I found myself suspended high above a vast forest, unable to move, as though trapped in a vivid dream. Below me stretched endless green - a living carpet of trees - and far in the distance, mountain ranges rippled toward the horizon. I should’ve been terrified. I’d once frozen halfway across a glass-bottom bridge, but now, hanging a thousand meters in the air, I felt… calm.

  Then I realized why. I had no body.

  I tried to glance down, but there was nothing to see — only awareness, weightless and formless. I could hear the wind rush past, but not feel it. My mind supplied sensations that never arrived.

  This had to be a dream, I told myself. Probably brought on by another late-night TTRPG session.

  Images flickered through my thoughts: my computer desk lit by the glow of Discord, dice clattering in the virtual tabletop, James declaring his thief would drink the polymorph potion. I remembered my own voice, calm and teasing: “You do realize you have a 99% chance of losing your mind instantly?”

  James had laughed. “What could go wrong?”

  Then Rozin became a platinum dragon, saved the city, and flew off into the sunrise. I’d wrapped up the session, logged out, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed — exhausted but satisfied.

  And now… this.

  My first instinct was to move. I willed myself to descend, then stop, then ascend faster, the ground rapidly shrinking beneath me. Nothing about this should have worked, no weight, no momentum, but it did. And it was exhilarating.

  As I rose, the trees shrank beneath me until the world blurred into green and blue. The the sky thinned, darkened, leading me to wonder if I needed to breathe. Reaching the blackness of space, I saw a planet below, a breathtaking expanse of continents, forests, deserts, mountain ranges, and lakes. Two moons, one large green and one red, confirmed this was not Earth.

  Deciding to explore the forest more closely, I descended rapidly, stopping instantly at the surface. The lack of physics was exhilarating, like being in creative mode in a video game. I plunged into the forest canopy, marveling at the unfamiliar birdsong and the intricate details of the giant tree roots and the scurrying insects in the leaf litter. It felt like slipping into a nature documentary made just for me; every leaf, every chirp magnified in perfect detail.

  My next goal was to find a river, hoping it would lead to intelligent life. I ascended a few hundred meters, spotting a subtle gap in the canopy, a promising sign of a stream. As I approached, the sound of flowing water confirmed my hunch. Following the creek downstream, I watched the water meander and small fish dart about. I tried to catch one, but my non-existent hand passed right through. This bodiless state allowed for unique, close observations. I spent ten minutes watching the fish, then decided to seek out birds.

  Following a bellbird-like song, I found a small bird with dark green and orange feathers, completely unaware of my presence. I watched it sing, captivated by its beauty. The long, peaceful moment should have relaxed me, but the longer I watched, the more unease crawled in. Dreams didn’t last this long. Not for me.

  After an hour of birdwatching, I remembered my original quest and easily retraced my path to the creek. Moving through the forest felt second-nature now, a thought, a shift, and I was gliding along the water again.

  I continued downstream at a brisk pace, quick enough to make progress but slow enough to react to anything interesting. The creek eventually fed into a larger river, a more likely place to find inhabitants.

  As I followed the river, something small, green, and humanoid caught my eye. It was a goblin, carrying fish on a stick, wearing a loincloth. Moderately intelligent, it seemed. I followed it to a makeshift village with more goblins. Their rudimentary buildings were functional, and a campfire sizzled with various cooked animals.

  To my surprise, their guttural speech clicked instantly in my mind — not a language I’d learned, but something the world itself seemed to translate for me.

  The fire sat in the center of the camp, thick smoke twisting into the night. From above, I drifted closer, watching their small world circle around it. None of them looked up. I doubted they ever would.

  The cook shouted first. He waved a stick with a half-burnt fish on the end, bits of ash falling with every motion.

  "That all you caught?” the cook snapped, waving a half-charred fish-on-a-stick like a weapon. “Half the day gone, and this is it? Three bloody fish?"

  The fisherman’s ears flattened.

  "If you think it’s so easy, you do it. I stand in the river for hours while you sit here stuffin’ your face."

  "Stuffin’ my face?” the cook barked a humorless laugh. ”I feed the whole camp, you useless muck grubber."

  "Feed? You burn more than you cook!"

  Their words were sharp but familiar, the kind of noise that kept a group alive by giving them something to yell about.

  "Keep talkin’ and I’ll throw you on the fire next!" the cook said, raising the stick.

  Before claws and clubs started flying, a much larger goblin emerged from a tent. Scars crisscrossed his arms, but it was the way the entire camp froze at his presence that told me who he was.

  "Boss picks the jobs," he said. "Don’t like it, leave. Hunters’ll find your bones before sunset."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The smaller goblins dropped their heads. The cook mumbled an apology. The fisherman stared at the dirt. Order returned, not through reason but fear.

  I drifted higher. The firelight caught on rough tools and scraps of meat hanging from poles. Further out, two guards leaned on their spears, pretending to watch the trees.

  "Guardin’s stupid," one muttered, scratching his stomach. "Nothin’ ever happens. Could be sleepin’."

  "Better than fishin’," said the other. "At least we ain’t smellin’ burnt fish all day."

  They laughed, rough, tired laughter, before the first leaned in conspiratorially.

  "Saw the cook lookin’ at me earlier," said the first. "Think she likes me?"

  "She likes eatin’, that’s what. Would chew your arm off before kissin’ you. Only boss gets the women."

  "Ain’t fair. A goblin should get a turn."

  "Then get bigger. Or kill him. That’s how it works."

  "He’s been boss too long. Nearly ten years, they say."

  "Then he’s cursed. Maybe he don’t die."

  "Would serve him right. Keepin’ all the food and women for himself."

  They laughed again. It was rough laughter, made from shared misery.

  From where I watched, it was almost orderly. They fought, they complained, they obeyed. The same pattern, again and again. It was not kindness or loyalty that kept them together. It was hunger, and fear, and habit.

  I left the guards to their talk. Their words told me plenty about what goblins are made of. This camp was cautious, keeping to itself while others probably handled raids. Most of the tribe slept. The boss lay tangled with one of his women, a clear show of status. In a smaller shelter, ten younglings slept close to two females who nursed them in turns. If ten years made a goblin old, then they must grow fast and die faster. I wondered how long before hunger or numbers forced them to split, or kill each other for space. There was nothing else for me to do, so I stayed and watched, waiting to see what they would become.

  Six months passed, or what I believed to be six. Without sleep or hunger, days bled into one another until time felt like a suggestion more than a rule. But patterns emerged, and I clung to them. The sun rose and fell above the goblin camp while I drifted through it all, a silent observer.

  I began to understand their routine. Every few weeks, the shrill cry of a newborn joined the noise, and within another few weeks that same infant was already walking with a crude spear. They grew with alarming speed, driven by instinct more than reason. When food became scarce, the stronger ones attacked the smaller, and those that survived limped into the forest together, forming new groups that would one day repeat the same pattern. The colony never grew beyond fifty before it began to eat itself again.

  The boss ruled through strength alone. Challenges came often, and none succeeded. Those who survived defeat were made his guards, rewarded with scraps of authority and the company of females. I watched this rhythm repeat: birth, growth, challenge, collapse, renewal. It was the only order they knew.

  During those months I also learned something about myself. I did not tire, or thirst, or feel cold. I did not even breathe. The goblins went about their lives unaware of my presence, and I wondered what I was becoming, if I was still anything at all.

  The thought had barely settled when a sound cut through the still air — a soft hiss, almost too quick to notice. One guard stiffened, then collapsed without a word. Another followed, his body folding into the dirt beside the fire.

  For a moment I could not tell what had happened. Then I saw the arrows.

  Shapes moved at the edge of the camp. Human shapes. Two archers, cloaked and deliberate, stepped out from the trees while a heavier figure in chainmail kept behind them. The goblins slept on, unaware.

  The newcomers worked in silence, cutting throats and clearing tents with mechanical ease. When one of the boss’s guards stirred and shouted, an arrow found his throat before the cry was finished. That single sound was enough. The camp woke in chaos.

  The humans moved quickly once the alarm was raised. The rogues withdrew first, a handful of goblins chasing after them. The chase ended in screams as the pursuers fell into a pit lined with sharpened stakes. One survivor tried to crawl out, only for the fighter to take his head with a single strike.

  "Looks like we’re doing it the hard way," the fighter said.

  "One of them woke up at the wrong time," replied one of the rogues.

  "We still got twenty before they noticed," said the other.

  A woman in chainmail stepped forward, her robe marked with a sun symbol.

  "Anyone hurt?" she asked.

  "We’re fine," one rogue said. "Got clear before they could box us in."

  An older man in purple robes chuckled softly.

  "Could be time for a fireball, don’t you think, Cain?"

  The fighter, Cain, nodded.

  "I’ll draw their attention. When they start bunching up, let it go. Jenna, stay close. Chris, you and Norman hang back. Triss, cover the rear."

  Norman, the wizard, raised his staff.

  "Raise your sword when you want it. I’ll be ready."

  I hovered above them, watching how smoothly they worked together. These were not reckless raiders but seasoned hunters. The goblins, half-panicked, still managed to form a defense. Ten archers lined up behind a wall of scrap wood while others waited in ambush.

  Cain advanced, shield raised, arrows striking and falling away. When he lifted his sword, a sphere of fire roared past him and exploded against the barricade. Flames swept through the goblins’ ranks. Cain, Jenna, and Triss ran into the blaze, their armor gleaming in the firelight.

  The goblin boss fled toward his tent, barking orders. Four guards charged Cain. One fell to Triss’s arrow before reaching him. Cain met the rest with sword and shield. Steel cut through flesh and wood clubs. He blocked one strike, but another hit his arm hard enough to stagger him. Jenna stepped forward, her mace crushing a goblin’s skull. Cain slit the throat of another. The last tried to flee, but Triss’s arrow caught him before he reached the trees.

  "A goblin’s getting away!" Cain shouted.

  "On it!" Triss called back as she sprinted off.

  Cain turned toward the nursery.

  "Time to finish it," he said.

  He entered the tent. A female goblin screamed before his blade silenced her.

  “I hate this part," Jenna said quietly. "I’ll stay outside, if that’s alright."

  "Sure. Cover your ears," Cain replied.

  The wailing that followed was short and terrible. When the noise ended, Cain stepped out again.

  "That’s done. Hope Triss catches the runner."

  He looked toward the trees.

  "Norman, it’s safe to approach. Chris, find Triss and help her if she needs it."

  "On the way," said Chris.

  "Coming," said Norman.

  Cain searched the camp, lifting tent flaps and turning over bodies. He found no survivors. Before long, Triss and Chris returned, spattered with mud and blood.

  "We found him," Triss said. "Stubborn one, but he’s dead now."

  "Took a hit for it," Chris added. "Could use some healing."

  Jenna moved to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Her voice was low, calm, almost kind.

  "Solvarn’s grace upon you."

  A faint light glowed under her hand. When it faded, Chris’s wound was gone.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "Don’t mention it. We look after each other," Jenna replied.

  "Cain, need healing?" she asked.

  "No. Armor took most of it. I’ll live."

  Triss smiled faintly.

  "Good work on that pit trap."

  "Your snares helped," Jenna said.

  "Let’s get moving," Cain told them. "That should stop the goblin raids near Holver village. Time to collect our reward."

  The group of five turned back toward the forest trail, leaving behind ash, smoke, and silence.

  I watched them go. I would follow, of course. This was my chance to see a human village in this world.

  I felt a flicker of something like regret. Guard One and Guard Two would not argue again. At least their deaths were quick.