A Choice Made

Turning around he made his way towards the freed prisoners. His heavy boots pressed into the damp earth as he approached, but he made sure to keep his posture open, his expression neutral. He could see the tension in their eyes, the fear they tried to suppress as he loomed before them. Even though he had led the charge that had freed them, he was still a monster to many of them—larger, stronger, and completely alien to their way of life. He could not blame them for their wariness.

With Skarn padding beside him, the great wolf’s presence only adding to the sense of command he exuded, Grashok let his voice carry over the gathered humans.

“You are free,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “No chains bind you, no collars mark you as property. The ones who took you, who treated you as nothing more than coin to be bartered, are dead or in chains themselves.” His eyes swept over them, reading the mix of emotions in their faces—relief, exhaustion, suspicion, and something else, something deeper. Hope. “But now, you must choose. We are a few hills from Ingunde. If you wish to return to the human town, my warriors will escort you there. I will make sure you reach it safely.”

A murmur rippled through the group, eyes darting to one another, hands tightening on loved ones or clutching at ragged clothing.

“But,” he continued, “if you have no place to return to, if you were taken long ago and your home is gone, if you have no one left in Ingunde, then I offer you another path.” He folded his arms, his stance solid and unyielding. “I command a dungeon, a stronghold where many races live side by side. Not as slaves, not as chattel, but as warriors, as craftsmen, as citizens. You would be safe there, provided for. If you have skills, they will be put to use. If you do not, you will learn. No one starves under my banner, and no one is cast aside.”

Silence hung over them, broken only by the distant sounds of livestock shifting and soldiers speaking in low voices as they organised the spoils of war. Then, as if a dam had broken, the ex-captives turned to each other, murmuring and whispering in hurried, desperate voices. They had little time to decide.

Grashok waited, watching as they formed small clusters, discussing their options in hushed tones. Some clung to the idea of Ingunde as if it were salvation, a return to civilisation and familiarity. Others hesitated, glancing at one another, clearly uncertain if they had anything left in the town or if they even wished to return at all.

After several long minutes, their deliberations ended, and the group naturally split into two factions.

Those who wished to return to Ingunde stood closer together, their eyes filled with a mixture of determination and apprehension. Among them were a handful of merchants, their fine clothes now ragged but still hinting at past wealth. Their hands were calloused from hardship, but their minds were sharp, and it was clear they believed they could reclaim their lives in the town. A few former guards stood with them, men who had been captured while protecting trade routes or noble caravans. They did not look kindly upon Grashok, but neither did they seem eager to challenge him.

Then there were the others—the ones who chose to stay.

Among them were those who had been slaves for so long that they had no memory of freedom, no home to return to. Their faces were worn, etched with years of suffering, but there was a flicker of something new in their eyes. Resolve. They had spent too long being owned; they had no desire to return to a world where they could be taken again.

Some of them had useful skills—one man, wiry and sharp‑eyed, said he had worked as a blacksmith’s assistant, though he admitted he hadn’t held proper tools in many winters. Another was a young woman with dark, curling hair that fell in loose, uneven coils around her face. She kept close to the others, hands fidgeting at her sleeves, and when she mentioned knowing a little about herbs and simple poultices, her voice trembled with uncertainty rather than confidence.

A few younger men and women stood among them, uncertainty written across their faces, but a willingness to embrace a future different from the one they had expected.

Grashok nodded, satisfied with the division. “You have made your choices,” he said. “Those returning to Ingunde will be escorted by my warriors. You will be kept safe on the road, and no harm will come to you under my watch. When you reach your people, tell them this: we do not make enemies where we can make neighbours.”

The merchants and former guards exchanged uneasy glances, but the tension in their shoulders eased. Some even looked relieved.

His gaze shifted to those who had chosen to stay. “For those joining my dungeon, you stand under my protection now. Here, you will have safety, honest work, and a chance to build something new alongside us. Bring your skills, your strength, your hopes — and together we will make a place where all of us can stand a little taller than we did yesterday.”

There were no objections, only solemn nods — some nervous, some hopeful.

A pop up notification appeared in front of Grashok’s vision.

Accept Human Group ‘Freed Slaves’?

[Confirm] [Decline]

Grashok hit confirm and with that, he turned to Sylrith and Snippa, gesturing for them to make the necessary arrangements. The column would soon split, one group heading towards the human town under guard, the other preparing for the journey back to the dungeon.

The decision had been made. The captives were no longer prisoners. Now, they were either returning home—or beginning a new life under his banner.

Grashok stood at the head of the column, watching as Sylrith and her detachment prepared to break away. The ex-captives bound for Ingunde stood nervously, shifting their weight from foot to foot, casting wary glances at their monstrous escort. Sylrith was already speaking to her warriors in hushed tones, organising the group before departure.

Grashok stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Stay safe,” he murmured.

She smirked, tilting her head up to look at him. “You worry too much,” she said, but there was warmth in her tone. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and pressed a quick, fierce kiss to his lips before turning away. With a swift motion, she signalled to her troops, and they began moving.

The split in the column was smooth, and before long, Sylrith and her detachment were marching away, their figures becoming silhouettes as they disappeared into the forest.

With their departure, Grashok turned back to his own forces.

“Forward!” he bellowed, his deep, gruff voice carrying across the column. The goblin warriors, their faces a mix of excitement and fatigue from the night’s battle, snapped to attention. The Xvarts, their captures in tow, glanced at him, their beady eyes gleaming with anticipation. The Rock Troll grunted its understanding and lumbered back into place, its massive form a living battering ram at the centre of their force.

The main column pressed on, a slow but steady mass of warriors, prisoners, freed captives, and livestock. The rhythmic crunch of boots against the earth, the clank of weapons and armour, and the occasional lowing of beasts filled the air.

At the front, goblins scouted ahead, their keen eyes flicking through the darkness for any sign of movement. Behind them, Grashok’s warriors moved in disciplined ranks, ensuring the prisoners remained in line and the plunder stayed secure. The captured brigands trudged in chains, their faces drawn with exhaustion, while the freed captives who had chosen to follow Grashok walked in small groups, whispering among themselves.

Further down the line, Nyxie walked alongside Zarukk, both keeping a close eye on the bound magic users. They had been gagged and shackled for safety, but their defiant glares had not wavered. Magic was dangerous, unpredictable, and not something Grashok was willing to leave unchecked.

Grashok himself found himself walking alone, save for Skarn padding at his side. The great wolf was unusually tense, his ears twitching at every distant sound.

The march continued, but something was gnawing at Grashok’s mind. He wasn’t sure what it was—just a feeling, a faint sense of unease that clung to him like a shadow. His instincts were rarely wrong, and as much as he wanted to dismiss it as nothing more than exhaustion, he knew better.

It was then that he felt it—a strange pull, as if the land itself was calling him.

Grashok slowed his pace, his gaze drifting to the side of the path. The forest pressed in around them, thick and dark, but something about a particular cluster of gnarled trees caught his attention. The bark looked… wrong. Almost too smooth in places, as though something had brushed against it again and again. The air here was heavy, thick with something beyond sight.

Skarn let out a low growl, sniffing the air.

Grashok hesitated, but his curiosity was piqued. He had always trusted his instincts, and right now, they were telling him to investigate. With a glance back at the column to ensure things were running smoothly, he veered off the path, stepping into the undergrowth.

At first, nothing seemed unusual. The trees stood tall, their roots twisting like knotted fingers into the damp earth. The silence here was deeper than the rest of the forest, as though even the wildlife was holding its breath.

Then, without warning, the ground beneath him gave way.

The sensation was instant—one moment, he was standing firm, and the next, the earth crumbled like rotten wood. His stomach lurched as the world tilted, and suddenly he was falling, plunging into darkness as the land swallowed him whole.

The last thing he heard before the ground sealed above him was Skarn’s frantic, echoing howl.