The Rescue

Grashok watched the southern horizon in silence, his arms folded over the edge of the ruined silo’s stone lip. His expression gave away nothing—stoic, cold, unreadable. But inside, his thoughts were a tightening coil.

Where was it?

Where was her signal?

The moon had climbed halfway up the black vault above, casting its pale silver sheen over Ingunde. Below, the settlement lay hushed and watchful, its wooden palisade tracing a broad ring around the outskirts. In several places the timbers had been forced apart or weathered thin, leaving narrow gaps where shadows pooled. Elsewhere the posts stood at slight angles, the wear of years showing in their lean.

The streets were unnaturally quiet. Pockets of flickering torchlight drifted between buildings — patrols, guards, hired blades. Watchful, but not ready. Not yet. Not for what was coming.

He swept his gaze slowly over the treetops to the south, the direction Nyxie had gone, calculating the time, the distance, the contingencies.

She would get it done.

She had to.

Below him, nestled in the brush and the shelter of collapsed buildings and shattered fencing, the assault force lay in wait. Eighteen figures in total—eight goblins and ten xvarts—crouched low behind broken timber, rusted carts, and heaps of old rubble. Their weapons gleamed faintly in the moonlight, steel catching the light like the edge of a whisper. The goblins were lean and sharp-eyed, veterans hardened by countless skirmishes. The xvarts, smaller and quicker, were chosen for a different edge: precision, subtlety, and non-lethal takedowns. They clutched their blades, slings and nets with quiet intensity, ready to disable rather than destroy. This was no blunt-force assault—this was a scalpel strike, precise and deliberate.

Sylrith crouched a few feet away on the rooftop beside him, half-shrouded in shadow. She glanced his way, her voice just above a whisper. “Perhaps she—”

“She’ll get it done,” Grashok said, cutting the thought off before it finished. His tone made it clear: no doubt. No weakness.

Sylrith nodded once and turned her eyes back to the town. The silence returned like a blanket, stretching minute after minute, breath after breath. No one spoke. No one moved.

Then, thirty long minutes later, the stillness broke.

A cry in the distance.

Then another.

Voices shouting—first confused, then angry. The sound of clattering wood. Footsteps. A woman’s scream. A crashing noise like something being overturned. Then came the barking of commands, the hurried tramp of boots on dirt roads.

Grashok glanced toward Sylrith. She looked back at him without needing to ask.

“Get them ready,” he said quietly.

She was gone before the words finished, melting into the dark, dropping down toward the waiting warriors below.

Grashok turned back toward the southern horizon, jaw tightening. The noise from the town was building now, swelling like the early stages of a storm. Steel clashed faintly. A man roared something incoherent. A horn was blown—once, short and sharp.

And then he saw it.

Far to the south, beyond the outskirts of town, just above the treetops: a plume of fire, unnatural and violet, curled skyward. It twisted once, like a serpent, before expanding in a wash of magical light that pulsed once—twice—three times before stabilising.

The signal.

Grashok’s pulse kicked, but his steps remained calm. He turned from the silo’s edge, stepping into motion like a boulder pushed from its perch. “It’s go time,” he muttered under his breath, already descending toward the ladder.

Below, the goblins of his assault team stirred in unison.

The raid on Ingunde had begun.

Seconds later, Grashok was scurrying low, the grit of shattered stone crunching faintly underfoot as he moved. His troops flanked him on either side—shadows in motion, slipping through the night like smoke. They hugged walls and collapsed outbuildings, ducking under broken beams, crossing gaps with short bursts of speed. The sounds from the town were swelling now—chaos blooming on the southern edge like a growing wound.

Within minutes, they reached the breach.

A narrow split in the palisade, half‑hidden by the lean of a collapsed shack, gaped just wide enough for one at a time to slip through. The shadows clung to it like a trap waiting to spring. Two goblin scouts crouched at the threshold, peering into the gloom beyond. Grashok watched them—motionless, every breath measured—until both gave a single, sharp nod.

Clear.

He gave the signal.

One by one, the raiders slipped through the gap, swallowed by the silence of Ingunde.

Inside, the town was a labyrinth of alleys and derelict buildings, the cobblestones uneven and cracked, windows shuttered or broken. Every step was a risk. They moved in a staggered line, low and deliberate, eyes flicking between the rooftops above and the shadows that pressed close around them.

Their objective lay in the northern quarter—the merchant’s house.

Snippa’s last known location.

The breach had carried them inside, but the danger was only beginning. Patrols could be anywhere. Traps, ambushes, or even wandering adventurers could unravel everything.

Just as they rounded a crooked corner near an old smithy, the sharp clatter of boots on stone shattered the silence ahead.

Grashok pulled his hand up in an instant—halt.

From around the corner, a heavily armoured Ratkin stumbled into view, sprinting in full-blown panic. It was clad in what looked like oversized human gear—gleaming pauldrons slipping from narrow shoulders, a flowing tabard dragging behind like a child playing knight. Gold rings clinked along its tail, and the mismatched armour pieces were the kind adventurers favoured for show rather than function. To Grashok, it looked less like a warrior and more like someone crashing one of those absurd fancy dress parties Maren used to laugh about. Whatever rank or dignity it once held was gone—now it was simply running for its life.

Hot on its heels came a pack of adventurers and NPCs. A tall man in half-plate yelled after the Ratkin, sword drawn. “What’ve you done with Derekon, you rat-faced bastard?!”

The others shouted curses, bows drawn, spells glowing. Grashok and his force pressed deeper into the shadows, backs to the walls, unmoving.

The chase thundered past.

Gone.

Grashok exhaled slowly through his nose, then gave the forward nod.

They resumed.

Three streets later, the cobblestones turned to cracked paving slabs, and lanterns began appearing in upper windows—some broken, others dark. Ahead loomed a large house—distinctly better built than those surrounding it. The merchant’s house. Heavy shutters, wide porches. Two stories of sturdy stone and dark oak. Their target.

They didn’t go straight to it.

Grashok’s party veered left, slipping behind a cluster of half-collapsed workshops until they came to another building, a tavern. From its position, it offered a perfect view of the merchant’s home across the street.

A single candle burned inside.

As they reached the base of the structure, a door creaked open. A human male, older but wiry, peered out from beneath a hooded cloak. He raised a hand in silent greeting.

Loyal to Elenara.

He looked once down the street, then stepped aside, holding the door open.

Grashok entered first, signalling the others to follow.

Inside, he led his small group into the low‑ceilinged hallway, the human guide slipping into a shadowed corner as the goblins and xvarts filed inside with cautious precision. Their footsteps were soft, muted by woven rugs that covered the creaking floorboards. The door closed with a subtle click behind them, sealing out the sounds of the street.

Beyond, in a larger bar room, five humans stood waiting.

They looked nervous. Loyal to Elenara, yes—but the reality of raiders—hobgoblin, goblins, xvarts, and the dark‑skinned elf among them—sent a ripple of uncertainty through the group.

Thankfully, Elenara had schooled them for just this situation.

As Grashok stepped into the main room, he stopped just inside the threshold and bowed—a deliberate, respectful dip of the head and shoulders.

The humans blinked.

Surprised.

Relieved.

One by one, the raiders followed him in, each pausing to bow—goblins, xvarts, even Sylrith with her eerie grace. The gesture, simple but sincere, washed the tension from the room like warm water.

By the time the last xvart bowed, the atmosphere had changed entirely.

The older man who had opened the door stepped forward, lowering his hood. His face was lined with age and experience, his grey‑streaked beard trimmed close. His eyes, though tired, were sharp. He exhaled a breath he’d clearly been holding and returned the bow with a small, grateful nod.

To his left stood a portly man with a ruddy face and a stained apron, the unmistakable scent of beer clinging to him like a second skin. He scratched his belly absently and offered a steadier smile. The third man was younger, mop‑haired and thin as a reed, wearing a faded militia uniform that hung a little loose on his frame, his eyes darting between the goblins with lingering anxiety.

Near the hearth stood two women. One held a baby boy in her arms, her posture protective, her eyes wary but not unkind. Her hair was tied back in a simple braid, and her clothes were plain but well‑kept. A younger woman stood close beside her, similar enough in features that Grashok assumed they were kin.

She was younger—perhaps no more than twenty—and strikingly beautiful. Brunette hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders, and her eyes were a deep, curious brown. She wore a simple dress, but it clung to her figure in a way that suggested she was well aware of its effect.

Her gaze locked on Grashok the moment he finished bowing, and she didn’t look away. Her eyes travelled over his broad shoulders, down his bare arms, lingering where the armour pulled tight across the strength beneath. Her lips parted slightly in a small, unguarded breath, a reaction she didn’t seem aware of.

Grashok ignored it. Mostly.

The older man cleared his throat. “I’m Tomas Rigg,” he said. “But please call me Tomas. This is Brenn”—he gestured to the portly landlord—“and that’s Halric.” The mop‑haired man gave a twitchy nod. Tomas added with a dismissive wave, “And don’t mind the uniform. He’s none too pleased with that scab Jorun these days.”

Halric’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“My wife, Lysa,” Tomas continued, nodding to the woman with the baby, “and our son, Corin. And this,” he added with a faint smile, “is my stepsister, Mara.”

Mara gave a small curtsy, though her eyes never left Grashok.

Tomas’s tone turned serious. “We don’t have long. Elenara’s plan moves to the next stage. The guards out front are mercenaries—hired muscle, not soldiers. But there are too many to take head‑on without raising the alarm.”

He gestured toward the back of the merchant’s house. “There’s a wood store behind the kitchen. Dry as tinder. We’ll set it alight. The flames should draw them off the front. When they move, you strike.”

Grashok gave a curt nod. “Do it.”

Tomas led the other two human males as they slipped out through the back, carrying oil‑soaked rags and a lantern. The rest remained silent, the tension thick in the air.

Grashok moved to the curtained window and carefully peeled back the edge. Outside, the street was dimly lit by a pair of flickering lanterns. Eight guards milled about near the front door—laughing, smoking, one of them relieving himself against a wall. They wore mismatched armour, carried cheap blades, and stood with the lazy posture of men who’d never seen real combat.

Elenara had been right. These weren’t adventurers. They weren’t even militia. Just thugs with coin in their pockets and no discipline in their bones.

Still, eight was too many to take cleanly. One shout, one lucky survivor, and the whole district would be crawling with reinforcements.

Behind him, Sylrith remained where she’d been—watching Mara. The younger woman’s gaze flicked again toward Grashok, warm and bold. Sylrith leaned in, a teasing smile playing across her lips.

“You know,” she murmured to Mara, “he really is every bit as… capable… as he looks.

Mara’s breath hitched. “I—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Sylrith’s smile widened. “That strong back. Those hands. I’ve seen him lift a xvart with one arm and still have energy left for… other things.” She let the pause linger. “And he’s generous, too. Doesn’t just take. He gives. Again and again until you can’t remember your own name.”

Near the hearth, Lysa—the woman with the baby—had gone still. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes no longer on the fire but on Sylrith. The baby boy fussed, but she didn’t look down. Her lips parted as if to speak, then pressed shut again, her cheeks colouring.

Mara swallowed hard. “I… I see.”

“Do you?” Sylrith leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow still carried. “He’s the reason I walk with a limp some mornings. A good limp. The kind you pray for.”

Grashok’s shoulders shook once—a quiet laugh he couldn’t quite suppress. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he kept his gaze fixed on the street outside. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He could feel Mara’s wide eyes on his back, and Lysa’s sudden, sharp interest.

Then, from the back of the merchants house, came the first flickers of orange light.

The fire caught fast. Flames licked up the side of the wood store, crackling hungrily. Smoke billowed into the night air. Moments later, shouting erupted from the street.

As Grashok watched on a richly dressed man emerged from the house opposite—overweight, red-faced, and sweating beneath his velvet coat. Beside him stood a thin man in clerical robes, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. The cleric pointed urgently toward the fire, barking orders.

Six of the guards broke off, weapons drawn, and ran toward the alley behind the house, led by the spectacled thin man.

Grashok waited. Counted to thirty.

As the seconds ticked by, Sylrith leaned close to Mara one last time. Her voice was low, unhurried, meant only for the younger woman’s ears—though Lysa, still clutching the baby, found herself leaning in despite herself.

“Last chance, sweet thing,” Sylrith purred. “When this is over, you’d be more than welcome at the dungeon. I’d happily share. He’s got stamina enough for three, and he does so love it when someone new watches.” She ran a finger along Mara’s jaw. “Think of it as… an education.”

Mara’s breath came faster, her cheeks flaming, but she didn’t pull away.

Sylrith’s gaze slid to Lysa. “And you, mother. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you listening. The invitation’s open for you too.”

Lysa’s mouth opened. “I’m married,” she whispered, but her voice cracked. Her eyes darted to Grashok’s broad back, then down to the baby, then back up. A deep blush spread across her chest. She swallowed hard and said nothing more—but she didn’t say no, either.

Sylrith grinned. “Married. Of course.”

Thirty.

Then he turned to his warriors. “Move.”

They slipped out the side door into the shadows of the alley. "Don't be strangers," Sylrith whispered over her shoulder, and winked.

Grashok led them with the silent confidence of a predator. He paused at the edge of the alley, crouched low behind a stack of crates, and raised two fingers toward the street. Two guards remained—leaning lazily against the doorframe, their attention fixed on the commotion behind them. One yawned. The other scratched his chin with the tip of his blade.

Grashok turned to the xvarts. Two slingers stepped forward, their movements fluid and practised. They crouched, whirled their slings in tight, silent arcs, and released.

Crack.

Crack.

Both guards jerked in place as if struck by invisible fists. One slumped sideways against the wall with a low groan; the other fell like a sack of turnips, twitching once before going limp.

No cries. No alarm.

Grashok was already moving. They dashed across the street in the brief hush between distant shouts and spreading fire. The merchant’s front door loomed large, its brass handle glinting. Grashok reached for it.

Unlocked.

As expected.

He pushed it open slowly. No sound greeted them—no immediate resistance.

They poured inside in controlled motion—two goblins darting back to drag the unconscious guards in by their collars. The moment the door shut behind them, another goblin pulled cloth strips from her satchel and began binding the guards swiftly, tying wrists and ankles with brutal efficiency. The xvart beside her gagged them both, stuffing cloth into their mouths and wrapping leather around their heads.

Grashok glanced around the entry hall. The place was opulent—dark polished wood underfoot, thick rugs, paintings in gilded frames. But none of it mattered.

He pointed left, right, then forward—three fingers flashing. The goblins and xvarts scattered silently into the house, pairs moving into each room. The sounds that followed were muffled—thuds, the shifting of furniture, a short yelp quickly stifled. Nothing loud. Nothing prolonged. Sylrith tensed, but the goblin who had gone to investigate returned a moment later, nodding. A lone servant, quickly subdued. He was dragged through, bound and gagged, and tossed in with the unconscious guards.

They worked like shadows.

Room by room, the house was swept. Grashok stayed in the main corridor, watching, waiting. Occasionally one of his warriors returned and gave a thumbs-up or a nod.

Soon, the last door clicked shut, and a goblin scout whispered, “Clear.”

Grashok nodded, but he was already moving toward the next phase.

The stairwell.

The door to the basement stood at the rear of the central hall, just beneath the main staircase that curled toward the upper floors. Grashok had no doubt that this would be the most heavily watched or trapped. Whatever the merchant and his cleric were hiding—whoever they had taken—would be below.

He knelt by the door, listening.

No sound.

Not yet.

He gestured for it to be secured—two goblins took position, weapons ready, while the rest of the force began sweeping the upper levels, ensuring no one had been missed.

Sylrith stood poised near the stairwell, her lithe figure barely concealed beneath the tight leather of her armour. She stared intently into the gloom above, one elegant hand resting casually on the pommel of her curved blade. Her full lips were pursed in concentration, her ample bosom straining against the confines of her breastplate with each steady breath.

Above them, the floorboards creaked faintly. Shadows danced past the bannisters as the goblins and xvarts moved with ruthless precision from room to room. A sudden thump echoed—followed by a scuffle, a muffled cry quickly silenced.

Moments later, a xvart appeared at the top of the stairs, waving once in signal. Another guard—alone—had been found hiding beneath a bed. He was disarmed, gagged, and dragged down to join the others in the hallway, his hands shaking even before the ropes were tied.

More worrying was what followed.

Two goblins descended a few minutes later, guiding two women behind them. Humans. Pretty - perhaps, but worn, their faces bruised, eyes hollow with too many hardships. Their clothes were torn, their buxom figures barely concealed by the tattered remnants. Wrist already bound before the goblins had arrived. Whatever had happened to them, it hadn’t been recent. Their captors had clearly not been kind - or gentle.

Sylrith tensed, her grip tightening on her blades. She shot Grashok a hard look, her full lips pressed into a tight line. Grashok frowned, but there was no time to untangle their stories. He ordered the women placed in the rear parlour, away from the bound guards, and told one of his xvarts to keep watch. The women didn’t protest. One sat immediately, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The other simply stood, staring blankly at the far wall, her expression vacant.

Grashok stepped back and looked once more toward his assembled warriors. The house above ground was theirs.

He took a breath and nodded. “Five stay behind,” he said quietly, tapping the nearest goblins. “Guard the ground floor. No one enters until we signal.”

The guards slipped into position, eyes scanning doors and staircase alike. Grashok adjusted the grip on Soulrend, feeling its blade hum softly against his palm.

He turned to Sylrith, who stood at his side, boots clicking softly on the polished wood. “Ready?” he asked.

She smiled, lips curving in that cool, dangerous way. She gave a single nod, dark eyes glinting beneath silver leather, and stepped toward the stairwell.

Behind him followed the xvarts, nimble and silent in their dark garb. Behind them strode the remaining goblins, weapons drawn, each tread measured and low.

He led the descent. The stairwell was narrow, the stone steps worn smooth. The air grew colder with each step, thick with the scent of damp stone, old blood, and something else—something chemical. Drugged incense, perhaps. A haze that dulled the senses.

Below, a vast underground complex sprawled far beyond the house’s footprint. Stone corridors radiated in multiple directions. Torches flickered in wall brackets, their flames dancing across high arches and revealing layers of dust and old stains on the floor.

Grashok paused. “Stay close. Sweep fast. No unnecessary killing—only if they threaten.” Looking at them all he gave the signal.

The assault began.

The goblins and xvarts moved like a tide—fast, coordinated, ruthless. They swept through the corridors in pairs, clearing rooms with brutal efficiency. Grashok led from the front, Soulrend carving through locks and resistance alike. They struck hard, but not to kill—unless they had no choice.

The first guards they encountered were caught off guard. A pair of mercenaries lounging near a cell barely had time to reach for their weapons before they were disarmed and slammed to the ground. One tried to shout—Sylrith’s dagger hilt silenced him with a precise blow to the throat, not hard enough to kill, but enough to choke the sound.

Further in, they found the cells.

The prisoners were beautiful.

Men and women alike, adventurers and NPCs, all chosen for their physical perfection. The males were muscular, bronzed, their bodies sculpted and lean. The females were lithe, with flawless skin and eyes dulled by drugs or enchantment. Some were bound, others slumped in corners, their breathing shallow.

The clink of chains and the muffled breathing of captives drifted through the iron bars. In the first cell, two figures lay bound—hands and feet strapped tight. A lithe elf and a striking human woman, both bruised and dirt-smeared, were slumped against a damp stone bench. Their eyes fluttered open as the goblins forced the lock, shock and confusion writ across their battered features.

But before they could speak, movement stirred beyond the door—a Ratkin thug burst forth from the shadows, short sword raised high.

Sylrith was faster.

She moved like a lash of shadow and silver. Her blade swept across the creature’s throat in a perfect arc. A red mist floated briefly in the air above its head before the Ratkin gave a strangled gurgle and fell—only to vanish in a flicker of light as its body despawned, leaving behind a small brown loot bag.

No quarter for Ratkin. Not here. Not ever.

Grashok stepped past the twitching sack as one of his spearmen scooped it up and tucked it away. The freed prisoners were gently unbound, still dazed but on their feet, and guided toward the stairwell. They staggered upward, nodding in gratitude, tears marking their faces.

Grashok’s jaw tightened.

He gave orders to secure the cells, to begin cutting bindings and administering antidotes from the vials Maren had provided. The xvarts moved quickly, checking pulses, whispering reassurances. Some of the prisoners stirred. Others remained limp.

They pressed deeper. Another corridor, more cells. A pair of dwarves—male and female, both striking even beneath grime and bruises—stumbled into view, shackled wrist‑to‑wrist. A Ratkin herded them forward with a spear, its whiskers twitching, its yellowed incisors bared in a snarl.

The beast spotted Grashok’s group and let out a rasping screech, shoving the dwarves aside as it lunged. The spear jabbed forward with brutal intent.

The dwarves flinched, bracing for the strike.

But the xvarts were already moving.

Two darted low, nets unfurling in a practised snap. The weighted cords tangled the Ratkin’s legs mid‑charge, yanking it off balance. It crashed to the stone floor with a wet, furious hiss, claws scrabbling for purchase.

A third xvart vaulted over its thrashing tail, landing atop its back with surprising precision. Slender daggers flashed—quick, efficient, silent. The Ratkin bucked once, twice… then sagged, limbs going slack.

The corridor fell still except for the dwarves’ ragged breathing.

Grashok signalled, and the xvarts moved to free them. The male dwarf tried to speak, but only a hoarse rasp escaped. The female dwarf slipped an arm around him, holding him steady as the shackles fell away.

“Upstairs,” Grashok rumbled. “You’re safe now.”

They nodded, dazed, and hurried after the others, leaning on each other as they went.

Grashok turned back to the darkened hall.

They continued on.

The team moved in fluid motion, clearing wings and corridors with the exactness he’d drilled into them. Every locked door was approached quietly, opened, swept. Grashok saw the fruits of those long days in the training hall, the discipline he’d demanded now unfolding in perfect silence.

A group of guards attempted to rally near a storage chamber, but the goblins hit them like a hammer. Spears and short blades flashed in the torchlight. One xvart took a blow to the shoulder but kept fighting, driving his dagger into the attacker’s thigh. Grashok moved through them like a storm, Soulrend slicing through a Human slaver’s blade and sending him sprawling.

The deeper they went, the more resistance they met—but it was scattered, disorganised. The slavers hadn’t expected a raid this deep, this fast.

Then they reached the central chamber.

It was larger than the others, rectangular and vaulted, with shelves and cabinets lining the walls, each crammed with scrolls, ledgers, and bound tomes. A large desk dominated the centre of the room, strewn with parchment, ink pots, and wax seals. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and candle smoke. This was no prison cell—it was an office. The nerve centre of the slavers’ operation. The place where names were recorded, lives were priced, and fates were sealed in ink.

And yet, at the heart of it, violence still reigned.

The fat merchant stood behind the desk, his velvet coat stained with sweat, a ring of keys clutched in one trembling hand. His face was pale, his jowls quivering with fear.

Beside him stood a warrior.

Tall. Muscled. Blond hair falling in waves to his shoulders. His armour gleamed, polished and ornate, and his grip on the dagger was steady.

The blade was pressed to Snippa’s throat.

She stood rigid, her green leather top torn at the shoulder, her braids dishevelled. Her eyes met Grashok’s across the room—wide, defiant, and burning with fury.

The warrior sneered.

"Well, well," he purred, his blue eyes glinting in the torchlight. "What have we here? Come to rescue your little slut, have you?" He tightened his grip on Snippa and she whimpered, a single angry tear rolling down her cheek. "I don't think so. This one's mine now, and I'll not be giving her up."

Grashok felt a red haze settle over his vision. His fingers tightened on Soulrend's hilt until they ached. "Let her go," he snarled, fighting to keep his voice level. "Let her go and I might let you live."

“Come any closer,” he said, “and she dies.”

Grashok stopped.

The room fell silent.

Soulrend pulsed in his hand.

Grashok’s eyes glinted as he watched the fat merchant and the burly warrior from across the cluttered office. He took in the shelves sagging under the weight of ledgers, scrolls, and bound tomes—records of every transaction, every name bought and sold. A large desk stood between them, strewn with parchment, wax seals, and half-spilled ink. The air was thick with the scent of old vellum and sweat.

The fat merchant was sweating so profusely it looked as though his velvet coat had been soaked in rain. His jowls quivered with every breath, and his eyes darted between the goblins, the xvarts, and the blade pressed to Snippa’s throat.

He licked his lips and took a trembling step forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, Jorun,” he said, voice high and wheedling, “perhaps we can do a deal with them. Yes? Let us go, and—”

“Shush, Darric,” the warrior snapped, not taking his eyes off Grashok.

“But if we just—”

“I said shut up!” Jorun barked, his voice sharp as steel. “Keep it together, you fat tub of lard. Remember the Patchfall!”

Darric flinched, retreating a step, his hands wringing together like a nervous washerwoman. He opened his mouth again, then thought better of it and fell silent, his face pale and glistening.

All the while, Grashok’s forces moved.

The goblins and xvarts fanned out through the office, slipping between shelves and cabinets, taking up positions behind overturned chairs and filing chests. They moved with purpose, silent as smoke. The xvarts began to swing their slings in slow, deliberate arcs, the soft whirring sound rising like a whisper of death.

Jorun’s eyes flicked around the room, his grip tightening on the dagger. “Stay in front of me!” he shouted, dragging Snippa a step back toward the desk. “Stay back, or I’ll—”

The blade pressed harder against her throat.

A thin line of crimson welled up.

Snippa went rigid, her breath catching. Her eyes, wide and glistening, locked with Grashok’s. There was no fear in them—only pain, and a desperate, silent plea.

Grashok’s heart stuttered.

A coldness seeped into his bones, ancient and absolute. This was bad. This was very bad. But he would not yield. Could not.

Not when Snippa’s life hung in the balance.

He could wait. He could talk. He could try to reason.

But that wasn’t who he was.

He gave the signal.

Four slings snapped in unison.

Four pellets whistled through the air.

And both humans went down.

Snippa gasped as the pressure at her throat vanished. Her knees buckled, and she slumped to the cold stone floor, catching herself with one hand, the other clutching her bleeding collarbone. Her green leather top—torn and smeared with grime—hung askew, revealing the sheen of sweat over taut muscle and bruised skin. Her twin braids were tousled, one half-undone and trailing down her shoulder. She looked every inch the hardened ranger she was—but there was vulnerability too, a rawness behind her eyes that twisted something deep in Grashok’s chest.

Even as she sagged forward, the xvarts rushed in like a blue tide. Jorun, dazed but groaning, was dragged off his side and quickly bound with harsh ropes. Darric was less fortunate—still completely unconscious, jowls quivering with each laboured breath. His velvet coat was stained dark from where he’d collapsed, and his arms were already trussed up behind his back.

Grashok was at Snippa’s side in two long strides. He dropped to his knees and swept her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly. She trembled against his chest, then clutched at his tunic with both hands and pressed her lips to his, hard and hungry. The world disappeared in that moment—only her scent, her taste, the heat of her pressed against him.

When their lips parted, she pulled back just far enough to glare furiously over his shoulder at the now-bound humans.

“Bastards,” she hissed, her voice hoarse but venomous. “I’m going to gut them slowly. Strip their skin. Feed what’s left to a swamp toad.”

Grashok blinked. “So… you’re alright then?”

“Pissed off,” she muttered, “but yeah.”

He exhaled and eased her back onto her feet. The moment his hands left her, Sylrith swept her into an embrace. The dark elf kissed her soundly, her voice a soothing murmur in Snippa’s ear. “We were worried sick for you, beautiful. But I knew you’d survive. You’re too damn mean not to.”

Snippa chuckled, weakly. “Damn right.”

Grashok turned, his attention snapping back to the bound forms of their captors. Jorun was beginning to stir. The muscle-bound man blinked groggily, groaned against his gag, then locked eyes with Grashok—burning, hate-filled, unrepentant. He thrashed against his bindings, straining his neck as if the sheer force of his loathing might undo the ropes.

Grashok stepped toward him, slowly drawing Soulrend from its sheath. The jagged black blade hummed faintly, the air shimmering around it. Jorun’s eyes narrowed to slits, daring him. Begging for a fight he couldn’t possibly win.

But before Grashok could speak, one of his goblins—a spear carrier with chipped fangs and alert eyes—tugged at his shoulder.

“Boss,” the goblin whispered, wide-eyed. “You’d better come see this.”

Grashok frowned and glanced once more at Jorun, then at Snippa. “They’re not to be harmed,” he said firmly. “Not yet.”

Snippa didn’t speak. But the tension in her jaw made it clear she wasn’t convinced that mercy was deserved.

Before he turned to follow, Grashok took a moment to scan the chamber. The office was a trove of damning evidence—scrolls, ledgers, and bound volumes stacked high on shelves and scattered across the desk. The air was thick with the scent of ink and old parchment, and the weight of what these records represented pressed down on him like a physical force.

Names. Transactions. Routes. Prices. Lives.

This was the heart of the slavers’ operation—not just the bodies, but the books. And Elenara… Elenara would kill to get her hands on this. His spymaster would see the value in every line of ink, every stamped seal. This was leverage. This was justice.

He turned to the nearest goblin and xvart pair. “Start gathering everything,” he ordered. “Scrolls, ledgers, anything with a seal or a name. We’re taking it all.”

They nodded and began scooping up armfuls of parchment, stuffing them into sacks and satchels with practised haste.

With that, Grashok followed the goblin through the dim corridors, past chained cells, silent prisoners, and smeared walls. Eventually, they reached a chamber at the far end of the passage—low-ceilinged, damp, and quiet. The goblin pointed.

At first, Grashok saw only a shadowed recess in the wall. But as he stepped forward, the shape resolved—an opening. A tunnel.

Its mouth was wide and uneven, the stone jagged, raw. Unlike the worked corridors behind them, this was rough-hewn, claw-scored in places. Primitive. But deep.

Very deep.

A faint current of air gusted from its depths, carrying the scent of rot, mould and damp fur.

A cold certainty settled in Grashok's gut as he stared downslope towards the vanishing point. He'd seen tunnels like this before - once, they had nearly been his grave when he had fallen in.

Ratkin.

Grashok’s eyes narrowed. So this was how they were getting in and out of Ingunde. Not through the walls, not through bribery or spells—but beneath. Undermining the town with tunnels like ants through rotted fruit.

He stepped closer, examining the wall around the entrance. Torch sconces lined the passage beyond, their glow flickering into the distance. There was no way to know how far it reached.

His gaze drifted to the side of the chamber—and froze.

Barrels.

lots of them. Familiar. Stamped with a crude sigil and sealed tight, but the stench of sulphur and pitch wafted from the cracks. Black powder. The same kind that had blown the tunnel apart when he had fallen in so many weeks ago.

A grim smile spread across his face as an idea began to take shape. They would need to seal this tunnel, cut off the Ratkin's entry point. And Grashok thought he knew just how to do it.

He barked low orders to two of his goblins—both wiry little scrappers with soot-streaked arms—and together they began rolling the barrels toward the sloping tunnel entrance. The wood groaned with each turn, heavy and volatile. Grashok was careful, precise. The black powder was nothing to trifle with.

As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, he nodded. “Tip it,” he ordered.

The first barrel was nudged forward and rolled down the slope with a hollow clatter, leaving behind a sluggish trail of powder that spilled from a loosened seam. The second followed, then the third, echoing with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump as it disappeared into the darkness.

A fourth clattered and caught against the wall, then veered after its brothers.

Grashok was just positioning the fifth when he heard muffled voices echoing from the direction of the office.

Raised. Alarmed.

“Keep going,” he snapped to the goblins, gesturing at the powder trail. “Make it thick.”

Then he turned and strode back toward the main chamber, where the flickering torchlight caught on anxious faces.

Darric and Jorun sat upright now, squirming against their bindings. Their eyes flicked toward the crashing of barrels—each impact clearly audible, echoing through the stone. Darric’s already sweat-slicked face was a picture of terror. Jorun’s was drawn tight with controlled panic, jaw working furiously beneath the gag.

Grashok stepped in front of the warrior and yanked the gag down.

“You’re mad!” Jorun rasped, eyes darting behind Grashok at the continued crashing and hollow booms. “Those barrels—do you even know what you’re doing? That stuff explodes. Explodes! You’ll bring the ceiling down on all our heads!”

Grashok met his gaze without a flicker. “Good.”

And he pulled the gag back into place, ignoring the muffled curses that followed.

The room behind them had come alive with controlled chaos. Goblins and xvarts scurried back and forth, arms full of parchment, coin sacks, bundled ledgers, and merchant records scrawled in neat script. Some were shoving books into bags. Others broke open chests and drawers, efficiently looting anything of value—gemstones, vials, keys, maps.

Snippa stood nearby, hands on hips, breathing slower now, her face still flushed but composed. The wound on her neck had already been cleaned and dressed—just a shallow cut, but it had bled enough to sting his memory.

Still, her eyes hadn’t left Jorun. The fury in them hadn’t cooled.

“Snippa,” Grashok said.

She blinked and turned to him.

“Go check on the situation upstairs. Make sure our perimeter’s secure.”

She nodded, but not before snatching a curved, bejewelled dagger from the desk beside her—a gaudy thing with a ruby pommel, clearly of merchant taste. She weighed it in her hand with a grin, then stalked off with purpose.

He turned to Sylrith next. She was watching him closely, arms folded, her dark leather clinging to her like a second skin.

“Get the prisoners upstairs,” he said. “All of them. Take some of the others with you.”

Sylrith smiled coldly. She walked up to Jorun and, without ceremony, drove the heel of her boot into his ribs. He grunted through the gag, eyes watering. Then she gestured to a cluster of xvarts and a goblin. “You heard him. Move them.”

Ropes were seized, bodies hauled upright. Darric whimpered and flailed as two xvarts half-dragged, half-pushed him and Jorun toward the stairs. Sylrith followed close behind, her hips swaying with casual menace, sparing one last look over her shoulder at Grashok before disappearing up the stone steps.

Satisfied, Grashok turned and made his way back down the passage to the tunnel mouth. The noise of rolling barrels had ceased. When he arrived, the goblins were crouched by the entrance, their hands blackened with powder, their eyes bright with mischief.

“Done, boss,” one of them said, nodding proudly. “Nice fat trail of the stuff too. Goes right to the bottom.”

Grashok nodded, stepping forward. The air was thick now with the acrid tang of sulphur. He looked down the slope again, into that darkness—and the faint trail of powder that wound its way like a fuse into the depths.

Good.

Very good.

He turned to the two goblins beside him. “Get to the surface. Now.”

They didn’t argue. With a final glance at the tunnel, they turned and sprinted back the way they’d come, boots thudding against the stone.

Grashok lingered only a moment longer. He reached for a torch mounted in a nearby sconce, the flame flickering low but steady. He pulled it free, held it over the tunnel mouth, and then—without ceremony—tossed it in.

The torch spun once through the air and landed in the mouth of the tunnel with a dry fwoosh, the flame immediately catching on the powder trail. A line of fire hissed to life and began racing down the slope, faster than he’d expected, spitting sparks and smoke as it went.

He watched for a heartbeat. Two.

Then three.

A memory surged—weeks ago, crawling from the ruin of a Ratkin warren as fire and stone erupted behind him. The barrels. The flame. The explosion that had levelled half a hill. His eyes widened.

“Shit.”

He turned and ran.

His boots pounded the stone, echoing through the corridors as he sprinted back the way he’d come, past the cells and anti‑chambers. Already he could picture the air growing hotter, the scent of burning powder thickening with every step. He could almost hear the fuse fizzing—faster than he remembered. Much faster.

He sprinted around a bend and saw the staircase ahead, a narrow chute of stone leading upwards. Grashok didn’t slow—he leapt onto the first steps and bounded upward, three at a time, the imagined scream of the fuse chasing him. He pictured the walls trembling, dust raining from the ceiling, the stairwell lurching beneath him. He almost missed the final step, stumbling as panic clawed at his chest.

He threw himself forward, clearing the last step in a leap, and slammed the heavy door shut behind him.

He didn’t stop.

He kept running.

And then the blast came.

A roar like a dragon’s breath erupted behind him. The door he’d just closed was torn from its hinges and hurled across the room, slamming into the far wall with a deafening crash. A wave of dense, choking smoke surged after it, engulfing everything in its path.

Grashok staggered, coughing, eyes stinging.

But he was alive.

And the basement was gone, replaced by a fiery, smoke emitting pit.

He dropped to one knee, hacking out smoke from his lungs. The thick, acrid air clung to him like oil, searing his throat and cloying his breath. He wiped at his face and squinted through the black fog, trying to orient himself. Shapes moved ahead—goblins and xvarts, clustered and moving in formation. Among them, he caught sight of Snippa’s familiar silhouette, tense but unharmed, her - disheveled braids swinging as she urged the group forward. Sylrith’s silver-trimmed leather gleamed faintly through the haze as she led them toward what looked like an exit—both women flanking a cluster of bound prisoners, herding them through the choking smoke with practised urgency.

But then—screams.

Muffled, faint, but desperate.

Grashok turned toward the sound, his instincts flaring. He stumbled toward a mound of rubble, where the remains of the heavy basement door now lay crumpled against a section of wall. Smoke curled from beneath it—and from behind, the screams again, higher now, panicked.

Without thinking, he lunged at the wreckage, ignoring the searing heat and the sting in his eyes. He tore at the stones, clawing and shoving aside broken wood and twisted iron, his fingers scraped raw on the edges. His lungs burned. His vision blurred. But he didn’t stop.

Finally, he cleared enough to reach the battered door behind.

It creaked open with a groan.

Inside, the air was barely breathable. A goblin staggered upright, dazed and bloodied, his head bleeding from a gash. He must have been struck when the door was blown shut. He was just coming to, blinking in confusion, but alive. He looked up at Grashok, eyes wide with recognition.

“Move!” Grashok barked at the goblin, pointing toward the light. “Out, now!”

The goblin stumbled past him, coughing.

Beside him were the two women they’d found upstairs—the pretty ones, both bound as the slavers had left them, eyes wide and streaming from the smoke. They flinched as he appeared, coughing hard, their lips moving in desperate pleas he could barely hear. One of them whimpered.

Grashok didn’t waste time. He strode forward, scooping the two women—one under each arm—and turned back into the choking corridor and the smoke.

The fire had spread.

The black smoke curled like tendrils, licking at the ceiling, obscuring the exit. The flames hissed and cracked along overturned furniture, broken beams and shattered parchment. The office they had cleared was now a deathtrap.

Grashok lowered his head and charged through it, eyes narrowed to slits, breath held as best he could.

Back into the main room. Past the shattered desk. Past the shelves of delicate valuables now smouldering on the walls, into the scorched remains of the corridor.

Through the front hall, where the door had been flung wide open.

And out into the night.

Out of the smoke.

He stumbled down the steps outside and took three heavy paces before his knees buckled beneath him. He dropped to the ground, the two women slipping from his arms, and fell forward onto his hands, coughing violently. Each breath raked his lungs like claws.

But the air—by the gods, the air was clean.

He sucked in as much of it as his battered lungs could manage, and blinked away the streaming tears.

Then he looked up.

And froze.

His forces—goblins, xvarts, Sylrith, Snippa—they had all emerged and now stood in a loose cluster. But they weren’t alone.

They were surrounded.

A ring of townsfolk encircled them—some armed with pitchforks, clubs, or old swords, others simply staring. Men and women, young and old, all watching the smoke-stained, bloodied group that had just burst from the burning house.

“Uh oh,” Grashok muttered hoarsely, still trying to draw breath.

So much for sneaking out quietly.