Goblins were agile, well-suited for moving through the forest, effortlessly avoiding the roots, rocks, and other obstacles in their path.

  However, the goblins’ legs were obviously shorter than a human’s, and what's more, their endurance was lower.

  Coupled with their interrupted sleep, the confusion from losing all three leaders, and the small headstart we gained thanks to the smoke bomb, even keeping pace with the slowest in our group, we had no trouble increasing the distance.

  The slowest one was me, by the way, having used a lot of skills and likely having the lowest overall physical stats when compared to the two Path bearers.

  Regardless, it took us thirty minutes of measured jogging until we no longer heard a single sound in the distance. We were also pretty close to the horses, for the safety of which we could only pray.

  “The.. huff.. captives?”

  Finally, ‘Big’ Jimmy asked the question that's been weighing down on him. Although in his heart, he already knew the answer.

  The deputy threw him a heavy look, and shook his head.

  “They didn't make it.”

  The militia leader's expression sunk, yet he hasn't uttered a word, instead hastening his march ever so slightly.

  Actually, there was another question I wanted to ask… But I chose not to, at least for now.

  “What happens next?”

  After ten more minutes of walking, the big man finally broke his silence once more.

  “We get to the horses – then, we need to make our way to the road-”

  “Not that. The goblins. Our village. Westville.”

  The deputy stayed silent for a moment, before speaking again.

  “Without a leader, the goblins will retreat back to the nest. Since they set up a camp here, it means it's at least a day or two away into the forest. Maybe three, if we're lucky, but I wouldn't count on it.”

  His expression was serious, and his voice was grim.

  “It might take them another day to re-organize, but with how well the shaman planned those two raids, I highly doubt it. Since it has no living sacrifices, there is a high chance it will gather its forces and attack one of the settlements, or perhaps both, in sequence.”

  The militia leader’s expression darkened, as well.

  “Those two raids served as a way to probe the village's defences – it will likely attack Westville first, given the weaker resistance it offered, then go for your village.”

  “...how do you know their resistance was weaker?”

  “You managed to wound their raid leader, more goblins returned from that raid, assuming equal numbers, and finally, that raid produced more captives.”

  “I see. So.. are you saying our village is doomed?”

  “No. The messenger should reach Pine Harbor by noon tomorrow, relaying my message and plan. The sheriff will certainly send reinforcements immediately. With a shaman involved, he might even go himself.”

  “Will they truly make it in time?”

  “They will likely ride through the night with lanterns. If the shaman decides to attack your village first, they would be cutting it a little close, but otherwise, they will certainly arrive on time.”

  Jim unconsciously exhaled in relief.

  “As for Westville, once we reach the road, we shall continue with our journey. When we reach there, we will relay the situation, and hopefully, the villagers will see reason and evacuate.”

  “You think it's going to be that easy for them to abandon their homes?”

  “Unless they wish to defend it against over a hundred goblins, led by a shaman, with perhaps even greater ones – yes, they will abandon their homes. Those who find their resolve fast enough will be able to travel to Brightroot. Those who don't, will have to escape towards Pine peak. They'll either have to go all the way, or stop halfway and hope the goblins do not pursue.”

  Jimmy wanted to retort, but just as he opened his mouth, a familiar cave came into view.

  “There. Just as we left it.”

  Our makeshift camouflage remained as it was.

  We quickly moved aside the branches, evoking a few startled neighs.

  “There, there, girl. Everything’s alright.”

  After slowly approaching Cupcake and calming her down, the deputy turned to us.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  With no objections, we both got on our horses, and began the short journey back to the road.

  Without having to advance cautiously, looking ahead for potential goblin sentries, it took less than 20 minutes to reach our destination.

  “This is where we part ways.”

  Thomas was about to turn his horse northward. Jimmy still looked like he had something on his mind. However, he wasn't the only one.

  “Wait.”

  With Thomas's horse to my left and Jimmy's gray stallion to my right, I slowly stopped Cupcake, locking eyes with the deputy, who stopped his horse and looked back at me.

  “How, exactly, did the captives not make it?”

  Thomas's eyebrow rose up, while his tone became colder.

  “They couldn't be saved.”

  I didn’t answer, yet my gaze remained locked on his bloodied figure, as the tense silence weighed on the three of us.

  I turned my eyes towards Jimmy. The conflict reflected upon his face became even more palpable.

  “You’ve noticed it as well, haven't you?”

  The big man lowered his eyes… before taking a big breath, and raising them again – this time, his gaze was turned towards the deputy.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The conflict was still in his eyes, but now, his gaze also contained a mix of sorrow, blame, and… caution.

  After all, when one had fought enough goblins, he would naturally start distinguishing the brownish hue of their blood from human one.

  And the blood staining the deputy from head to toe… most of it was far too red.

  ***

  tap, tap

  The footsteps reverberating through the long hall were the only audible sound.

  A single man, tall of stature, with curly black hair and eyes matching its colour, was slowly walking forward, each step of his boots stepping on the marble floor producing a distinct sound.

  His defined muscles were visible even from underneath his exquisite white suit, trimmed with literal silver lining.

  At the end of the hall, which intersected with another, smaller one, was a large wooden door.

  In front of that door, stood an older gentleman with short white hair, in black-and-white clothes, quite high end on their own right. Those clothes signified the position of a butler, and their quality and less formal tone spoke of both the family's high standing, and his own standing within it.

  The man in front of the door stood silently, waiting for the other to finally approach.

  “Young master.”

  As the black-haired man neared the door, the butler finally spoke.

  “I'm glad to see you finally return… Even if it had to be under those circumstances.”

  The man's cold expression faltered, and a faint smile shone through – one both warm and melancholic.

  “I’m neither young, nor your master anymore.”

  “Nonsense. You'll always be ‘young master’ to me.”

  The old man’s posture remained stiff and formal, but the corners of his lips tugged upwards.

  “I-”

  “You’re right, Alfred.”

  A second voice came from the left corridor, belonging to a third man.

  The man was slightly shorter than the first, and his smooth black hair was tied in a short ponytail behind his head, but most of his features, including the sharp black eyes, made his uncanny resemblance to the first man fairly obvious.

  “Those four years couldn't have changed him. Even forty years wouldn't.”

  “Brother…”

  The first man's greeting was laced with poison and disdain.

  “Pff. Didn't you say you'd rather die than be called my brother?”

  The newcomer's voice held no less disdain for the first man.

  “I said I’d rather see you dead than call you such.”

  “And yet, as father lays on his deathbed, here you are – crawling out of whatever hole you fled to, like a worm after the rain.”

  For the faintest of moments, the first man's expression flickered with rage, but he regained his composure in an instant.

  “I have no interest in the succession. Let Alfred here bear witness to my words.”

  The third man looked at his brother with a mix of distrust and disbelief, before turning to the old man, Alfred, who answered in an impartial tone.

  “I shall serve as a witness to those words, shall any party attempt to later dispute the claim.”

  The third man squinted his eyes, before looking at his brother with slightly - but only slightly - less disdain.

  “If all you've come here for is to say your farewells, then do so and leave. It has been years since people last spoke of the ‘trash of the Silverton family’. It would be best if that ‘honorary’ title is left forgotten.”

  “You sure like things getting forgotten, Geoffrey.”

  By now, the tone of the first man contained only cold hatred.

  “Like what you did back in that forest. How you killed-”

  “You!”

  The third man, Geoffrey Silverton, raised his voice, his tone insulted to the highest degree.

  “You crawl here, after four years of playing in the mud, and the first thing you do is throw those baseless accusations once again?”

  “I saw you. That's concrete enough for me.”

  “Yeah? If, as you say, you ‘saw’ me, why didn't you stop me back then?”

  Geoffrey's tone now shifted to a mocking one.

  “You were stronger than me. And, even if you weren't, you could have at least reported what you ‘saw’. Yet, for some reason, you only remembered it after the fact, with nothing left to prove or disprove your claim.”

  The first man did not avert his eyes, but his expression faltered - this time, his frustration was visible to both other parties.

  “Instead, you chose to abandon your duties once again. While father was slowly dying, and the rest of us had to take more and more of his responsibilities upon ourselves, you were busy playing folk hero, together with that ungrateful who-”

  “Brother!”

  As the first man’s fists clutched so tightly his knuckles began matching his suit, a fourth voice came from behind Geoffrey. It was a soft, gentle, yet angry and tired voice, belonging to a young woman, who had just arrived at the scene.

  “Please, stop this. Don't start a fight right in front of father's.. bed. He might even be able to hear you - how do you think that would make him feel?”

  Geoffrey opened his mouth, as if to argue, but closed it again, averting his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Penelope.”

  As he spoke, his voice returning to normal once again, he turned to look at his sister, as if the other man no longer existed in his mind.

  “I didn't mean to make you upset. I'll be leaving now...”

  His tone grew colder.

  “I’ve wasted too much of my time on something worthless, anyway.”

  As Geoffrey hastily walked away, the younger woman opened her mouth, as if wishing to say something.

  The first man threw a glance at her - one containing a complex cocktail of emotions.

  “Welcome back, big brother.”

  With those words, filled with more sadness than joy, she turned around, leaving the two men alone in front of the door once more.

  “He is waiting for you, young master. Please, come inside.”

  Without delay, Alfred inserted a small metal rod, adorned by complex carvings and a tiny blue crystal, into the keyhole. The air around the door shimmered, glimmering in a faint blue hue, before a click was heard.

  The butler stepped aside, and the first man put his hand on the finely carved wooden handle, slowly pushing open the door, and stepping inside.

  On the bed, under pristine white sheets, lay an even bigger man than himself. The long hair still had a few black steaks among the sea of white, and the man’s black eyes, despite the dark circles under them, and the otherwise drained look, were still sharp.

  “Son.. I'm glad that you came.”

  The man's voice was weak, yet the steady tone still held traces of strength and nobility.

  “Father…”

  The man's voice was no longer cold, yet it held no heavy grief, either - if anything, it contained the distant, subtle sadness of being reminded of something that was lost long ago.

  “Come and sit.”

  The man motioned at a fine leather armchair near his bed.

  “Welcome home, Bernard.”

  ***

  “Why are you asking this now?”

  The deputy's voice, contrary to my expectation, showed nothing but annoyance.

  “He’s right to ask this question. He… we deserve to hear the truth.”

  “Really? Never expected to hear those words from a soldier.”

  “I left the army a long time ago, sir. Keeping my mouth shut and blindly following orders – I left that life behind me.”

  Thomas turned his eyes back to me. I haven't averted my gaze.

  After a few seconds, he sighed.

  “Are you really going to make me say it?”

  His voice contained no guilt – if anything, he sounded more like an adult exasperated by their child constantly asking why Santa hadn't brought presents that year, refusing to accept a makeshift excuse for an answer.

  “...this is why I hate doing missions with rookies.”

  After a faint mumble, which even I could barely make out, he finally said it.

  “I killed the captives. Every single one.”

  Some of you might have noticed something strange this chapter, and I ain't talking about the blood.