The bitter tang of roasted herbs clung to the air as Max ducked into a cramped tea shop along one of the busier side streets. The place was small, little more than a clay-walled room with woven mats for seating and low tables chipped with age. A haze of steam filled the interior, sweetened by the sharp scent of spiced leaves steeping in clay kettles.

  He ordered the same way he had at the market stall: by pointing, tapping his temple, and offering a few credits. The goblin server raised an eyebrow but accepted without question, shuffling off to prepare the drink. He didn’t want to let anyone know he understood the language until he had a better grasp of what’s going on here.

  Max settled onto a mat in the corner. From there, he had a good view of the room — enough to watch and listen in without drawing too much attention. He sipped slowly from the steaming cup when it arrived, letting the warmth steady him, while his ears picked up the conversations flowing around him.

  The language scroll had worked, and the words came through clearly now.

  “…saw him myself. A human. Walked right into the market like he belonged there.”

  “You’re imagining things. Humans don’t come here. The Elders would never allow it.”

  “I’m telling you; he was there. Tall, strange clothes, eyes darting like a rat. Where do you think he came from?”

  At another table, a different conversation carried over the steam and clink of cups.

  “…rent’s going up again. If I don’t sell enough this week, the enforcers will break my stall down. Maybe worse.”

  “My brother lost his shop last month. Be glad they only raised the fees — it means the Elder’s hungry for more tribute. Better that than blood.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed as he sipped. It wasn’t all fear and suspicion — most of the goblins were just worried about surviving, about feeding families, keeping their shops open, staying out of trouble with the city guards. It made them… human, in a way that unsettled him.

  The hours slipped by as he wandered from one tea house to another, then on to a few dimly lit taverns and smoke-filled potion dens tucked between alleys. He kept his ears open, soaking up every word he could, but no matter where he went the same truth came up again and again.

  The Elders were ghosts.

  No names, no descriptions, no whispered tales of their deeds. Everyone spoke of them, but never directly. They were rulers without faces, power without identity. The rare times they were mentioned at all, it was in hushed tones, as though the very word might bring punishment.

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  By the time Max returned to the streets under the fading light of lanterns, he knew one thing for certain: if he wanted to uncover who the Elders really were, he would have to dig deeper. Much deeper.

  He exhaled through his nose, the steam of his breath vanishing in the cool evening air. Time to find a place to sleep for the night, he thought, scanning the street until he spotted a nearby inn.

  For a goblin city, it was nicer than he expected. The lobby floor was hard-packed dirt, swept clean, while the upper levels were fitted with wooden planks softened by faded rugs. A few simple stools and chairs were scattered about for waiting guests. Functional, not fancy.

  The price was steep for what it was — one hundred credits for a single-bed room — but Max paid without complaint. The innkeeper handed him a roughly carved key, and he climbed the narrow stairs to his quarters.

  The room itself was barely larger than a storage closet, with just enough space for a bed and a squat dresser. The hallways were built to goblin proportions, forcing Max to hunch as he moved. Only inside the room did the ceiling rise high enough for him to stand straight, though even then he brushed the top with his head if he wasn’t careful.

  “Better than nothing,” he muttered, setting his gear aside.

  The bed was a lumpy sack of straw and hay sewn into a cloth cover, more like an oversized bean bag chair than a mattress. Still, it was dry, it was warm, and after the week he’d had, it was a luxury.

  The walls were thin enough that the city leaked into his room. Muffled voices carried through the cracks in the shutters — merchants arguing over coin, children squealing in play, the occasional clatter of boots on stone. Somewhere farther down the street, a fight broke out. Max tensed instinctively at the shouts, but they were cut short almost immediately. A barked order, the crunch of something heavy striking flesh, and silence. The enforcers were quick and merciless.

  He lay back on the straw-filled bed, staring at the low ceiling beams. This wasn’t anything like the goblin camp he had destroyed. That had been chaos given shape — a horde clawing for dominance. But this? This was civilization. Crude, brutal, unforgiving, but civilization all the same. Rules, enforcers, merchants, families. A world.

  And I’m standing in the middle of it.

  The thought weighed heavily. Wiping out a single council chamber had nearly cost him his life. Here he faced an entire empire, with four Elders hidden somewhere at its heart. If even their names were guarded like secrets, then reaching them wasn’t going to be about strength alone. He would need to blend in, to listen, to play their game. The idea sat uneasily with him — but so did the alternative.

  From below came the muted creak of floorboards and the faint aroma of smoke and spiced tea drifting up from the common room. The sounds of ordinary life, goblins trying to survive in their own way. For the first time, Max realized just how impossible it would be to cut through them all with a sword. Not because he couldn’t kill them, but because they weren’t just enemies anymore. They were people. They had lives.

  He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. The hum of the city dulled into background noise as sleep crept in, but his mind refused to fully settle. Four Elders. Four shadows ruling over this place. Somewhere in the sprawl outside his window, they were watching, waiting.

  Max would have to find them somehow.