The Circle Beneath the Cliffs

Night had fallen like a velvet shroud, thick and absolute, as Nyxie crept through the undergrowth behind the wiry scout. The forest was a tangle of shadow and silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the soft crunch of boots on damp earth. Her white stockings were already streaked with mud, and the hem of her micro kilt clung damply to her thighs. She didn’t care. Not tonight.

Behind her, the detachment moved with practised caution—scouts fanning out like whispers through the trees, while the heavier goblin spearmen and archers followed in a looser formation. Their armour and weapons clinked softly, each sound a needle in Nyxie’s nerves. She winced at every misstep, every snapped twig. The forest felt too still, too watchful.

Then the sound began.

A strange, shuddering noise, carried on the forest wind. At first it was indistinct, like wind through bone-dry branches, but as they crept closer, it grew—layered voices, chanting in a language that scraped at the edges of understanding. The cadence was wrong, the rhythm unnatural. It rose and fell like a tide of madness, and beneath it, woven like thread through cloth, came the screams. female screams, agonised and high-pitched, cracking under the pressure of continued torment. Cries that sometimes begged, sometimes wept, and sometimes simply shrieked until the lungs ran out.

Nyxie’s breath caught in her throat. She exchanged a glance with the scout beside her, who gave a grim nod and gestured forward.

They were close.

Through a narrow ravine choked with brambles and dying trees, the forest fell away to a shallow incline of open dirt and scattered brush. At the edge, she motioned for her force to halt and belly-crawled the last few feet. The scout beside her did the same.

The ruined watchtower sat in the hollow like a broken tooth, leaning and crumbling from the base. Its stones were cracked and scorched, the top long since collapsed, leaving only a squat cylinder of rubble and creeping ivy. As Nyxie studied the ruin, something in its stance tugged at her memory. The structure’s bones were wrong for a watchtower. The way it sat in the land—almost as if the earth itself had been shaped around it—gave her a quiet jolt of recognition. Not a watchtower at all. A wizard’s tower, long dead and half‑swallowed by time.

And with that recognition came another: the mana that once pooled here would have seeped into the soil over countless cycles, saturating the hollow. No wonder the Ratkin had chosen this place. Even in ruin, the land would still hum with the residue of old workings—an easy well to draw from, a perfect anchor for their dark magic.

Below it, the camp sprawled in disarray, a mess of tents and lean-tos clustered around a central ritual circle. Blue flames flickered from braziers, casting eerie shadows across the clearing. The symbol etched into the centre of the circle pulsed with a sickly light, veins of magic writhing like worms beneath its surface.

Five robed figures stood at the circle’s edges, each chanting in time with their casting. Their hands moved in precise, unnatural gestures, drawing sigils in the air that shimmered and vanished. In the centre, bound to the ground by glowing chains, was the source of the screams—a female adventurer, her body bound and contorted, writhing as magical tendrils of light tore through her nerves. Her screams arced into the night like flares of despair.

Nyxie’s stomach turned.

Around the circle stood fifteen massive standing stones, each one etched with runes and bound with thick iron chains. And to each stone, an adventurer was tied.

They were beautiful. All of them.

The males were sculpted like statues, muscles taut and glistening with sweat, their biceps straining against their bonds. The females were no less striking—slender waists, flawless skin, hair cascading like silk even in captivity. Their eyes were wide with fear or dulled by enchantment, but their presence was undeniable.

Nyxie looked at them, they were all in various states of undress, their clothes ripped and tattered to reveal tantalising glimpses of toned flesh. A buxom elven maiden straining against her bonds, whilst seeming to let out a pitiful whimper, her ample breasts heaving with each ragged breath and sweat-matted golden hair clinging to her face.

A hulking dwarf with a thick beard and bulging biceps, straining against the chains that bound him to the stone. His eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep and filled with despair, gazed out at his captors. A purple bruise mottled the side of his neck, another souvenir from a beating. Whilst a lithe halfling rogue hung defeated, her leggings torn to reveal a creamy thigh and a pert bottom barely covered by her lacy undergarments.

But what Nyxie also noticed was that they weren’t just prisoners—they were fuel.

From each of them, a stream of magic flowed—thin, silvery threads that drifted toward the circle, feeding it. And from the circle, a thicker current surged northward, vanishing into the darkness beyond the cliffs.

To one side, beneath a leaning canopy of rotting canvas, a large cage held a cluster of adventurers and NPCs—humans, elves, dwarves, even a half‑orc. Some rested their heads against the cold metal, hollow‑eyed; others rocked silently, lost in themselves. Their spirits were as threadbare as their clothes.

In the camp Ratkin lounged and shuffled between warped tents and crude scaffolds, all of it reeking of haste and long habitation. Cooking fires smouldered low. Meat—some unidentifiable—hung from strings. Flies danced in the air.

Nyxie looked down at the guards, just beneath the tree line, they were scattered, weapons resting in their claws, too few for any real defence but placed anyway. They looked inattentive, or bored.

Her breath trembled as she slowly backed down from the ridge. Her thoughts swirled as indecision crept in.

It was all too open. Too vulnerable. But not defended properly. The layout was inviting assault.

She looked around at her goblins. Many of them stared at her now, not at the camp below. The decision was hers. Her first true command. Her chest felt tight. She didn’t want to fail—not in front of them. Not with Grashok counting on her.

She forced her shoulders back and inhaled, deep and quiet. What would he do?

Not hesitate.

She whispered to the nearest archer, her voice a precise thread in the darkness. “Mark the guards near the cage. If they try to hurt the prisoners, take them down first.”

She gestured to the scout captain, drawing a path through the undergrowth with her fingers. “Split left, slow crawl. Flank them under the tree line. Wait for my signal.”

Then to the spearmen behind her, she tapped three on the shoulder and pointed directly downhill. “You take point. Wait for the volley. Then charge the circle. Stop the ritual.”

Her hands trembled only slightly.

As orders spread like ripples through water, the goblins began moving. Silent. Intent. She saw the eyes of her warriors now, not doubting, not questioning—waiting.

Waiting for her word.

Nyxie drew in a breath and settled lower, eyes fixed on the glowing sigils and the adventurer who still writhed in agony. Somewhere far away, thunder growled over the cliffs. The blue flames flickered.

It had to be now. Or never.

The moment hung, stretched taut like a bowstring.

Then Nyxie exhaled—and snapped her fingers.

A single spark flared in the darkness, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared. But it was enough. The signal had been given.

From the treeline, the first volley of arrows hissed through the air like a swarm of angry wasps. The silence shattered. The Ratkin guards near the cage barely had time to turn their heads before the shafts struck—one in the throat, another through the eye, a third pinned to the ground with a gurgling scream. The fourth stumbled back, shrieking, before a second arrow caught him in the chest and drove him into the dirt.

The prisoners in the cage flinched, some crying out, others simply staring in disbelief. But none were harmed.

A second volley followed a heartbeat later, this one aimed deeper into the camp. Arrows thudded into tents, into lounging Ratkin who scrambled to their feet too late. Some managed to roll to cover, ducking behind rocks or tents. Others weren’t so lucky—knees punctured, lungs impaled, necks opened silently.

Chaos bloomed.

From somewhere in the central circle, one of the Ratkin casters broke from the ritual, shrieking something in a broken dialect. The pulsing sigils flared, blue light shuddering as the casters adjusted to the disruption. But the light didn’t go out—it grew steadier.

Damn, Nyxie thought. They’re compensating for interference.

Her eyes cut to the left, where her scout detachment waited in the thickets.

She raised her hand again—fist closed.

Three heartbeats.

Then opened it.

The trees rustled—barely perceptibly—as the scouts surged forward. Dozens of small forms, wrapped in shadow and cloth, swept from the forest like a wave of sharp teeth. They moved in complete silence, feet striking dirt and moss with the grace of ghosts.

The first Ratkin sentry at the outer line never knew he’d been spotted. A knife slit his throat before he could lift his blade. The scout’s hand caught the falling body, easing it silently into the grass. More followed—stabbing low, hard, brutally efficient.

The Ratkin near the tents turned too slowly. One raised a horn, but it never reached his lips. A spear punched through his side and lifted him into the air before he crumpled. Another fell backward as two scouts dragged him down, blades working in a blur.

Within moments, the left flank of the Ratkin line was gone.

But the centre was waking.

Ratkin warriors stumbled out of tents now, shrieking in their broken tongues, dragging crude weapons and clanging iron scraps. A few of them lit lanterns. Some ran straight into waiting arrows; others rallied near the ritual circle, forming a loose, desperate perimeter.

Nyxie ducked lower as a lucky arrow snapped past her head and embedded in a tree behind her.

They knew she was here now.

Fine.

Let them know.

She rose to a crouch, watching her scouts melt into the undergrowth after delivering their blows, preparing for the next move. Already, her right flank archer units were repositioning. The spearmen behind her adjusted their grips.

Nyxie glanced down at the glowing ritual once more. The tendrils of magic still danced, still writhed around the bound adventurer whose cries had turned hoarse. The central caster’s arms rose and fell in complex patterns, maintaining the spell’s awful rhythm.

Not for much longer, Nyxie thought, green eyes narrowing.

This had just begun.

She turned to the spearmen behind her, her voice sharp. “Now! Go!”

The lead trio surged forward, boots pounding the slope. Behind them, more followed—dozens of goblins, spears levelled, war cries rising to meet the storm of noise below.

Nyxie stood tall, the wind catching her hair and the hem of her kilt. Her hands began to glow with arcane light, magic coiling around her fingers like smoke.

The real battle had begun.

The goblin spearmen surged down the slope like a living wave, their formation tight, shields raised, spears angled forward in a deadly forest of steel. Their boots struck the earth in unison, a thunderous rhythm that echoed across the clearing. The Ratkin, though greater in number, were scattered and disorganised—half-dressed, half-armed, and wholly unprepared for the disciplined assault that now bore down upon them.

They shrieked in their broken tongue, some charging forward with rusted blades, others hesitating, eyes wide with panic. The first clash was brutal. Goblin spears punched through fur and flesh, shields slammed into snarling muzzles, and the front ranks of Ratkin buckled under the pressure. Blood sprayed across the dirt, and the air filled with the wet crunch of impact and the high-pitched wails of the dying.

The first ranks of Ratkin screamed and broke under the weight of the impact. Spear-points punched through patchwork leather and fur, thrusts expertly aimed low at thighs and bellies, avoiding rebounds from armour and ricochets off bone. A few Ratkin tried to leap aside, howling, only to be caught on the shield edges or trampled beneath goblin boots.

Nyxie moved closer behind the phalanx, her boots crunching over bracken and loose stone as she kept her glowing hands raised. She could see the discipline holding. The Ratkin were numerous. Undisciplined, yes, but savage, unrelenting, desperate. Every opening was tested. Every stagger punished. Her eyes flicked back toward the central circle. The blue light still pulsed like a heartbeat.

But then the air shifted.

A low, guttural chant rose above the din, and Nyxie’s eyes snapped to the left. Near the edge of the camp, another five Ratkin in tattered robes had emerged from the shadows. Their fur was matted with ash, their eyes sunken and glowing faintly with sickly green light. Necro-sorcerers.

They raised their clawed hands, and the air chilled.

From the blood-soaked earth where fallen Ratkin lay, bones cracked and twisted. Flesh sloughed away in unnatural curls. Five skeletal Ratkin rose, their eyes burning with baleful fire, their claws sharpened to bone blades, and without pause, they charged the left flank of the goblin formation.

Panic bloomed.

The goblin line wavered—spears hesitated, formation faltered. A single break here, a single retreat, and the phalanx would collapse. The Ratkin would pour through like water through a cracked dam.

Nyxie’s eyes blazed.

She raised her hands above her head and spoke a word of power.

“Fulmen!”

The spell erupted from her palms like a sunburst—an arc of blazing lightning that struck the undead with furious precision. Bones exploded mid-charge. One skeleton disintegrated in mid-leap, another lost its skull to a pulse of raw force. The final three were thrown backwards, their remains scattering across the mud, still twitching with the last vestiges of necromantic power before fading into lifelessness. The air filled with the scent of scorched marrow.

The goblins, seeing the threat neutralised, roared and surged again. The formation tightened. The line held.

They pushed forward—yard by yard—driving the Ratkin back into the natural choke of the cliffs, herding them like cattle toward the glowing circle.

The five necro-sorcerers began retreating, pulling power from the ritual to defend themselves. Blue flames guttered. The bound adventurer on the ground spasmed violently—still alive, still screaming.

But Nyxie wasn’t finished, boots crunching on the undergrowth, she raised both hands. Arcane energy surged through her veins, coiling around her fingers in threads of violet and silver. She whispered the incantation, ancient and sharp, and then thrust her hands forward.

“Ignis Fractura.”

The fireball launched with a shriek, arcing high before splitting into three smaller orbs mid-flight. They struck the ground near the casters and detonated in a storm of arcane flame. The blast tore through the necro-sorcerers, sending two of the Ratkin flying, their bodies reduced to charred husks. A third was caught full in the chest—he vanished in a burst of light and ash.

The two remaining casters turned toward her, their chants faltering. Their eyes locked with hers—wide, terrified.

Good.

She met their eyes and bared her teeth.

But then the tents at the back of the camp collapsed outward with an echoing crunch.

From the wreckage, three towering figures emerged. Nearly twice the height of any other Ratkin, their bodies bulged with warped muscle, bone piercings gleaming across their limbs. Their eyes glowed with the same sickly light as the ritual circle, and their snarls echoed like thunder. One dragged a hammer the size of a wagon’s axle, studded with iron teeth. Another carried a slab of stone on a chain, swinging it with murderous ease. The last bore no weapon—just gauntlets fused with spikes and crackling with latent energy.

War-forged brutes.

Ritual-bound enforcers.

Nyxie’s breath caught.

These weren’t just muscle. These were Ratkin Juggernauts, shock units conjured from flesh and sorcery. Rare. Dangerous. She had read of them once, in a dungeon record sealed in blood and ash.

And now they were striding toward her phalanx.

The last of the common Ratkin had either fallen or thrown down their weapons, scrambling into crevices at the base of the cliffs or vanishing into shadow like rats sensing a sinking ship. The goblin phalanx, bloodied but intact, stood ringed with bodies and broken tents, their spears still dripping.

But all of it—the skirmish, the screams, the gore—seemed to dim against the looming presence of the Juggernauts.

Nyxie watched them advance. Each step from the towering brutes shook the earth beneath their boots. Their bulging frames glistened with ritual tattoos and the rune-scars of dark enchantment. And behind them—still untouched, still chanting—stood the five Ratkin casters, their claws raised in rhythm with the pulsing light of the ritual circle.

Blue flames writhed higher around the bound adventurer, as she writhed in agony, her screams now a hoarse rasp. The glowing sigils flared brighter with every passing second.

A sharp cry from above snapped her attention—the whine of arrows. Goblin archers loosed volley after volley from behind her, the shafts arcing high, falling like black rain. A few struck the Juggernauts—one embedded into a shoulder, another clattered off a horned helm—but none seemed to slow them. Most bounced harmlessly off, the brutes shrugging them aside with animal indifference.

“They’re shielded,” Nyxie muttered, teeth clenched. She raised her hands, fingers flexing with arcane potential.

The magic coiled fast, burning. Her body buzzed as power surged through her limbs—too fast, too hot. She inhaled sharply and launched it toward the central Juggernaut.

The spell struck true—lightning, white-hot, wrapped in the force of a compressed thunderclap. But just before impact, it shimmered—fizzled—then disappeared.

A transparent barrier rippled around the creature like water catching light.

Nyxie’s heart skipped.

The shield held.

The central brute, the one dragging a slab of stone by a chain, let out a guttural howl and whipped the massive weapon forward. It swung low and wide, smashing into the front rank of the goblin phalanx with the force of a siege ram. One goblin was crushed outright, body splintering beneath the weight. Two more were flung backwards, blood spraying in long arcs. Four others fell scrambling, the formation teetering, already compromised.

Nyxie’s shout cut the air like a blade.

“Scatter! Break the line! Fight in pairs!”

The goblins obeyed without hesitation. The phalanx shattered, the formation dispersing into small, fast-moving units. Spearmen circled the Juggernauts like wolves around a bear, ducking in, thrusting, then leaping back.

But their spears skidded across thick hide. Even when they found gaps between the bone plating and enchanted muscle, it was like stabbing rock.

One goblin leapt atop a Juggernaut’s back, screaming defiance. He managed a single blow to the base of its neck before the creature reached back, caught him, and hurled him against a boulder with a sickening crack.

Nyxie’s boots slipped in the churned mud as she turned, desperate for another way. Her eyes flicked from brute to brute, then snapped back to the ritual circle.

The casters were still chanting.

Their eyes were closed, claws raised, mouths open in that dry, rasping language that turned the air sour. And then she saw it—the glow in the Juggernauts’ eyes. The same colour as the ritual circle.

They were bound to the spell.

“ARCHERS!” Nyxie screamed, pointing directly at the circle. “Target the casters! Now!”

The response was instant.

Bows creaked. Arrows loosed.

The first volley dropped two of the casters before they even knew death was coming. One took a shaft through the throat and crumpled forward into the sigils. Another staggered back with three arrows in his chest, clawing the air as the light around him flickered.

The chanting faltered.

The third caster tried to conjure a shield, but the spell collapsed under the next volley. A dozen arrows hammered him into the dirt.

The last two turned to flee.

They didn’t make it.

Arrows lanced into their backs. One fell forward, twitching. The other tried to crawl, blood pooling beneath him before he went still.

The circle’s light pulsed once.

Then twice.

Then it shattered.

A wave of arcane backlash surged outward. The adventurer at the centre convulsed as the magic unravelled and collapsed. Blue fire imploded, sucked back into the earth like smoke in a reversed wind. The night snapped silent for half a heartbeat.

Then the Juggernauts howled.

Nyxie watched their eyes change.

From the ritual’s pale blue to deep, furious crimson.

They staggered. Snarled. One clawed at its head. Another slammed its fists into the ground, cracking stone.

“They’re unbound!” Nyxie roared. “Bring them down!”

Every goblin responded.

Archers re-aimed, their fire now precise, furious. Arrows struck the soft joints—underarms, groin, neck. Spearmen dashed in, stabbing lower now, aiming at tendons and ankles. One goblin shoved a spear straight through the back of a Juggernaut’s knee, forcing it to stagger.

Nyxie summoned a spell, channelling her last reserves. Her fingers crackled as flame danced across her arms.

“Incendia fulgor!”

Fire burst from her hands in twin streaks, coiling like dragons, slamming into the nearest Juggernaut’s chest. This time, the magic struck clean—no shield, no shimmer. Flesh charred. The creature shrieked and toppled backwards, arms flailing, smoke rising from its body.

The second Juggernaut roared in pain as a half-dozen arrows embedded deep into its gut. A goblin leapt, knife in hand, and drove it between ribs. The brute stumbled—and a dozen spears met it on the way down.

The final Juggernaut, the hammer-wielder, charged Nyxie.

She stood her ground.

Her hands moved in a blur, drawing a sigil in the air. “Fractura Ventis!”

A blast of concussive wind slammed into the brute, halting its charge. Arrows peppered its chest. A spear struck its thigh. It dropped to one knee.

Nyxie stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“Ignis Lacerum.”

The firebolt struck the Juggernaut’s face, and this time, it screamed.

The goblins swarmed.

Steel and flame. Arrow and blade. And the last Juggernaut fell.

And just like that—

Silence.

Only the wind remained, stirring Nyxie’s hair and the edge of her micro kilt as she stood there, chest heaving, white stockings streaked with dirt and blood, hands still aglow.

The battle was over.

They had won.

The wind shifted, and the silence left behind by battle returned, heavy and thick.

Nyxie stood at the edge of the ruined camp, her breath still fast but no longer ragged. The magic coursing through her had begun to ebb, leaving a cool emptiness behind—like smoke after a flame. She let her arms fall to her sides and rolled her shoulders, working stiffness from her muscles.

Her white stockings were streaked with mud and blood. Her knees ached. Her boots were splattered in gods-knew-what. And yet she was standing. Alive. Victorious.

She exhaled deeply and allowed her heartbeat to slow, felt it settle back into her chest like a weight finding its home.

Around her, goblins moved in careful, purposeful patterns. The archers kept watch from the treeline, bows ready, eyes scanning the darkness for signs of any Ratkin stragglers. Spearmen checked the places where enemies had dropped, retrieving their weapons, gathering the loot bags that shimmered where bodies had once been. One group stood around the collapsed Juggernauts, prodding at the glowing satchels left behind, as if half‑expecting the monsters to rematerialise.

Nyxie knew better than to relax too much.

There were still loose threads.

The ritual had ended. The immediate threat crushed. But this place—it still reeked of power. Of danger.

And of opportunity.

She turned toward the cage near the edge of the clearing. Inside, the adventurers and NPCs still huddled. Most were wide-eyed, watching in stunned silence. A few whispered among themselves, but none made a move.

Still bound. Still helpless.

For now.

Nyxie narrowed her eyes. “Keep a watch on them,” she said to a nearby sergeant. “Post two archers. Anyone makes a move for a weapon, or looks like they’ve got XP in their eyes, you shout.”

The goblin nodded, thumping his chest in salute before relaying her command.

She lingered a moment longer, studying the prisoners. Some looked like they’d been down here for days, others weeks. A few bore the quiet steeliness of high-level adventurers. Those ones worried her more than any Ratkin warrior. They might be weak now, but if they thought they could profit off her goblins—

Not tonight.

With that settled, she turned back to the camp and let her gaze travel up, over the cliffs, toward the direction of Ingunde. Grashok would be watching.

He needed to know.

She raised a hand and beckoned to a nearby cluster of warriors. “Start gathering everything that’ll burn—tents, benches, timber, bones. I want it piled right in the centre of the clearing. Make it tall.”

They obeyed immediately, spreading out in a flurry of motion. Goblins dragged wood, torn canvas, broken weapon racks. Others heaped up gnawed bones, rotting bedding, and splintered cages left behind by the Ratkin, ignoring the stench as they built the pile higher, thicker, until it stood taller than a man’s shoulders—an ugly, grotesque mound of wreckage and war.

Nyxie stood before it in silence.

She raised one hand.

Murmured a word.

And cast the spell.

Flame erupted from her fingers in a hiss of arcane heat, violet and wild. It struck the heart of the pile and sputtered for a heartbeat—then roared to life with a whoosh. Purple fire raced up the structure, its tongues flickering hungrily over the wreckage of the camp. The blaze cast an eerie glow, unnatural and vivid, as a column of smoke twisted upward—its base lit in shades of amethyst and indigo, a beacon against the night sky.

The light would be seen for miles.

Even from Ingunde.

Even by him.

Nyxie stepped back, the heat licking at her skin, hair curling in the rising air. Her eyes reflected the fire as she watched it climb ever higher, a blaze to mark their triumph.

And a message to Grashok.

They had done it.

The fire cracked and roared as it climbed higher, flames licking greedily at the night sky like a predator stretching its limbs. Smoke coiled thickly into the stars, casting a flickering purple glow across the camp and the cliffs above. Shadows danced in the undergrowth. The goblins stood still for a while, watching in silence, the embers reflecting in their eyes.

For a brief moment, Nyxie allowed herself to feel it.

Victory.

The battle had been hard, messy, and close—but they’d done what they came to do. The ritual was broken. The bound adventurer had been freed from the magic circle, the pulsing sigils gone dark. The loot had been collected. Her first independent command hadn’t ended in catastrophe.

Grashok would see the fire. He would know.

A cool wind drifted through the trees behind her. Nyxie closed her eyes and let it pass over her skin, drawing away some of the sweat from her brow. Her arms ached. Her mana was still slow to return. But she felt… good. Whole. Capable.

Then came the sound.

A single, low boom.

It rolled through the forest like thunder—but far too even. Too regular.

Nyxie’s eyes snapped open. Her ears twitched slightly, and every nerve in her body sharpened in alarm.

Another boom came. Then another. Both distant. Both heavy.

The goblins shifted uneasily. Some looked toward the cliffs, others scanned the dark tree line. Weapons were quietly drawn again, just in case.

“Hold,” Nyxie said, raising a hand, listening.

Another drumbeat answered. Then two more. This time they came from the south-east. Then another, from deeper south.

Not random.

A rhythm. A signal.

Her heart, which had just begun to slow, now turned cold in her chest.

“Those are war drums,” muttered one of the scouts nearby. “Ratkin.”

Nyxie didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The dull, menacing cadence was unmistakable now. War drums, spreading like ripples in a pond, cascading from every direction to the south. Some close. Some distant.

Far too many.

This wasn’t a scouting party. Not even a raiding force.

This was a full army.

And it was coming from the south. There could be no mistaking the implication—It was the Ratkin and Ingunde was their target.

Nyxie turned sharply, her gaze snapping to the bonfire she’d ignited moments earlier. What had once stood as a triumphant signal now blazed like a damning flare. The flames leapt high, bold against the darkness, casting their glow across the treetops—visible, no doubt, to every set of eyes marching behind those drums.

Her stomach sank.

That fire was a target now.

She hissed through her teeth and turned to her troops.

“Pack up. Everyone. Now!” Her voice cut sharp across the clearing. “We move immediately. No formation—break it down and move!”

Goblins who had still been watching the blaze jolted to action. Bags were cinched. Arrows retrieved. The larger loot sacks were slung over shoulders or dragged into makeshift carriers. Even the scouts who had been lounging at the tree line now sprinted back into motion, relaying orders, forming temporary squads.

The fire still burned behind her, roaring defiantly.

Nyxie turned her gaze toward the cage.

The adventurers and NPCs inside were watching her now. One woman—an elven rogue, tall, clad in half-broken leather armour—had moved closer to the bars. Her expression was unreadable. Another adventurer, shirtless and tattooed, had a hand to his mouth in thought.

Nyxie narrowed her eyes.

They were alive. And not flagged hostile. But that could change fast.

They might thank her.

They might also stab her for XP.

She watched the firelight reflect off their armour and eyes and felt the weight of a decision begin to settle across her shoulders.

They had to move. But the question remained—

What to do with them?