The Three Crowns didn't feel the same after the feast.
Bellies were full, but the air stayed tight. Voices were lower. Laughs cut off too quickly. Goblins leaned closer when they spoke, eyes flicking toward the lake, toward the forest paths, toward shadows that hadn't moved a moment ago but might.
Fear didn't make goblins quiet.
It made them political.
Vark noticed it while helping a trapper re-tighten a rope bridge that hadn't needed tightening. The trapper talked too much, hands working without focus.
"Metal-men smart," the trapper muttered. "Smart like curse."
"Yes," Vark said.
"They come back," the trapper continued. "Always come back."
"Yes."
The trapper glanced at him. "You think hiding work forever?"
Vark didn't answer right away. He pulled the knot snug, tested it, then said, "No. But hiding buy time."
The trapper grunted. "Time for what?"
Vark met his eyes. "For us to learn."
That answer didn't seem to satisfy him.
It didn't satisfy most goblins either.
By midday, the murmurs had shape.
By evening, they had teeth.
Boss Mokh called the tribe together on the central platform as the sun dipped low and painted the lake copper-red. The Bogkin totem clicked softly in the distance, a reminder that even the water listened.
Mokh stood stiffly, one hand resting on his spear, the other on his wounded side. He looked tired—but his eye was sharp.
"We talk," Mokh said. "Now."
Goblins gathered. Not all—some stayed on watch, some minded the young—but enough that the platform creaked under the weight.
Drukk Ear-Torn stood near the front.
He hadn't moved closer accidentally.
Drukk was leaner than most goblins, all angles and tension. His torn ear gave him his name, but it was his eyes that made goblins step aside—small, bright, always measuring. He'd survived by being quicker to turn than others. Quicker to blame. Quicker to bite.
Behind him stood two goblins who hadn't always stood together before.
The first was Kreznik Hooknose.
Kreznik was broad-shouldered and hunched, with a long, crooked nose that bent sharply to one side, broken long ago and never set right. He wore bits of bone and shell tied into his hair—not trophies, but tools. Hooks, scrapers, sharpeners. A scavenger by trade, but one who preferred taking from the living rather than the dead.
The second was Snagga Reedscar.
Snagga was smaller, wiry, with pale scars crisscrossing his arms and throat—thin lines like cuts from reeds pulled too tight. He moved softly, almost politely, but his eyes never stopped flicking. A former scout who'd been demoted after panicking during a worg sighting. Bitter. Quiet. Dangerous in the way silence often was.
They stood just behind Drukk, not touching him, but close enough to be unmistakable.
A side.
Vark felt the shift in his gut before Drukk spoke.
"Boss," Drukk said, voice loud enough to carry. "We hide. We wait. We starve."
Mokh didn't respond immediately.
Drukk pressed on. "Metal-men map us. Bog-water mark us. We sit in trees like bugs and hope forest eat enemies first."
A few goblins muttered agreement.
Others hissed disapproval.
Mokh raised his hand. Silence returned.
"We not starve," Mokh said. "We eat. We plan. We live."
Drukk sneered. "We eat scraps. Bark. Fish we don't take because mud-people say no."
He pointed toward the lake. "Fish right there."
Mokh's voice hardened. "Fish that kill goblins."
Drukk laughed sharply. "One goblin drown because stupid."
That earned a snarl from several trappers.
Vark stepped forward before Mokh could explode.
"Not stupid," Vark said. "Panicked. Panic kill."
Drukk turned his gaze on him like a blade finding flesh. "You say that because you talk clean. You think clean. You forget goblin way."
"What way?" Vark asked. "Die loud?"
The platform rippled with sharp laughter and angry clicks.
Drukk's torn ear twitched. "Goblin way is take. Before taken."
Kreznik Hooknose grunted in agreement. "Mud-people slow. Soft. They sink, not strike."
Snagga Reedscar spoke quietly, almost thoughtfully. "Bogkin don't bleed like us. They scare. But scare fade."
Mokh's eye flicked to them. "You want raid."
Drukk smiled. "Yes."
The word landed heavy.
"Night raid," Drukk continued. "Quick. Fish, reeds, maybe one mud-thing head if lucky. Show them lake not theirs."
Murmurs surged.
Some goblins leaned forward, teeth bared in interest.
Others shifted uneasily.
Mogrin tugged lightly at Vark's sleeve, whispering, "Bad."
"Yes," Vark murmured back.
Mokh stepped forward, spear tip scraping wood. "No," he said flatly.
Drukk's smile didn't fade. "Why?"
"Because they not prey," Mokh said. "They guard. They wait. They drown."
Drukk shrugged. "Everything drown if enough weight."
Mokh's good eye flashed. "And metal-men hear noise. Then what?"
Drukk spread his hands. "Then they fight mud-people. Not us."
The words hung there.
That idea—let others bleed for us—sparked something ugly and tempting in the crowd.
Vark felt it. The logic was simple. Brutal. Goblin-simple.
Mokh felt it too.
"That thinking," Mokh said slowly, "get tribe eaten between two mouths."
Drukk stepped closer. "Or it make tribe strong."
Mokh jabbed his spear into the platform. "This not vote. This law."
Drukk's eyes narrowed. "Law only strong if goblins follow."
A hush fell.
That was dangerous talk.
Mokh stared at Drukk for a long moment. The old Boss—the one before wounds and losses—might have struck him down for that.
This Mokh didn't.
"Enough," Mokh said. "Meeting done."
Goblins hesitated, then slowly broke apart, clusters forming instantly. Whispered arguments sparked like dry leaves.
Drukk didn't move.
Neither did Kreznik or Snagga.
They stood together, talking in low voices, heads close.
Vark watched them from across the platform, unease coiling tight in his chest.
"They not stop," Mogrin whispered.
"No," Vark agreed. "They count."
Night fell thick and heavy.
Vark didn't sleep.
He sat near the upper roots where the bound human scout was hidden, checking the vines quietly, listening to breathing. The man was still unconscious, chest rising shallowly.
Mogrin crouched nearby, sling resting against his knee.
"They talk below," Mogrin whispered.
"Yes."
"They angry."
"Yes."
Mogrin hesitated. "Vark… if goblins split…"
Vark closed his eyes briefly. "Then forest eat smaller half first."
That wasn't comfort. It was truth.
A faint rustle came from the roots.
Vark's eyes snapped open.
The human scout jerked suddenly, groaning, shoulders twisting.
"He wake," Mogrin whispered, panic flaring.
Vark moved instantly, reaching to tighten the bindings—
Too late.
The scout surged with desperate strength, snapping one vine cord, then another. His eyes flew open, wild with terror.
He sucked in a huge breath.
Vark lunged—
THWACK.
The sound was sharp, wet.
The scout's head snapped sideways. His body went limp instantly, collapsing back into leaves.
Silence slammed down.
Mogrin stood frozen, sling still extended, eyes wide.
The stone had struck perfectly—temple, angle clean, force precise.
Blood seeped into the leaves.
Vark stared.
Mogrin swallowed. "He… shout."
"Yes," Vark said quietly. "He would."
The blue window flared before Mogrin's eyes.
Human Scout — Killed+60 EXPLevel Up!
Mogrin blinked, breath hitching. "Blue… words."
Vark steadied him, gripping his shoulder. "Later," he murmured. "Breathe."
Footsteps sounded below.
Voices.
Drukk's voice.
"Noise," someone hissed.
Vark's gut clenched.
They hid the body fast—deeper under roots, covered with leaf mold and mud. Not perfect. But enough for now.
When Drukk and two others appeared on the lower platform, Vark was already standing casually, spear in hand.
"What happen?" Drukk demanded.
"Branch break," Vark said evenly. "Night wind."
Drukk stared at him, eyes sharp, searching for cracks.
Mogrin stood silent, face pale but controlled.
Drukk's gaze flicked between them, then he clicked his tongue. "Careful. Night dangerous."
He turned away.
But the damage was done.
The human was dead.
There would be no quiet release. No misinformation.
Metal-men would notice one missing.
Later that night, scouts came to Vark quietly.
One, a thin goblin named Rilf, whispered, "That sling… Mogrin use. Good."
Another nodded. "Quiet kill."
They didn't say it out loud, but the meaning was clear.
Make more.
"We talk tomorrow," Vark said softly.
Far below, near the lake, a shape moved in the dark.
Too many goblins were awake.
And somewhere among them, Drukk Ear-Torn was counting heads.
Planning.
When the first goblin slipped away from the platforms toward the shore, long past midnight, no alarm sounded.
Not yet.
But Vark felt the Gut-Thread tighten like a noose.
Something bad had already started walking.