The scent of smoke and ash wafted on the crisp breeze, intermingling with the stench of old blood and decay. Sascha was seated on the damp ground, hands bound, tied to a post next to the smoldering remains of Briony’s cottage. There were two other posts positioned on either side of him. Dewpetal was tied to his left. The other poor fellow fastened to the post on Sascha’s right, a woodsman, whose name he did not know, was slumped forward, not moving. From the corner of his eye, Sascha saw flies crawling out of faun’s slack mouth.

Another day without water and he and Dewpetal would succumb to a similar fate.

‘Tell us where she is and we’ll give you a drink’ the soldiers had promised over and over again, dangling their water skins in front of his face like a carrot on a stick. Sascha never gave them what they wanted. Eventually, when they finished proving their mettle by kicking a bound orc, they would retreat to the safety of the shelter, forced to wait for Oralia to reveal herself the good old fashioned way.

At first, Sascha feared she would come tearing through the trees right into the awaiting trap. But she never showed. The days slowly trickled past, her scent went cold, and the hunting parties continued to return to camp empty-handed. Sascha took comfort in that. There was a chance Mul had found Oralia first and delivered Sascha’s message.

Stay put. Wait for help.

Oh how Sascha didn’t envy the messenger. His love didn’t like being told what to do, particularly when it involved death and danger. But, by gods, she’d listened. And if it came at the price of his own life, strung out on a post, left to succumb to the elements, at least he’d die knowing he finally got to have the last word on something.

Sascha tilted his head back and stared at the overcast sky. The last of the red and orange leaves clung stubbornly to their spindly branches, trembling in the wind. There would be rain soon, possibly before nightfall. It would be a blessing at first, the moment he caught the first few drops on his parched tongue. But, ultimately, the weather be he and Dewpetal’s final undoing. The rain would drench their clothes and steal the remaining heat from their bodies. From the way the little goblin already shivered, she would go first. By morning, she and Sascha would join the growing heap of bodies piled near the broken remnants of the stone cottage.

Loud voices erupted from the string of tents tucked within the tree line on the other side of the skeletal remains of the cottage. The tents belonged to the top officers and were positioned out of Sascha’s line of sight. He could hear them, though. Particularly when they went at each other like a pack of feral cats.

Angry footsteps thudded against the soft dirt in his direction. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of your commander’s cruelty. I’m cutting them down.”

The voice belonged to Sergeant Lorn Windshot, the highest ranking officer within the military unit occupying Lonebrook. Four days ago, Sergeant Windshot had been considered middle management. An unfortunate tragedy during the raid involving both the former captain and lieutenant, however, had left the unit in Windshot’s unexpected hands. Although they had yet to speak in person, Sascha was familiar with the sergeant’s type. People like Windshot actively sought out middling positions of power. Too high to be given grunt work and too low to be held responsible for the unit’s failings, they sort of floated near the middle, content to collect a paycheck and go utterly unnoticed by anyone of importance.

Sergeant Windshot’s former sense of obscurity was gone, yanked out from under him in the blink of an eye. He found himself in power with no idea how to wield it. The magical squadron sent in from Division of Divination had noticed, and had been using it to their advantage. They were running things now and seemed to have made it their personal mission to trip up the newly promoted head of the military in whatever ways they could. Their tactics so far consisted of questioning the sergeant’s every move.

“Now why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” A second set of footsteps followed in the sergeant’s wake. The voice that accompanied the light steps set Sascha’s remaining nerves on edge. The voice was the equivalent of apple cider vinegar personified — an unholy mix of sweet, foul, and acidic all rolled into one. “Cray said to leave them up.”

“Do you see those clouds overhead? Feel the heaviness in the air?” Sergeant Windshot’s voice replied. He was at the halfway point and demonstrated no signs of lessening his furious stride. “No, of course you don’t. Because you, Aster, are a high-ranking witch sent from the division. This is probably the first time you’ve ever spent any significant time in the wilderness outside of a carriage.”

“Was that your attempt to insult me? I’d tell you to try harder but I know you’re doing your best.” Aster’s acidic voice crooned. “Your point, Sergeant, please. Before I succumb to boredom.”

“Your boss can either keep baiting this failed trap of his, hoping to lure Commander Dawnsight in, or he can have living prisoners. But he cannot have both. Another night out here and there will be no one left for him to interrogate.” Sergeant Windshot’s footsteps reached the line of posts and stopped. “Seven realms, this one’s already dead!”

The sergeant called for someone to deal with the body before moving on to finish what he’d started. He crouched down and worked a short blade through the thick rope binding Sascha’s hands around the pole at his back. “Now listen here,” Sergeant Windshot said to Sascha in his best authoritative voice. “I am trying to help you. Cooperate, and I will personally see to it that the two of you are taken to the jailhouse. You can spend the night someplace dry with a roof over your head.”

The taut cords cutting into Sascha’s wrists loosened before the rope fell away, freeing him from the post. Sascha slowly gathered his stiff arms to the front, fighting to contain snarls of pain as his stiff joints protested any and all movement. His hands were drained of color and numb. The pins and needles sensation started in his fingertips and steadily moved upwards as blood returned to his lifeless extremities.

Sergeant Windshot’s lanky figure emerged from Sascha’s left. His pale face was gaunt and narrow, seemingly at odds with his squared jaw. Whereas most human officers kept their hair short, cropped damn near to the skull, Windshot’s sandy brown mop was shoulder-length and shaggy — an attempt, no doubt, to hide the pointed ears that peaked out when he turned his head too quickly.

The sergeant crouched back down onto his haunches and wagged his knife at Sascha as if he were a mother chiding a disobedient child. “I’m not a bad man. At least I try not to be. I believe in treating people fair, which apparently doesn’t produce results, according to some.” Sergeant Windshot’s worried gaze darted past Sascha, settling on the witch still standing just out of sight, most likely. “So do the smart things and work with me. Try anything stupid and Cray’s pup here will gladly spill your guts lickety-split.”

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The witch’s lumpy form materialized from the shadows as she strode into his line of sight. She was bundled in robes so thick, the only part of her exposed to the cold was the skin on her face, half obscured by the heavy hood pulled over her eyes. Aster’s warm breath crystalized into the air when she spoke. “Are you nearly finished, Sergeant? I was under the impression you didn’t subscribe to torture. Gods above, long-winded speeches out in the cold certainly qualify as barbarism in my book.”

He looked like he wanted to stab her, with words, not his knife. And yet, the confidence wasn’t there. Sergeant Windshot merely shook his head, muttering under his breath, as he shuffled over and cut Dewpetal free from the wooden post.

The little goblin slumped forward with a gurgled whimper. She laid there, lifeless, as if she’d learned long ago that realm soldiers treated dead goblins kinder than their living counterparts. It would have been a commendable performance if it were not for the involuntary tremble that racked her crumpled body.

“Alright, up. The both of you,” the sergeant ordered.

“Gods, Lorn,” Aster scoffed, her voice bitter and laced with derision. “You’re not going to shackle them first?”

“Why? You or one of yours would incinerate them the moment they tried anything anyway.”

Aster held a gloved hand to her forehead with a groan. “This is why you never made captain, you understand that, right? It doesn’t matter if the ropes are pointless or not, it’s about projecting an image. If not for the prisoners or the villagers, then your own men. It’s about giving the impression that you’re in charge.”

“Well I’m not, am I? Not really. You and your boss, Mister Cray, made that perfectly clear, thank you.”

Sascha left them to argue as he slowly staggered to his feet. It was a difficult process, involving lots of false starts, but by some miracle he managed it in the end. His rigid legs were already threatening to collapse out from under him, but Sascha persisted, knowing the circulation would do them some good. It would have to, because he didn’t have a choice. He either made it to the jailhouse on his own two feet or he’d join the growing pile of bodies off to the side, destined for a mass unmarked grave.

He couldn’t do that to Oralia. Gods forbid, she’d held up her end of the bargain and was staying clear of the danger. The least he could do was remain alive a little bit longer.

Sergeant Windshot stared up at him with wide eyes, as if only now realizing the full extent of Sascha’s size. To be fair, it was a look Sascha had grown accustomed to. The fact that it was being worn by his captor made it slightly more concerning than usual, however. Sascha stooped his shoulders to appear slightly less intimidating. The effect was wasted on Sergeant Windshot, who appeared to be regretting his decision regarding the lack of shackles already.

Aster noticed as well. A cruel, tight-lipped smile pulled across her dark complexion. The hood shifted and, for a briefest of moments, Sascha saw two pale, green eyes glistening from beneath the shadow of her cowl. “I take back what I said, Sergeant. Escorting this one unchained will certainly prove your rank in the eyes of the men. Come, let’s go.” She whipped around, her long robes billowing dramatically in her wake. “I’ll accompany you.”

“Dewpetal?” The name scraped in Sascha’s throat like stone against dry sand.

The tiny goblin was slumped across the damp ground, unresponsive. Instinctively, Sascha started to reach for her when Sergeant Windshot leapt to the side, ensuring he was safely out of range. Sascha froze. Alas, any movement, no matter how small, was bound to come across as intimidating when you loomed eight feet in the air. Didn’t help that his captor appeared to be nervous by nature to start with.

“I’m just going to help her up,” Sascha explained, breath bated, eyes locked on the sergeant’s right hand and consequently the sword it was hovering over. Perhaps a bit of placation would help ease the sergeant’s high strung nerves. “If that’s alright with you, sir.”

Assured that he was most definitely the one in charge, Sergeant Windshot gave an affirmative nod. His hand remained resting on the hilt of his sword. “Have at it. And today, if you don’t mind. It’s already starting to sprinkle.”

Sascha bent down and tapped Dewpetal’s shoulder. She turned her head and gazed back up at him through weary, half-lidded eyes. Sascha lifted his hands, urging her to get up. The little goblin tried. She got only a few inches off the ground before her strength gave out and she dropped back down in a trembling heap.

“Corporal,” Sergeant Windshot called to one of the officers dragging the dead faun to the body pile. “You’ll have come back for this one, too, when you’re finished.”

“She’s not that far gone, sir,” Sascha said. “Just cold. I’ll get her.”

The hot flush of panic set in, breathing life back into Sascha’s stiff joints. He knelt on one knee and locked eyes with Dewpetal, trying to convey the urgency of the situation through expression alone. She needed to get up, now, or she’d be on her way to the body pit. Had this been any other member of the team, Sascha would have simply thrown them over his shoulder and called it day. But Dewpetal was a goblin, and goblins detested being reminded of their size. Lifting her from the ground ran the risk of sparking her temper. An angry goblin was no different than a dog gone rabid, as far as most citizens of the realm were concerned. The soldiers would not hesitate to put her out of her misery the moment she bared her teeth.

Sascha tapped both hands to his chest and then folded his arms, as if cradling an infant. Dewpetal lifted her head and looked around, assessing the situation. Her half-lidded eyes swept from Sergeant Windshot, past the cluster of soldiers hovering nearby, and settled on the pile of bodies heaped near the smoldering ruins of Briony’s cottage. Realization struck like a bolt of lightning and Dewpetal made up her mind rather quickly. Gathering the last of her strength, she leapt into Sascha’s awaiting arms and tucked herself into a ball, as if making herself as small as possible would somehow be easier to carry.

She felt like ice in his arms. Sascha heaved up onto his feet and turned back to Sergeant Windshot, only to find the man openly staring, his expression torn between confusion and repulsion. “Is it like a pet then?” the sergeant asked. “Is that why it doesn’t speak?”

Thank the gods Dewpetal didn’t understand enough Utotrian to know what the man said. Sascha would have had to rip her off of the sergeant’s face, whatever was left of it in the handful of seconds it would take to wrench her claws free, of course. “No, not a pet. She’s uh…” Sascha wracked his brain for a way to explain the language barrier without revealing Dewpetal’s secret. Being a goblin was bad enough, but being a goblin from the swamplands was the social equivalent of having a death warrant stamped on your head. The upper western realm territories had been in conflict with the swampies for ages and nobody, particularly not soldiers, took to a trespassing swamplander kindly.

“She’s still a baby,” Sascha said.

“A baby?” Sergeant Windshot repeated, unconvinced.

“Maybe a smidge older. She’s a late bloomer. Hasn’t learned to talk yet.” As if to prove his point, Sascha started to bounce Dewpetal in his arms, feverishly hoping it wouldn’t earn him a faceful of needle-sharp teeth.

“That goblin slew four soldiers and cleaved the arm clear off one of Cray’s witches,” Sergeant Windshot said.

“Her? No.” Sascha feigned disbelief. “Look at the size of her, sir. She’s barely big enough to wield a cheese knife.”

“Today, Sergeant!” Aster’s harsh voice rang out from further up ahead. She’d been forced to stop on the account of no one following her and seemed quite bothered by it. Her bundled frame shivered in the cold beneath the sagging trees.

A faint smirk pulled at the corner of the sergeant’s downturned mouth, as though he took some small delight in her suffering. His sword hand fell harmlessly to his side as he signaled for three of the surrounding soldiers to join the procession. “Alright then, let’s go. Can’t have Mister Cray’s favorite pup out shivering in the cold, can we?”