Chapter 80 — Not Alone

  They departed through the west gate just after dawn.

  The guard on duty straightened when he saw Garrick—older, alert eyes, the kind that noticed patterns instead of faces. He might’ve been Brannic’s friend from the east gate, switched to morning watch. The city rotated its sentries often these days.

  “Be careful out there,” the man said, his gaze lingering on the children longer than necessary. “Rumors don’t grow without reason.”

  Garrick gave a short nod. “We’ll bring back proof.”

  Hennel did not acknowledge the warning.

  He passed through the gate humming loudly—no, singing—a half-remembered tavern tune with wrong lyrics and too much confidence. His boots scuffed deliberately against the packed dirt road, like he wanted the trees themselves to hear him coming.

  Garrick’s hand twitched.

  Nearly smacked him.

  Nearly.

  “Keep that mouth of yours shut once we’re close,” Garrick said without looking back. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

  Hennel grinned, wide and unrepentant. “Yes, sir!”

  Ayra winced, shoulders tensing.

  Ivaline said nothing.

  The road thinned as they moved west. Packed dirt gave way to broken earth. Grass grew uneven. Leaves began to crunch underfoot.

  Garrick raised a fist.

  They stopped instantly.

  He crouched, brushing aside loose soil with two fingers. Slow. Careful.

  “Look,” he said.

  Three-toed footprints.

  Uneven spacing. One foot dragged slightly. The impression was shallow—light load, quick movement.

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  “Goblin,” Garrick said. “Traveling light. Probably thought it was alone.”

  Or wanted to be seen, Chronicle murmured.

  Ivaline didn’t respond—but she noted the spacing. The direction. The way the trail didn’t double back.

  Garrick straightened.

  “Formation. Five feet apart. Keep each other in sight. No talking.”

  They spread out.

  Hennel fidgeted, grip tightening on his short spear.

  Ayra swallowed and adjusted her sling, eyes darting.

  Ivaline moved last—steps light, breath even, blade still sheathed but hand ready.

  The forest closed around them.

  Light thinned. Shadows stretched. Birdsong faded until even the insects seemed hesitant.

  Even Hennel stopped making noise.

  Then—

  Garrick raised two fingers.

  Stop.

  He gestured ahead.

  Between two trees, barely visible against moss and shadow, stood a small green figure. Crooked posture. Too still. Pointed ears twitched as it sniffed the air, yellow eyes darting.

  A goblin.

  Sighting confirmed.

  Garrick shifted, preparing to signal a withdrawal—

  Too late.

  “It’s alone!” Hennel shouted. “I can take it!”

  “WAIT—BRAT!”

  Hennel charged.

  The goblin’s head snapped up.

  “K W E E E E E E !!!”

  The shriek ripped through the trees, sharp enough to make Ayra flinch.

  Hennel didn’t slow.

  His spear thrust clean and direct, just like Garrick had drilled—straight through the lung. The goblin convulsed, claws scraping uselessly at the shaft before collapsing in a wet heap.

  Dead.

  One strike.

  For half a heartbeat—

  Silence.

  Then the underbrush exploded.

  Two goblins burst from opposite sides.

  An ambush.

  A stone dagger slammed against Hennel’s wooden shield. The impact jolted his arm numb. He yanked his spear free and stumbled back—

  Too slow.

  The second goblin slipped behind him, teeth bared, stone blade already raised.

  Too close.

  Too fast.

  Too late—

  Steel flashed.

  Ivaline was there.

  Her copper blade cleared its sheath in a single smooth motion. One step. One angle. No hesitation.

  The blade cut across the goblin’s throat.

  Clean.

  Efficient.

  The body dropped without ceremony.

  Green blood sprayed once, then steamed faintly against the cold forest floor.

  Hennel froze.

  “Wha—!? I—”

  “Don’t turn,” Ivaline said quietly. “Focus.”

  Her voice cut through the panic like a hand on his shoulder.

  She flicked her blade once, shedding blood, and stepped beside him.

  Back to back.

  Two children.

  One enemy left.

  Garrick charged in, shield raised.

  “Good job, little lady!” he barked. “And you—brat! When we get back—”

  Hennel gasped.

  Not from Garrick.

  From the sound.

  From deeper in the woods.

  Shrill cries answered the first scream.

  Not one.

  Not two.

  Many.

  The forest answered itself.

  Garrick stopped mid-step.

  His expression hardened as he raised his shield higher.

  “…Too late,” he muttered.

  Branches rustled.

  Shadows shifted.

  Yellow eyes began to appear between tree trunks, behind bushes, above fallen logs.

  Not charging.

  Watching.

  Counting.

  Chronicle spoke, calm and merciless.

  This was never a lone scout.

  Ivaline tightened her grip.

  Five was her limit.

  And the forest held more than that.

  They were surrounded.