The forest did not care about ink.
It did not adjust because fifty Silver had been written beneath a plank in the southern quarter. It did not pause because names had begun collecting in a ledger.
Beyond the eastern wall, the woodland remained patient.
Patience was not a weakness.
It was an accumulation.
Bradley preferred that clarity. Negotiation with indifference was simpler than negotiation with pride.
Dawn clung low to the outer fields when five men crossed the boundary stones.
Not two.
Five.
Ulric.
Halric.
Toren.
Deorwine.
Bradley.
No escort.
No crowd.
But no longer discreet.
Five sets of boots left an impression in damp soil. Five sets of noise displaced quiet.
Volume had begun.
Ulric adjusted his shield straps.
"If this becomes messy," he said without looking at Bradley, "we burn nothing."
"Correct," Bradley replied.
"And if burning becomes necessary?"
"Then we withdraw."
Halric snorted faintly.
"Withdraw from goblins."
"Yes."
"That is not how hunts are told."
"It is how accounts are balanced."
A thin silence followed.
Not disagreement.
Calibration.
They moved toward the shallow creek again.
Tracks were easier to find.
That was not comforting.
Maelor had been correct—goblin movement had increased along this quadrant.
Three sets of prints. Then five. Then overlapping impressions near the brush line.
Toren crouched.
"More than yesterday."
"Yes," Bradley said.
"Clustered."
"Yes."
Ulric frowned.
"They gather."
"Or reorganize."
Halric shifted his grip.
"Difference?"
"One implies growth. The other implies a response."
Deorwine's bow lifted slightly.
"Response to what?"
Bradley did not answer immediately.
To us.
The first contact was not subtle.
A goblin emerged openly from the brush twenty paces ahead.
It did not charge.
I watched.
Another appeared behind it.
Then a third, further left.
Spacing.
Measured.
Ulric stepped forward instinctively.
Bradley raised a hand.
"Hold."
The goblins did not advance.
They did not retreat.
Deorwine drew but did not lose.
Halric muttered.
"They are not afraid."
"They are measuring," Bradley said.
The fourth goblin broke formation suddenly, darting toward Toren's flank.
That was the real move.
Deorwine's arrow struck the first watcher cleanly.
Ulric closed distance on the second.
Halric intercepted the flanker.
Bradley moved toward the third.
His footing held this time.
He did not rush the strike.
He adjusted angle, forced overextension, drove blade through collarbone and down.
The creature collapsed.
But another shape emerged from the brush beyond.
Not one.
Two.
Bradley recalculated instantly.
"Compress," he said sharply.
Ulric fell back half-step.
Halric adjusted inward.
Formation tightened.
The goblins tested edge distance twice more.
Quick lunges.
Retreat.
Not reckless.
Probing.
Deorwine lost two arrows in rapid succession.
One struck true.
One grazed.
The wounded goblin shrieked and withdrew.
Then silence.
Not complete silence.
Movement further back.
More than five.
Bradley felt the shift.
"Back," he said.
Halric glanced at him.
"We have three down."
"And more unseen."
Ulric hesitated a fraction too long.
That fraction cost.
A goblin burst from a low brush and drove a blade across Ulric's thigh before retreating.
Not deep.
But deliberate.
Ulric swore and drove the shield forward, but the creature had already slipped back.
Blood darkened cloth.
Bradley felt heat spike behind his ribs.
"Withdraw," he repeated.
This time no one argued.
They moved in tight formation, bodies recovered quickly.
Three corpses.
Ulric limping but upright.
Goblins did not pursue far.
They did not need to.
They had learned something.
Back within sight of the boundary stones, Ulric stopped.
"Not deep," he muttered, though blood had begun to seep through fabric.
Bradley crouched.
Cut is not fatal.
But not accidental either.
"They aimed for mobility," Bradley said quietly.
Halric frowned.
"You think they chose him?"
"Yes."
Ulric exhaled.
"I am the largest."
"You are the shield."
Toren's expression tightened.
"They adapt."
"Yes."
"And we?"
Bradley wrapped the wound tightly.
"We respond proportionally."
Ulric looked at him.
"That sounded better yesterday."
"Yes."
At the tavern, the shift was immediate.
Three bodies were delivered.
But one was injured.
The ledger recorded both.
Advance issued: one hundred fifty Silver.
Guild commission pending appraisal.
Ulric refused assistance walking.
"Do not make spectacle," he muttered.
Bradley did not.
But word traveled faster than ink.
By midday, two farmers asked whether the Guild could guarantee "safe hunts."
Bradley answered plainly.
"No."
That quieted the question.
Korvossa's appraiser evaluated the three bodies without comment.
Eighty Silver.
Eighty-five.
Seventy-five.
Condition variance.
Total: two hundred forty Silver.
Guild commission at twenty percent: forty-eight Silver.
Advance paid: one hundred fifty.
Settlement: ninety Silver distributed.
Net Guild gain: negative two Silver after Ulric's medical supply cost.
Bradley recalculated twice before closing the ledger.
Margin narrowing.
Volume is increasing.
Injury cost not previously modeled.
Ulric watched him from the bench.
"You lost a coin."
"Yes."
"Regret?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because the injury was absorbed."
Ulric studied him.
"That is not comforting."
"It is stabilizing."
By evening, eight names now sat beneath the Guild header.
Growth.
But growth without surplus.
Toren spoke first.
"They did not scatter."
"No."
"They rotated."
"Yes."
Halric leaned forward.
"You misjudged the number."
"Yes."
A pause.
"You misjudged your response."
"Yes."
Deorwine crossed his arms.
"And now?"
Bradley considered.
"Next hunt, we split teams. Smaller noise."
Ulric shook his head.
"They track patterns. Splitting makes isolation easier."
Silence.
Maelor, who had entered quietly midway, spoke from the doorway.
"They are not testing fences anymore."
"No," Bradley agreed.
"They are testing us."
"Yes."
"And they are not dying for it."
Bradley did not respond.
That was accurate.
Night fell heavier than the previous evening.
Bradley stood alone in the tavern, ledger open.
Three deliveries.
One injury.
Commission barely covering cost.
Participation rising.
Confidence rising.
Risk rising faster.
He adjusted the board.
Goblin advance reduced from 50 Silver to 45.
Condition bonus added: +5 Silver for intact mana sac.
Ulric watched him from a corner.
"You lower the pay."
"I redistribute incentive."
"And if hunters notice?"
"They will."
"And?"
"They will adjust."
Ulric studied him.
"You accept resentment."
"I accept calibration."
A faint exhale.
"You are becoming less popular."
"That is temporary."
"Confidence was easier."
"Yes."
The following morning, only four men signed for the next hunt.
Two hesitated.
One withdrew.
Volume reduced.
But the margin improved.
Measured loss.
Bradley felt fatigue deeper in his shoulder now.
The block two days earlier had inflamed muscle.
He flexed it slowly.
Pain persisted.
Improvement was not linear.
The forest, however, was consistent.
They found fewer tracks that morning.
Dispersed.
Wider spacing.
"Adapted," Halric muttered.
"Yes," Bradley said.
"And you?"
Bradley did not answer immediately.
He studied the spacing.
Goblins were no longer clustering near the creek.
They were shifting deeper.
Drawing hunts inward.
Longer distance.
More fatigue.
More isolation.
He felt the weight of it settle.
Proof had weight.
Three clean bodies meant noise.
Noise meant response.
He turned back toward the boundary stones earlier than planned.
Halric frowned.
"We barely searched."
"Yes."
"And?"
"They want us further."
Silence.
Ulric nodded slowly.
"Agreed."
They returned without engagement.
No bodies.
No coin.
But no blood.
That evening, murmurs in the tavern carried a different tone.
"Empty," someone muttered.
"Forest quiet," another said.
Bradley recorded zero deliveries.
Advance fund stabilized.
Commission preserved.
But perception shifted.
Ulric sat heavily.
"They repositioned."
"Yes."
"And we?"
Bradley closed the ledger slowly.
"We stop expanding."
Halric frowned.
"Meaning?"
"No increase beyond eight members. No deeper pursuit until pattern stabilizes."
Toren muttered.
"That sounds like retreat."
"It is containment."
Maelor leaned against the wall.
"You thought the coin would scale."
"I thought the structure would."
"And?"
"It is heavier than expected."
Night again.
Eastern wall.
The forest no longer seemed indifferent.
It felt observant.
Three days ago, the Guild sign had meant possibility.
Now it meant provocation.
Goblins had shifted from fence testers to cohesion disruptors.
They had targeted Ulric's leg.
They had widened spacing.
They had drawn hunts inward.
That was not instinct.
That was pressure.
Behind him, the tavern remained lit.
Eight names written.
One injury logged.
One negative cycle absorbed.
Proof of delivery.
Proof of strain.
Bradley flexed his shoulder.
Pain sharpened briefly.
He did not welcome it this time.
It reminded him that scale increased faster than strength.
Tomorrow he will adjust terms again.
Not upward.
Not outward.
Tighter.
More disciplined.
Less noise.
Because the volume invited a response.
And the response, once structured, carried weight.
The forest had begun to apply it.
And for the first time since the board went up—
Bradley understood that proof did not merely build authority.
It attracted opposition.
Which meant the next hunt would not test delivery.
It would test durability.