to snatch up a linen cloth, dabbing at my mouth to remove any lingering traces of vomit and mead. Wouldn't want to ruin my sterling reputation, after all.

"Oh, Uncle Sean," I simper, injecting just the right amount of childish adoration into my voice, "I've missed you terribly! Where have you been all this time?"

I totter towards him on unsteady legs, playing up my inebriation for all it's worth. Sean's large hand comes to rest on my head, his calloused fingers carding through my golden locks with surprising gentleness. Despite myself, I find my body relaxing into the touch. Damn this child's form and its need for affection.

"Ah, little one," Sean says, his voice softening with fondness, "I've been out patrolling the wild lands, taking on contracts for the church and the Tuatha. Guarding settlements, hunting monsters - a witch hunter's work is never done, you know." His eyes take on a faraway look, as if reliving past glories. "In fact, this latest venture brought me and my squad - Cedric and Ingvar, fine warriors both - to protect Baile Rois from a goblin horde invasion."

Ah, the goblins Dumitra is fighting apparently? Well, isn't that just delightful. Nothing says 'quiet day at home' quite like a horde of bloodthirsty monsters knocking at the village gates.

I gasp dramatically, my eyes wide with feigned awe. "Goblins? How exciting! Did you know, Uncle Sean, that Dumitra promised me a goblin head this very evening?"

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Sean's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Is that so? Speaking of Dumitra," he says, leaning in conspiratorially, "I heard the strangest thing during the battle. As she was leaping into the goblin hordes, tearing them apart with her bare hands, mind you, she yelled out, 'Thank you, little girl! I love this! Every moment of it!' Now, what do you suppose that was about?"

I blink innocently, shrugging my shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea who Dumitra might be referring to," I say, my voice dripping with sincerity. "Perhaps she's gone a bit mad from all the fighting?"

Erik, who has been watching our exchange with narrowed eyes, speaks up. "I know nothing of any promise of goblin heads," he says slowly, his gaze boring into me. "Nor do I understand why Dumitra would shout such things, or who this 'little girl' might be."

I scratch the back of my head, affecting a sheepish grin. "Oh, right," I say, as if suddenly remembering. "I forgot to tell you about the goblin head promise, Erik. Silly me!"

Erik nods, his expression unreadable as he lifts his hand from the armchair, grimacing at the sticky residue clinging to his skin.

Guess girl juice is sticky too, eh? Should probably clean that up soon. Wouldn't want Erik getting any bright ideas about what might have transpired in his absence.

Sean leans forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, little one," he says, his voice filled with mock sternness, "just how much did you drink today?"

I duck my head, twisting my fingers in the hem of my dress like a proper chastised child. "Only a mug and a half," I mumble, peeking up at him through my lashes.

Erik's laugh is a sharp bark of surprise, while Sean chuckles indulgently. "Ah, well," Sean says, shaking his head, "I suppose that explains it. Women simply can't handle their spirits, can they?"

Erik's lips quirk into a wry smile. "Perhaps," he says, his voice tinged with amusement, "Lile just needs more practice."

Don't threaten me with a good time, hulk boy. If you only knew the depths of depravity I'm capable of, you'd be running for the hills faster than you can say 'Odin's beard.'

Erik's massive frame shifts in the armchair, the wood creaking ominously beneath his weight. His emerald eyes dart towards the cellar door, a flicker of annoyance crossing his rugged features. "Blast it all," he growls, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the very floorboards. "I've forgotten the mead. My apologies, Sean. I'll fetch it straightaway."

But Sean, his icy blue gaze fixed on the cottage door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment, waves a dismissive hand. "Save your breath, Erik. I've no intention of dulling my senses with drink this eve." His fingers drum an agitated rhythm on the table's worn surface. "Not with those accursed goblin hordes practically knocking at our doorstep."

I can't help but roll my eyes at the melodrama. Goblin hordes? Please. I've seen scarier things crawling out of a dumpster behind a New York City McDonald's. But before I can voice my disdain, a more pressing matter makes itself known. My bladder, it seems, has decided to join the party.

"Um," I pipe up, affecting my best 'innocent child' voice, "I need to use the bucket." I squirm in place for added effect, though the discomfort isn't entirely feigned. Damn this prepubescent body and its lack of bladder control.

Sean's head snaps towards me, his eyes narrowing with sudden, laser-like focus. "Make it quick," he barks, his tone brooking no argument. "I've a suspicion you're the 'little girl' Dumitra spoke of, and I aim to find out if you've brought this horde down upon us somehow."

I nod meekly and scurry off to the washing room, returning only to find Sean and Erik locked in some sort of testosterone-fueled staring contest. Clearing my throat, I put on my best 'confused child' face. "I don't know anything about what Dumitra said," I declare, my voice quavering just enough to be believable. "Honest!"

Sean's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the tension like a knife. "Oh, I very much doubt that, little one. Dumitra's been quite... vocal about you during our travels."

Dumitra's been talking about me? Why? Just because I stink like Gwenhwyfar or some shit? The thought sends a chill down my spine. What exactly has that vampiric vixen been saying?

I shake my head vigorously, golden locks flying. "I really don't know anything!" I insist, my voice rising in pitch. "I swear!"

Erik, bless his hulking Norse heart, decides to chime in. "I'm as much in the dark as you, Sean," he rumbles, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

Sean's eyes narrow, a predatory gleam entering his gaze. "No," he says slowly, rising from his chair with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior. "No, I think there's more to this. The girl must be magically attuned, leaking energies that draw these creatures like moths to a flame." He stalks towards me, each step measured and deliberate. "The entire village has become a beacon."

Before I can protest, Sean's hand darts out, producing a silver medallion in the shape of a snarling wolf's head. He thrusts it in front of my face, and to my horror, the damn thing starts to vibrate like it's having some sort of metallic seizure.

Sean whirls on Erik, his face a mask of grim triumph. "Does she bear any tattoos?" he demands. "Any markings at all?"

Erik shakes his massive head, bewilderment etched into every line of his face. "None," he replies. "She's had no cause for such things."

A low curse escapes Sean's lips. "Then it's as I feared. The girl is untrained, uncontrolled. A danger to herself and everyone around her." His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, and I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the winter air. "She must join the Tuatha Dé Danann. Learn to harness these powers before they consume her – and us all."

Erik surges to his feet, his face darkening like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "Hold fast," he growls, his voice rumbling with barely contained fury. "The girl goes nowhere. She is my wife, bound to me by sacred vows."

Sean's laugh is cold and brittle. "You have no choice in the matter, Erik. The safety of the realm supersedes your petty marital claims."

The tension in the room ratchets up to unbearable levels, the air thick with the promise of violence. But before either man can make a move, the cottage door explodes inward with a resounding crash.

Framed in the doorway, backlit by the weak winter sun, stands Dumitra in all her vampiric glory. Her ruby eyes gleam with unholy mirth, full lips curved in a predatory smile. But it's what she's holding that truly captures my attention.

Dangling from her grip, its scrawny neck caught in her iron grasp, is a creature straight out of a fever dream. Sickly green skin stretched tight over jutting bones, bulbous yellow eyes rolling in terror, wickedly sharp teeth gnashing uselessly at the air. A goblin, in the flesh.

The thing writhes and twists, emitting a high-pitched keening that sets my teeth on edge. Its clawed hands scrabble frantically at Dumitra's arm, leaving angry red welts that heal almost as quickly as they appear.

Dumitra's musical laugh fills the suddenly silent cottage. "Well, well," she purrs, her voice dripping with dark amusement. "What have we here? A family reunion?" Her ruby gaze sweeps the room, lingering on each of us in turn before finally settling on me. "And look who's at the center of it all. Our little troublemaker."

The tension in the room is palpable as Sean's hand flies to the hilt of his sword. In one fluid motion, he unsheathes the blade, its metallic song echoing off the cottage walls. His icy blue eyes narrow, fixed on the writhing creature in Dumitra's grasp.

"Kill that abomination," Sean snarls, his voice low and dangerous. "Now."

Dumitra rolls her eyes, her lips curving into a mocking smile. "Oh, do lighten up, you insufferable bore. This little darling is harmless... mostly."

I'm about to scoff at the absurdity of it all when the impossible happens. The goblin's misshapen mouth opens, and out pours a stream of words in a language I haven't heard in what feels like lifetimes. New English, the lingua franca of 2077. My mind reels, struggling to process this surreal turn of events.

"Ѽꚙ ꙭԄꚙ ҬЋꚙ ԄꚙꙭԮ ЋꭒӍꙭꞑꚃ!" the goblin screeches, its bulbous eyes darting wildly around the room before locking onto me. "Ѽꚙ ꙭԄꚙ ҬЋꚙ ԄꚙꙭԮ ЋꭒӍꙭꞑꚃ, ꙭꞑԂ ҬЋꚙ ӍѺꞑꚃҬꚙԄꚃ ѺϞ ҬЋѮꚃ ѼѺԄԮԂ ЋꙭѴꚙ ꚃҬѺԮꚙꞑ ꚙꙭԄҬЋ ϞԄѺӍ ꭒꚃ!" (We are the real humans! We are the real humans, and the monsters of this world have stolen Earth from us!)

My eyes widen in shock, my carefully constructed mask of childish innocence slipping for a moment. Holy fucking shit on a stick. Goblins are... humans? What in the nine circles of hell is going on here?

Dumitra's ruby eyes gleam with wicked delight as she watches my reaction. The goblin continues its tirade, its voice growing more frenzied with each passing second.

"ҊѺꭒ! ѮϞ Ѯ ꚙꙭҬ ҊѺꭒ, Ѯ ѼѮԮԮ Ϣꚙ ЋꭒӍꙭꞑ ꙭꟽꙭѮꞑ!" (You! If I eat you, I will be human again!)

Before I can fully process the implications of this revelation, Dumitra's slender fingers tighten around the goblin's throat. Its words dissolve into desperate gurgles as the life is slowly squeezed out of it. In its final moments, a look of heart-wrenching clarity passes over its twisted features.

"ӍҊ ϞꙭӍѮԮҊ... Ѯ ӍѮꚃꚃ ҬЋꚙӍ..." (My family... I miss them...)

And then it's over. The goblin goes limp in Dumitra's grasp, its bulging eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. I feel a twinge of... something. Pity? Revulsion? It's hard to tell in this maelstrom of conflicting emotions. It was... human. Or what was left of it, anyway.

Dumitra's voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth as silk and cold as ice. "Now then, little one. I believe I promised you a goblin head, did I not? And Dumitra always keeps her promises."[...]