The goblin village sprawled beneath the canopy of ancient trees, their thick branches weaving a heavy shadow over the settlement.


    The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, mixed with the pungent smell of roasting meat from the fire at the heart of the village.


    The fire crackled in the center, its flickering flames sending long, twisting shadows dancing across the clearing.


    Around it, the goblins gathered—large and small, thick-skinned and lean—all of them bent over their spoils, tearing into their prey with grunts and growls.


    The older goblins devoured the meat with abandon, their sharp teeth ripping through the flesh of the hunts, their calls echoing across the clearing.


    They seemed unaware of the world around them, focused solely on satisfying their hunger.


    While the older goblins gnawed at their kills, the younger goblins—freshly bred, new to the world—watched with hungry eyes. Their mouths hung open, saliva dripping as they stared at the feast laid before them.


    The number of the fresh brood had been nearly forty, but now, that number had thinned through the first night of survival.


    Some of the younger goblins tried to steal scraps from the older goblins, but their efforts were swiftly punished. Some, smart and driven enough by hunger, left to hunt for their own feed.


    But less than half of those returned—fewer still with anything to show for it.


    Yet, no matter how much they wanted to feast, the hungry younger goblins knew their place, for now. They watched from the edges of the firelight, their gazes lingering on the meat, their hunger raw but restrained.


    And amidst them, one of the rare few who had eaten—the curious goblin.


    Skit, or so it was called today by its angry older brethren.


    After the hunt with the two older goblins, he came to learn their names—Bruk, the thick-limbed, balding brute, and Vrik, the smaller, wiry one with twitching fingers.


    It seemed that every goblin was called in a particular way, based on traits or mannerisms—a pattern he was beginning to understand.


    He hadn’t been told outright but had pieced their names together from the way they barked at each other, snarled orders, and spat curses.


    Bruk often grumbled Vrik’s name in irritation, while Vrik, always fidgeting, muttered Bruk’s name with sharp, mocking jabs.


    Slowly, and unnaturally so for a goblin, Skit was learning.


    When Bruk and Vrik finally stepped back, Skit seized the opportunity, his eyes scanning the two dead Mossfoot Badgers.


    Driven by hunger and an overwhelming instinct, he grabbed one of them and, without hesitation, sank his teeth into the warm flesh.


    The taste was raw and satisfying, and the gnawing hunger surged within him, clouding all thought. He tore into the meat, barely noticing as his fingers fumbled with the sinewy muscles and bones.


    As he consumed, his mind sharpened for a brief moment—he realized that this was the way of the goblin, the way of the strong.


    After nothing was left of his first prey, something happened. Something he couldn’t understand.


    For a fleeting moment—faster than he could react—something flashed.


    […]


    A pulse, a flicker of something unseen. It wasn’t scent, sound, or sight. It was like a whisper but not quite—a presence that vanished before he could grasp it.


    His body remained still, his eyes darting around, but nothing had changed in the world around him.


    Then, silence.


    The feeling was gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind only an eerie emptiness in his thoughts. He growled under his breath, unsettled.


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    He didn’t know what it was.


    But whatever it had been, it had passed.


    Shaking his head, Skit turned back to the other dead badger. With it slung over his young frame, he made his way back to the village, his steps steady and sure. He remembered the way.


    He always remembered.


    But before entering the village, he veered off the path, crouching beside a thick bush near the outskirts. With quick, clawed hands, he dug into the damp earth and buried the carcass.


    Why?


    His sharp eyes flicked toward the firelight, where his broodmates huddled at the edges, their eyes wide with hunger as they watched the older goblins feast.


    Some grew desperate, lunging forward to steal scraps—only to be beaten down and laughed at.


    —Gehe…ghek-ghhk… kehh-kehh-kehh!


    Skit’s lips curled, revealing his small, sharp fangs, their gleam barely catching the flickering firelight.


    a goblin''s grin, twisted and raw.


    As Skit moved through the shifting mass of goblins, a pair of murky eyes settled on him, A raspy sniffle cut through the crackling fire and murmuring voices.


    Sniff—sniff…


    Perched atop a gnarled stump, A wrinkled goblin sat hunched, his skin a weathered gray-green, stretched taut over a bony frame.


    His ears were long and drooping, his yellowed fangs protruding slightly from his thin lips. Wrinkled fingers idly tapped against his knee as he observed the gathering with a gaze that had seen countless cycles of goblin life.


    Sniff—!


    His nostrils flared. Beneath the overwhelming stench of sweat, damp earth, and roasted flesh, he caught it—the scent of blood, fresh and lingering. It clung to the small goblin, a young one.


    Unlike the others, he did not feast. He did not snarl or jeer at the struggling younglings. He simply watched.


    And right now, he was watching Skit.


    His sunken eyes narrowed slightly. Skit wasn’t hunched in hunger like his brethren, nor was he gnawing on scraps or licking his lips in desperate longing. The elder’s fingers drummed against his knee once more.


    “Khekhe… young one, not hungry?” the elder rasped, his voice like dried leaves scraping together.


    Skit stiffened.


    The elder’s nostrils flared again, his beady eyes glinting with something more than simple curiosity. “Blood.” A crooked grin stretched across his face. “Fresh.”


    Skit turned toward him, meeting his gaze, He bared his teeth, hunching slightly like his starving kin. "Me... hungry."


    A simple lie.


    The elder''s fingers drummed against his knee once more, the tapping slow, deliberate. His grin never faded. “Oh?...Strange”


    His murky eyes studied Skit, but he said nothing more of the blood. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his bones creaking with the movement.


    “Hngh… young one is hungry, but young one does not fight for scraps.” The elder’s grin widened just a little, his yellowed fangs glinting in the firelight. “Strange.”


    Skit said nothing. He only watched, his muscles tense beneath his thin frame.


    The old goblin let out a dry chuckle, scratching at his chin. “You… bring meat.”


    His gaze remained sharp despite his age, narrowing as it shifted to the blood on Skit. “Bring meat to me.”


    His long fingers tapped his knee again. “I show.”


    Skit’s brows furrowed. He didn’t understand, but something about the elder’s words caught his attention. He tilted his head, a question in his eyes, though his voice was hesitant. “Show?”


    The elder’s smile widened slightly. “Yes.” His voice dropped lower, more serious now. “I show you more than scraps. I show you what you cannot see. If you bring meat.”


    Skit blinked, trying to process the elder’s words. Something about the way the goblin spoke stirred a strange feeling within him.


    The elder leaned back again, resting his weight on the gnarled stump beneath him, his eyes still fixed on Skit. He didn’t press for an answer.


    Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, as if to give the younger goblin time to think—or perhaps to make the choice for himself.


    Skit’s gaze drifted toward the fire, toward the older goblins who feasted with abandon. His stomach growled, but it was different now. The desire for food, for meat, was mingled with something else. Curiosity. A sense of potential. An itch he couldn’t quite scratch.


    Finally, Skit nodded, though he still didn’t fully understand. He turned and walked away without another word, his small figure swallowed by the night’s shadows.


    The elder watched him go, his grin still lingering on his withered face, eyes gleaming with something older, deeper than simple amusement.


    “Interesting… A king?... No!… too young, too smart… strange?” he muttered to himself, tapping his fingers once more, lost in thought.


    His crooked grin faded, replaced by a look of deep contemplation. The flickering firelight danced across his weathered face, but his murky eyes were distant, focused on something beyond the village—a thought, an idea, something only he could grasp.


    For a moment, the elder sat in silence, the only sound the crackling fire and the soft rustle of the forest around him.


    As the night deepened, the firelight flickered and stretched long shadows across the village. The elder remained seated on his stump, his gaze still distant, his mind elsewhere, while the steady rhythm of his fingers tapping on his knee filled the silence.


    “Gheh-heh… curious, curious. Very curious,” he rasped under his breath, before turning his gaze back to the fire.


    The night thickened, and time, unfeeling, moved forward.


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    UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 5 - Through the Hungry Eyes.


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