Chapter 13

  Steve felt it in his bones. It wasn't peace—it was something pretending to be peace. The kind of quiet that comes before something terrible, when even the wind holds its breath.

  He walked beside Keara, watching the others spread out like predators in enemy territory. Finn disappeared into a cabin on the left, shoulders tense like ropes about to snap. Dagon checked another house, moving with that irritating calm. Fog and Jelím went in opposite directions, silent as shadows.

  Steve entered a small cabin.

  The interior was too simple to be true. A table with recent marks of use. Two chairs still bearing impressions on the seats. Straw stacked in the corner, molded to the shape of a body that had slept there.

  Everything in place. Everything clean. Everything wrong.

  As if someone had left fifteen minutes ago to fetch water and simply decided not to return.

  He opened a box in the corner. Empty, but the lid was loose—used today. He checked under the straw. Nothing. But the smell was strange. Metallic. Old.

  He left quickly, heart racing for no apparent reason.

  He tried another house. Same story. Utensils neatly arranged. Clothes folded. A bowl with food that hadn't yet dried.

  Where is everyone?

  The feeling of invisible eyes grew every second. Steve looked at the empty windows, expecting to see something staring back. Nothing. But the sensation remained, clinging to his skin like oil.

  When he returned to the center of the village, the others were already there.

  Finn was losing control.

  He paced like a wounded animal, hand tightening and releasing the sword's hilt. His breathing came in short bursts. The muscles of his jaw twitched under the skin.

  Suddenly he stopped.

  Spun around.

  Kicked a barrel violently.

  The wood exploded, fragments flying in all directions, the entire barrel rolling until it hit a distant house.

  Finn turned to Steve, and there was fire in his eyes.

  — The village you were at a while ago — his voice vibrated — is this one?

  Steve stepped back instinctively.

  — I… I'm not lying — his voice faltered. — It was here. I'm sure.

  Finn advanced.

  — Sure? — he repeated, voice lowering dangerously. — Because if you're stalling while they are—

  — Hey.

  Dagon's voice cut like a cold blade.

  He was no longer leaning against a tree. He was standing. And something about his presence made Finn stop mid-step.

  — Calm down, man — said Dagon, unhurried but weighted like stone. — In times like this, it's better to think with a cool head. Anger only makes you make mistakes you can't undo.

  Finn froze. Breathed in once. Twice. Three times. Closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, the fury had receded—but Steve could still see it just below the surface, waiting.

  Keara broke the tension.

  — Did anyone find any clues?

  Heavy silence.

  Fog shook his head. Jelím remained motionless, her mask hiding everything.

  Dagon sighed.

  — But there was one thing… — Keara began hesitantly. — Did anyone else feel like they were being watched?

  Steve nodded before thinking.

  — Yes — he said. — All the time. No matter where I was.

  — Me too — confirmed Fog.

  Finn let out a humorless laugh.

  — Great — he muttered. — Surrounded and without a single clue.

  He let himself fall to the ground, head in his hands. For a moment he seemed smaller. Younger. More broken.

  — Damn… — his voice strangled. — If we don't hurry… Diana… Jessica… Fena…

  He paused, shoulders trembling.

  — They're all at risk. And I promised.

  The weight of those words sank into the group like an anchor.

  Steve looked around, searching for anything useful, and his eyes fell on the temple at the center of the village.

  — Has anyone checked that temple?

  Everyone turned.

  Finn rose slowly.

  — Not yet — he replied.

  Dagon pushed himself off the tree.

  — Then let's finish this.

  They walked in silence to the entrance.

  The building was larger up close. Ancient black wood, stained with time. Strange symbols deeply carved into the beams—circles, impossible lines, hollow eyes that seemed to follow movement when not looked at directly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Finn reached the door first. Heavy wood, no windows.

  He pushed.

  Locked.

  He stepped back, hand reaching for his sword—

  BOOOOM!

  The sound exploded from all directions.

  It wasn't thunder. It was an announcement. Deep, grave, making bones vibrate.

  The ground shook. Steve almost fell. Trees swayed violently. Birds exploded into flight, screaming as they fled.

  Then the sky disappeared.

  Steve looked up.

  Shadow. Moving shadow.

  No—arrows. Hundreds of them.

  Descending like an apocalyptic rain, whistling, blocking the sky, impossible to avoid—

  — JELíM!

  Dagon's shout tore through the panic.

  The masked woman was already in the air, floating, arms spread.

  She raised her hands above her head.

  The pressure in the air changed instantly.

  Steve felt it in his ears—a snap, like something had been ripped from the world.

  The arrows stopped.

  All of them.

  Frozen mid-air meters from the group, vibrating, held by an invisible force.

  Jelím tilted her head.

  — No need to scream.

  She twisted her wrist.

  The arrows fell like solid rain, covering the ground around them, deadly but harmless.

  Steve let out a trembling sigh.

  Then they heard it.

  A rumble. Distant.

  Another. Closer.

  Another. Much closer.

  Coming from all directions, making the ground tremble.

  Finn held his sword.

  — Stay alert — he said. — Looks like we're getting company.

  The forest exploded.

  From the trees, the houses, holes in the ground—hundreds of goblins.

  Green skin. Yellow, hungry eyes. Irregular teeth. Crude axes raised.

  They ran in chaotic hordes, tripping over one another, screaming guttural sounds.

  Finn assessed in half a second.

  No escape. Surrounded.

  Only one choice.

  — Attack!

  Finn moved first.

  His sword cut the air in a perfect arc. The first goblin lost its head before it understood what was happening. Finn spun in the same movement, slicing two more in half at the stomach.

  He didn't stop.

  Leapt back, dodging an axe by millimeters, counterattacked. An upward strike ripped another enemy's chest.

  Rolled. Rose attacking.

  The sword described deadly circles. Each movement flowed into the next without pause. No waste.

  Heads rolled. Limbs flew. Every strike had purpose.

  But Steve saw the truth—Finn fought with barely contained fury. Each kill was desperation turned into violence.

  Jelím floated serenely.

  Goblins ran toward her, screaming, axes raised.

  She waited.

  Closer.

  A delicate gesture of the hand.

  The axes were instantly ripped away, floating in the air.

  They turned.

  Attacked their own masters.

  Blades pierced throats. Skulls cracked. Bellies split.

  Goblins fell en masse, killed by their own weapons.

  Jelím tilted her head.

  — I'll give a sample of the real power of a manipulator.

  She snapped her fingers.

  Small sound. Delicate.

  Horrible effect.

  The goblins running froze. They stood motionless, confused.

  Then they turned on each other.

  And began to kill.

  Claws tore faces. Teeth bit necks. Axes shattered skulls.

  The horde devoured itself while Jelím observed, floating above the massacre.

  Dagon fought without flourish.

  A goblin jumped. Dagon barely dodged—the blade passed centimeters from his face—and counterattacked, slicing the arm off at the elbow.

  Three came running. He advanced toward them, slid under the first, cut the legs of the second, rose, and pierced the heart of the third.

  Three seconds. Three kills.

  No expression. No anger.

  Just work.

  Another behind. Dagon blocked, used the momentum to kick brutally. The creature flew back, knocking down two more.

  Stab. Stab. Stab.

  Economic. Precise. Lethal.

  And while killing, his eyes occasionally checked Steve, making sure the boy was still breathing.

  Fog knelt in the center of the chaos.

  Placed his hands on the ground. Closed his eyes.

  Muttered words in an ancient language.

  — Earth Throw.

  The ground exploded.

  Head-sized rocks rose as if spat by the planet. Compressed earth. Uprooted roots.

  Everything floated around him.

  Fog opened his eyes.

  The projectiles launched.

  They flew at insane speed, crushing everything.

  Skulls exploded. Bodies flew meters away. Some tried to block—the weapons shattered.

  Fog remained motionless, controlling everything with small finger movements.

  Earth turned weapon. He, the executor.

  Steve fought differently.

  No technique. No training. No confidence.

  He held the sword with both hands, fingers white from tension, sweating, breathing too fast.

  A goblin ran at him.

  Steve lifted the sword instinctively.

  The axe came down.

  Metal met wood.

  The impact ran through his arms like a shock. He held, but trembled violently.

  Pushed back desperately.

  Advanced—not from courage, but panic—and attacked.

  Clumsy strike. Awkward.

  But it hit.

  The blade sank into the goblin's shoulder, scraping bone.

  The creature screamed—almost human sound—and hot blood sprayed Steve's face.

  He tasted it.

  Iron. Salt. Bitter.

  He pulled the sword, hands slipping on the bloodied hilt, and attacked again.

  And again.

  Until the creature stopped.

  Steve stepped back, panting, shaking.

  Looked at the corpse.

  At the blood on his hands.

  I killed.

  — Steve! Behind!

  Keara's voice.

  He spun. Another goblin.

  Blocked. Attacked. Survived.

  No time to process. Just react.

  Keara was behind, protected, hands glowing as she healed from afar.

  Steve fought to keep her safe.

  Each strike was desperation. Each move, instinct.

  But he stayed standing.

  Still alive.

  The ground shook differently.

  Brutal impact.

  The forest split.

  Three figures emerged.

  Hobgoblins.

  Over eight feet tall. Grotesque muscles. Long arms. Stone axes stained with old blood.

  The first roared—deep sound, vibrating in the air—and ran.

  Straight for Finn.

  Each step made the ground groan.

  The hobgoblin closed the distance in seconds.

  Raised its axe with both hands.

  Brutal downward strike.

  Finn blocked.

  The impact was absurd.

  The shockwave lifted dust. Nearby goblins were thrown.

  Finn held.

  But was forced to his knees.

  The ground cracked beneath him, fissures spreading like webs, stones splitting.

  He screamed—not in pain, but in effort—and pushed.

  The hobgoblin didn't move.

  Smiled.

  And struck again.

  The second hobgoblin turned toward Jelím.

  Each step made the world tremble.

  Jelím pointed calmly.

  — Go, my servants. Finish that giant.

  The controlled goblins turned like puppets.

  Dozens ran at the hobgoblin, screaming.

  The giant crushed them.

  One strike. Five exploded.

  Another strike. Four shredded.

  Blood covered everything.

  But they kept coming.

  Climbing the legs, embedding axes, teeth, claws.

  There were too many. Too much blood. Too many bites.

  The hobgoblin staggered.

  More climbed.

  Covered its body like a swarm.

  Fell to its knees.

  Then face-first.

  Was eaten alive.

  Steve watched, horrified.

  This isn't strategy. It's sacrifice.

  The third attacked Dagon.

  Strike after strike, the axe descended brutally.

  Dagon retreated. Flip. Roll. Jump.

  Only evading, each move economical.

  Waiting.

  For the mistake.

  The hobgoblin raised too much, exposing its left side.

  Dagon dodged instantly.

  Ran straight at it.

  Jumped high.

  Spun, sword above head, plunged.

  The blade pierced the skull top to bottom.

  The giant fell.

  Dagon landed lightly.

  Pulled his sword.

  Cleaned it on the creature's clothes.

  Kept fighting as if nothing had happened.

  Finn still fought.

  Each block forced him lower.

  I can't lose.

  Diana. Jessica. Fena.

  I promised.

  The hobgoblin struck again.

  Finn didn't block.

  Rolled forward at the last second, passing under the attack.

  Spun.

  Cut.

  Horizontal. Low. Precise.

  Sliced through both tendons.

  The hobgoblin fell to its knees.

  Then face-first.

  Finn jumped on its back, running along the spine, and when he reached the head, raised the sword.

  Drove it straight into the heart.

  The creature shuddered.

  Stayed still.

  The remaining goblins hesitated, looking at the dead giants.

  Steve felt it.

  Something was wrong in the air.

  Absence.

  He turned his head.

  Saw the glint. Tiny. Metallic.

  Flying toward him.

  The brain didn't process.

  I'm going to die.

  Dagon was there.

  Hadn't run. Simply was.

  The hand moved in a blur.

  Grabbed something mid-air.

  The poisoned needle stopped centimeters from Steve's eye.

  For an eternal second, no one breathed.

  Steve stared at the tip—black, shiny, oil dripping.

  If that had…

  Dagon released the needle.

  Grabbed his sword.

  Threw it.

  The blade flew like lightning, spinning, whistling.

  Up.

  THUNK.

  A scream.

  Something fell from a tree—a black-robed body, arm pierced by the sword, pinned to the trunk.

  Dagon turned his head slightly.

  — Jelím.

  She raised her hand.

  The cultist's limb was ripped from the tree and floated.

  Thrown to the center, falling heavily among goblin bodies.

  The veil slid.

  Distorted mouth exposed.

  Steve felt bile rise.

  — He's one of them — he muttered.

  Finn was already moving.

  Grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him.

  — Speak! — he shouted. — Where are the victims?!

  The man smiled.

  — By… the Goddess…

  Distorted voice, carrying ecstasy.

  Something broke in Finn.

  He let go with one hand.

  Raised his sword.

  Trembling, ready to decapitate—

  — Calm down.

  Dagon's hand closed on Finn's wrist.

  Not with force. Just pressure.

  Finn stopped.

  — I said. Cool head. Anger only kills our only lead.

  Finn breathed heavily.

  Then lowered the sword slowly.

  Dagon turned to Jelím.

  — Can you control his mind?

  Jelím hesitated.

  — My manipulation is weak. Only mindless creatures.

  Dagon looked at the cultist. At the destroyed mouth. Empty eyes.

  Smiled.

  — Try. Because from what I see, this guy has no intellect.

  Jelím sighed, raised her arm.

  Closed her eyes.

  Silence.

  Her fingers twitched.

  The cultist shuddered. Head spun too fast.

  Eyes lost focus.

  Jelím opened her eyes.

  — Got it.

  Finn exhaled.

  — Make him lead us to the leader. Now.

  The cultist

  stood.

  Rigid, unnatural movements.

  Started walking.

  Straight to the temple.

  The group followed.

  When they arrived, the cultist pushed the locked door.

  Opened it easily.

  They entered.

  Interior simple. Chairs. Bizarre statues on the walls.

  At the back, a huge sculpture—a naked woman, eyeless, mouth open screaming, hair falling like roots.

  The cultist walked to the base.

  Kneeled.

  Inserted fingers into a crack.

  Pulled.

  A trapdoor opened.

  Stairs descending into absolute darkness.

  The group stopped.

  Steve looked at the others.

  — You know this could be a trap, right?

  Finn walked to the edge.

  Looked down.

  — Let's find out.

  And began descending.