The young goblins stumbled out of the birthing cave, blinking against the sudden shift from darkness to dim, open light.
Their thin bodies, still young, tensed at the unfamiliar air.
Unlike the damp, enclosed space where they had spent their first days, the outside world was vast, chaotic, alive.
Thirty… forty of them.
A full brood—a testament to the terrifying speed of their race''s proliferation.
The village surrounded them—a crude scattering of tents and makeshift huts built from scavenged wood, bones, and tattered cloth, blending into the thick forest beyond.
Fires smoldered in shallow pits, their flickering light casting long shadows across the dirt ground.
There were no walls, no true boundaries—only trees and the presence of goblins, everywhere.
The air was thick with a stench of smoke and old blood.
And the moment the young ones emerged, the village noticed them.
Yellow eyes gleamed in the dim light as older goblins turned to watch.
Some sneered, baring jagged teeth in amusement or disinterest.
Others grunted, returning to their business—gnawing on bones, tending to weapons, arguing in broken growls.
A few, the more scarred and battle-worn, simply stared, as if weighing the worth of the new brood.
Confusion swept through the young goblins.
Some huddled together, instinctively seeking the comfort of numbers, while others flinched at the violence around them—the sickening crack of bones snapping between teeth, the guttural snarls of goblins fighting over scraps of meat.
A few, driven by hunger, immediately dropped to all fours, sniffing the dirt for anything edible.
But there was no mother to guide them. No hand to feed them.
As the cloaked goblin had said, this was a world where the weak died, and only the strong hunted and survived.
Yet one of the braver younglings let out a shrill Gi!—a cry of frustration, perhaps even a demand.
The response was swift.
A nearby goblin, taller and hunched with sharp scars across its arms, lashed out with a swift kick, sending the small one tumbling into the dirt.
—Ghhk-ghhk… kehh-kehh-kehh!
Laughter—harsh and cruel—erupted from a few nearby goblins.
The young goblins flinched, their instincts screaming to submit, to obey.
Most lowered their heads, avoiding eye contact with the stronger goblins.
Others, smarter or hungrier, turned their attention elsewhere—toward the scraps of discarded food, toward the underbrush where small creatures scurried unseen.
Survive.
That was the only rule.
Yet, amidst them all, the small one—the curious one—stood still, watching as it always did.
Beyond its brothers and sisters in the brood, there were others—more like it, yet different.
Some were larger, their limbs thick with muscle.
Others were smaller, hunched and wiry.
Some bore patches of wild, matted hair atop their heads, while others were bald, their scalps marred with scars.
Its yellow eyes flickered, tracing differences, patterns.
It watched, and watched, and watched.
Until, a sharp tug of hunger broke its focus. The ache twisted in its stomach, raw and insistent.
It had eaten nothing since it awoke, much like the rest of the brood—but now, it could ignore it no longer.
Around it, the young goblins stirred restlessly, their own stomachs curling with a primal need they could no longer suppress.
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The air thickened with the sounds of hunger—sharp growls and desperate yelps.
Some of the younger goblins, driven by instinct, lunged toward the older goblins, trying to snatch at the scraps of meat they were eating.
But similar to before, the older goblins were swift and merciless. They swatted at the young ones with brutal swipes, sending them tumbling to the dirt.
The younger goblins yelped in pain, but the hunger drove them forward again, attempting to take what they could.
They snarled, jagged teeth flashing as they devoured the food, ignoring the young ones entirely.
It was a cycle, relentless and unyielding—one that the curious and young goblin had already begun to understand.
The curious goblin stood apart from the chaos, its yellow eyes flickering with quiet curiosity.
It watched as the older goblins consumed the meat—large, meaty chunks disappearing into their mouths in practiced motions.
But they hadn’t always been here. The meat must’ve come from somewhere.
The curious goblin’s tilted its head. It had seen the others with meat, but where did they find it?
It took a step forward, but hesitated. The older goblins were powerful, merciless. It had learned that much already.
But there was something more to their strength—something beyond just their size and aggression.
They didn’t fight for every scrap, they didn’t chase the food. They took it. They knew where it was, and how to get it.
Its yellow eyes flickered from one older goblin to the next, its mind working quickly, trying to answer its own question.
And that’s when it hit the curious goblin. The food didn’t just appear. The older goblins were—taking it from outside somehow.
Its stomach clenched, but it ignored the ache. It could eat later—after it understood.—and then, it moved.
It began to follow.
Two older goblins left the village, and the curious goblin kept a safe distance, careful not to alert them.
They led it through the village and out toward the edge of the forest.
The curious goblin’s eyes scanned every movement, noting the way the older goblins seemed to be heading with purpose—each one aware of the land around them, knowing exactly where to go.
Eventually, the older goblins halted near a dense thicket.
One of them—taller and thick-limbed—gripped a crude spear, its jagged tip dark with dried stains.
The other was smaller and thin, its long fingers twitching as it hunched close to the earth.
The curious goblin expected them to pull food from the thicket, but they didn’t
Instead, The smaller goblin’s posture shifted. It lowered itself further, pressing its chest almost flat to the ground.
Its body trembled, its arms shook, its movements turned sluggish and erratic—like something wounded, something weak.
It wasn’t moving like a goblin. It wasn’t like something strong. It was… wrong.
The curious goblin’s yellow eyes narrowed. It didn’t fully understand, but instinct—sharp and primal—told it that something was off. That something about this was unnatural.
The larger goblin remained still, hiding itself behind the underbrush.
Then, a faint rustle in the underbrush.
The underbrush trembled as something else stirred—a creature unlike any the curious goblin had ever seen.
It was small, covered in thick fur, with tall, flicking ears. But what stood out the most was the sharp, glistening straight horn protruding from its forehead.
The creature moved cautiously, its large eyes scanning its surroundings. Its powerful hind legs tensed, coiled tight with readiness.
The hunched goblin continued its act, dragging its limbs awkwardly, shuddering as though it was on the verge of collapse. It let out a low, pitiful whimper.
The horned creature’s ears twitched.
And then, it lunged.
Not away, but forward—straight for the smaller goblin.
Its legs uncoiled like a spring, launching its horn straight toward the goblin’s hunched back.
But the second goblin had expected this.
At the last possible moment, it twisted, rolling to the side just as the horned creature struck empty earth.
A trap.
Before the creature could recover, the larger goblin moved.
A sharp thrust.
Swoosh—!
The spear plunged into the creature’s exposed side.
A shrill cry ripped through the air as it thrashed wildly, trying to kick itself free. Its horn slashed, missing the larger goblin’s leg by inches.
But it was too late.
The spear twisted, and the creature''s body went still.
For the first time, the curious goblin understood—hunting was not about finding food. It was about making something die.
His stomach twisted, saliva pooling in his mouth. He had eaten before—worms, scraps. But this was different. Bigger. And he wanted it.
The weak died, and the strong ate the weak.
Just as it had been in the days of its birth. When hunger gnawed at its belly, it had devoured the writhing, blind worms in the dark.
It hadn’t thought much of it then—only that it was starving, and they were there. But now, watching the larger goblins, watching the way they took life, something became clear.
If it did not eat—if it did not kill—then it would starve. And if it starved, it would weaken. And if it weakened…
Something else would eat it.
The scent of fresh blood filled the air.
The curious goblin’s nostrils flared. Its stomach twisted.
The horned thing had been moving—strong, fast. Then it stopped. Now, it was meat.
The larger goblin pulled its spear free.
The smaller one crouched low, knife in hand. A quick slash, and the thing’s belly split open.
Steam curled from its insides. The curious goblin’s mouth felt strange, wet. A feeling it didn’t understand.
The older goblins dug in. Their fingers tore through flesh, ripping free the best parts—the dark, rich meat, the slippery red pieces that smelled the strongest. They ate. They did not stop.
The curious goblin watched. Its stomach ached. It knew this feeling. Hunger.
It had eaten before. Worms. Small things. Weak things.
This was the same. But different. Bigger.
The curious goblin stepped forward.
Would they give it food?
…No.
It had already seen what happened to it brothers and sisters.
The curious goblin’s fingers twitched. It looked at its hands. Small. Empty.
It had no spear. No claws like the horned thing. No tools like the older goblins.
But it had hunger.
And hunger was enough.
It lowered itself, muscles tensed.
If it wanted meat, it would take it.
Just like them.
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UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 3 - Skitter Haunt.
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GLOSSARY -:-
[1] Horned Rabbit — A small but deceptively dangerous monster, known for its powerful legs and sharp horn protruding from its forehead. Unlike ordinary rabbits, it will charge at threats rather than flee, using its horn to impale predators. The Horned Rabbit is an omnivore, feeding on both grass and meat. Its meat is a valued food source, and its horn is sometimes repurposed into tools or weapons.