The dark night had completely swallowed the forest. The rustling wind made the foliage tremble, and the whispers of nocturnal animals added a sort of natural darkness—almost comforting, in a way.
It was already quite late. The time for rest had come for the diurnal creatures. Even the hobgoblins from the right-side village, despite the hunger gnawing at their bellies and the troubling absence of their hunting party, had resigned themselves to sleep. They had to conserve their strength for the next day.
All the females had retreated to their tents. The males, more resilient—or maybe just less inclined to seek comfort—remained outside, watching over the village. Someone had to take care of it.
One hobgoblin in particular patrolled in the heavy silence. Now that everyone was asleep, he moved with cautious steps, constantly glancing over his shoulder. Eventually, he slipped behind a boulder at the back of the village.
That rock hid the entrance to a tunnel he had discovered by accident. He hadn't told anyone. Since then, he'd claimed it as his secret hideout. Sometimes, he brought females there—ones that weren't his—to satisfy his urges before killing them and erasing all traces. Other times, he stored stolen meat there, pretending he'd eaten it with the group, only to feast on it alone like a king without a crown.
He wasn't very tall, a little shorter than their leaders. But tonight, none of the leaders were around to keep an eye on him. And he hadn't come for carnal pleasure: he came to retrieve a piece of wild boar meat he had stashed there the night before.
He entered the tunnel, shivering slightly as the damp air brushed his skin. He immediately began searching. Every usual corner was checked, but nothing. Nothing at all.
He frowned, his grotesque face twisted with confusion.
He may have been twisted, but he never hid things so well he couldn't find them. He was certain the meat had been there. Could someone have found it? No... he shook his head. Unthinkable.
He had taken all the precautions. The entrance was hidden behind rocks, and the reeking stench of the meat still lingered in the tunnel—proof it was there, somewhere.
He resumed his search, this time with more determination, following the scent like a trail.
"Forgive me, is this what you're looking for?"
A chilling voice struck him like a dagger in the back. He didn't understand the words, but it wasn't his voice, nor that of a distressed female. It was... foreign. Unknown. Terrifying.
He slowly turned his head.
A silhouette emerged from the shadows, leaning casually against the wall. Despite the darkness, he recognized a human shape. A human female.
His gaze slid over the bandages wrapped around her chest—an intriguing sight—but that wasn't what held his attention.
In the woman's hands, a boar leg. His boar leg.
She held it out toward him.
The hobgoblin froze, unable to move. His throat tightened, fingers trembling instinctively, though he didn't know why.
The figure didn't move. She stared, her face partly hidden by wet strands of black hair. Her deep brown eyes glowed faintly, as if absorbing the dim light filtering into the tunnel. She tilted her head slightly, curious, almost mocking.
"Don't want it anymore?" she asked in a slow, soft voice, with a strange accent—not quite human, not entirely beastly.
The hobgoblin stumbled back awkwardly. His heel hit a stone, and he fell heavily onto his backside. His eyes remained locked on the boar leg, still held out to him like a cursed offering.
Then he saw it.
It wasn't just meat. There were fingers—humanoid—wedged beneath the leg. Crushed, dislocated, nearly flattened as if used as a plate. Hobgoblin fingers.
He let out a muffled, panicked grunt and tried to crawl backward.
The silhouette advanced slowly. Step by step, her boots sank into the damp earth. Reaching him, she let the meat fall with a sickening splat, right next to him.
"And yet, just a minute ago, you were searching for it like a madman…" she murmured, kneeling in front of him, her knees brushing against his rough skin. "It's funny. You males all do the same thing."
He wanted to scream. But a finger pressed against his lips.
Cold. Unnaturally cold.
"Shh... the others are still sleeping, right?"
His eyes widened in horror. He tried to get up, but an invisible force pinned him to the ground. His muscles refused to obey. The creature—because it was no longer just a woman—looked at him now with contempt. As if he had never been worth anything.
He felt frustrated. Offended. Being treated like worthless vermin was unbearable. He was tired of being toyed with like a puppet. A low growl rose in his throat as he struggled to move...
But the moment he lifted an elbow, a flash of steel appeared, sharp as lightning.
The blade of an axe materialized beneath his throat. He hadn't seen it. Hadn't heard a thing. A thin red line opened on his skin, a trickle of blood sliding slowly down the cold metal.
"Move, and you die."
The voice struck like steel on an anvil. Cold. Sharp. Without hesitation.
The hobgoblin froze, breath short. His eyes flicked to the axe, then back to her—the female figure, still calm, almost bored. As if she had seen this scene a hundred times and grown tired of it.
He hadn't even seen when she'd drawn the weapon. It was as if the axe had always been there, an extension of her arm, ready to strike at the slightest twitch.
The tension was absolute. The tiniest vibration, the slightest wrong movement, and his throat would be slit like a cheap leather pouch.
And her? She didn't even blink.
When another voice rose in the tunnel—softer, even more feminine—the axe-wielding woman simply turned her head, curious.
"No need to bother questioning him. They don't understand our language."
A second silhouette emerged from the shadows—slimmer, smaller, almost delicate beside the first. Her shaved skull gleamed in the tunnel's dampness, and her long pointed ears hinted at elven origin—or something far more twisted. She wore the same type of dark, tight, practical trousers and the same bandages across her chest as her companion... but hers were soaked in blood, and her arm was smeared with it too.
Her hands dripped with blood, streaming down her fingers to the tip of her dagger. Each drop fell with a soft plop onto the floor.
The woman with the axe slowly looked back at the hobgoblin, a vaguely disappointed expression in her eyes. As if the whole thing had just been a game interrupted too soon.
"Oh... is that so?" she said in a flat tone, almost sulking.
She shrugged.
"Shame. He's lived here long enough—I was going to ask for directions, but I guess that's pointless now."
Maggie stood up slowly, her axe still resting against the hobgoblin's throat. Her eyes locked with his, without hatred, without pity. Just that icy gleam of someone for whom taking a life was no more than a habit.
"You're no use to me."
The blade sliced through the air with a dry hiss.
The head rolled to the side with a dull thud, cleanly severed. The body jerked once, as if surprised, before collapsing in a wet, gurgling heap.
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the rhythmic drip of blood hitting the tunnel floor.
Maggie knelt without a word, plunging her fingers into the still-warm chest of the corpse. She opened the flesh like one might open an overripe fruit, methodical, almost surgical.
"Should we meet up with Dylan?" asked the elf beside her, arms crossed.
"Yeah. He should be done on his end."