Max stayed in his vantage point until the sun dipped low and shadows stretched long across the forest floor. The goblin camp was alive with movement — patrols cycling through their routes, sentries posted in the towers, and that massive Hobgoblin striding between huts like a warlord surveying his domain.

  He spent hours watching, memorizing the rhythm. The guard rotations ran like clockwork: two-man patrols changing every twenty minutes, a five-minute lull between shifts along the eastern side. It wasn’t much, but it was the only real gap in their coverage.

  He kept his eyes on the Hobgoblin. It never stayed in one place long, barking orders, inspecting weapons, and even pausing to personally check the perimeter. Whoever — or whatever — this creature was, the goblins treated it like a commander.

  When full darkness fell and the cookfires burned low, Max made his move.

  He ghosted down the ridge, every step careful, eyes tracking the distant shapes of the patrols. Timing it with the shift change, he slipped into the eastern blind spot, blinking forward to clear an open stretch of ground before ducking behind a half-collapsed watch post.

  A goblin sentry passed within five feet of him, eyes scanning the wrong direction. Max’s grip tightened on the hilt of his new sword, but he let the guard pass. No reason to start the fight before he was ready.

  He moved deeper into the camp, weaving between crude huts and stacks of supplies. At the far edge, a group of goblins sat around a low fire, their weapons propped against a log. Six in total. Perfect.

  Max crept closer, staying low until he was right at the edge of the firelight. Then he struck.

  The first goblin never saw him coming — a quick, clean slash across the throat dropped it before it could make a sound. The second turned at the movement, but Max stepped in and drove his blade through its chest, yanking it free as it collapsed.

  The others scrambled for their weapons, but Max was already moving. His sword flashed in the dim light, severing an axe handle before burying itself in the wielder’s collarbone. Another goblin lunged with a spear; Max sidestepped, letting the thrust glide past before bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead strike that split its skull.

  Two remained. One roared and charged; Max ducked low and slashed through its hamstring, pivoting to finish it with a stab to the spine. The last tried to flee, but Max blinked forward, cutting it down with a swift, decisive strike.

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  The whole fight had taken less than ten seconds but the damage was done.

  Max didn’t linger, not wanting to risk being discovered behind enemy lines. He grabbed anything worth selling — a pair of iron axes, some bone charms, a pouch of coins — and kicked the rest into the fire, scattering embers into the night. The small blaze caught on a nearby stack of crates, and soon the air filled with shouts as goblins rushed to contain it.

  Perfect cover for an exit.

  As the goblins rushed in to put out the fire, Max retraced his route, slipping back into the shadows beyond the camp perimeter. His breathing slowed as the noise of the camp faded behind him. The forest embraced him again, quiet and dark. He was already thinking of his next steps when something made him glance back.

  And froze when he saw it.

  In the flickering light of the campfires, the Hobgoblin stood at the very edge of the camp. Not moving. Not speaking. Just staring directly at him. Eyes piercing into his very soul.

  Even from this distance, Max felt it — a weight pressing against his chest, a primal warning screaming in the back of his mind. This wasn’t the wild, reckless aggression of normal goblins. This was something older, sharper, and far more dangerous.

  Max tore his gaze away and kept moving, forcing his steps to stay steady. He was already outside the camp, beyond immediate danger, but the Hobgoblin’s stare followed him like a shadow.

  When he was finally sure no one was pursuing him, he let out a slow breath. “I’m going to have to pull out every trick I’ve got to bring that one down,” he muttered.

  And for the first time in a long while, Max wondered if even that would be enough.

  He put as much distance between himself and the camp as the night allowed. But the forest didn’t feel the same anymore. It was darker, heavier somehow. Every whisper of wind through the branches had weight, every rustle in the undergrowth made his hand twitch toward his sword.

  Max searched for shelter, but nothing seemed right. A hollow beneath a fallen tree? Too cramped. A narrow gap between boulders? Too easy to trap him inside. Even when he finally found a shallow overhang in a rocky hillside, he didn’t feel safe — just less exposed.

  He settled in, stacking a crude barrier of brush in the opening, but sleep refused to come. Every time his eyelids drooped, the image of the Hobgoblin staring at him burned in his mind. That look wasn’t just recognition — it was a promise.

  Somewhere in the night, he swore he heard movement. Not the loud, clumsy steps of a patrol, but the faint, deliberate crunch of weight on leaves. Twice, maybe three times, it came and went — always just far enough away that he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his imagination.

  Max sat with his back to the stone wall, sword across his lap, forcing himself to breathe slow and steady. “Just the wind,” he whispered, though his ears strained for the sound again. Every little noise he heard, every gust of wind made Max worried he wasn’t alone.

  It was a long night. And when the first light of dawn finally crept over the treetops, Max rose stiff and bleary-eyed, more tired than when he’d sat down.

  The Hobgoblin hadn’t followed him. But that didn’t matter. The fear had.