Dawn on the seventh day came cloaked in silence.
No birds sang.
No wind stirred.
The entire forest seemed to be holding its breath.
Reivo stood at the edge of the Ridge Wall, fully armed, leather armor strapped tight to his frame, sword newly sharpened and resting in his hand. His heart thudded slow, deep beats against his ribs—not from fear, but from waiting. From knowing.
Today, the dungeon would open.
Behind him, the defense line buzzed with quiet activity. Hunters checked bows and arrowheads. Guards inspected the barricades. A line of oil jars sat ready to be lit and hurled. Smoke from the village's watchfires curled faintly above the trees—three thin lines, the agreed signal: All is ready. Await the breach.
Reivo's father moved between fighters, giving last-minute instructions. He paused beside Reivo and looked him over.
"You good?"
Reivo nodded. "Ready."
"Stay close to Tomas. If they break formation, fall back to the second line. Don't try to be a hero."
"I won't." He paused. "But I'll protect them. The kids. Mira. Senn."
His father's eyes softened. "That's all I ask."
A low hum began to rise from the forest beyond. Faint at first. Then stronger.
Like the whine of pressure against the air.
And then they felt it—the pulse.
The ground trembled beneath their boots. Not violently. But enough.
A distant light flickered through the treetops—a blue shimmer, like lightning caught in a whirlpool.
The dungeon had opened.
"All right!" Tomas shouted, raising his blade. "Positions!"
Everyone moved with practiced precision. Archers climbed to higher vantage points. Spears were braced. Torches were lit and passed down the line.
Reivo crouched behind a stack of crates, his father and two hunters beside him.
They waited.
The minutes stretched.
Then came the first sound—a screech.
High-pitched. Inhuman.
A monster cry.
Leaves rustled, branches snapped.
The forest erupted.
Goblins burst through the underbrush with shrill cries, twisted faces contorted in bloodlust. The front wave—a pack of five—scrambled over roots and rocks, crude weapons raised. Their yellow eyes locked onto the Ridge Wall and the humans behind it.
Reivo's heart pounded, but his grip was steady. He crouched beside his father, sword at the ready, breath calm and slow.
The traps were the first to sing.
A thin wire caught a goblin by the ankle—snap—it was yanked into the air, flailing, as a sharpened log swung from a branch and crashed into its chest. Two more goblins screamed as they tumbled into spike pits covered with leaves. The last two kept charging.
"Loose!" Tomas shouted.
The archers fired. Arrows hissed through the air and struck true—one goblin dropped instantly, pierced through the throat. The last took an arrow to the shoulder but staggered forward, shrieking.
Reivo sprang forward. His blade flashed in the morning light—one clean strike across the goblin's wrist sent its weapon flying. Another slash across its thigh dropped it to its knees, and a sharp jab to the ribs ended the fight. The creature collapsed, unconscious or worse.
Cheers rose—but they were cut short by a deeper, echoing cry.
More were coming.
The forest seemed to boil with motion. From the shadows came dozens—a true wave. Goblins of every shape and build, some barely waist-high, others hunched and bulky, armed with jagged bone spears, clubs wrapped in thorned vines, even rusted short blades likely stolen from unlucky travelers.
"Hold the line!" Tomas bellowed.
The goblins crashed into the Ridge.
Reivo found himself back-to-back with his father, the wall of crates and sharpened poles at their front holding firm. A goblin scrambled over it—Reivo ducked its swing, then drove his shoulder into its chest, sending it tumbling back down to be finished by another hunter's spear.
To his right, a guard took a blow to the leg and dropped to one knee—but Reivo's father was there in an instant, parrying the follow-up strike and dragging the man behind the line.
"Medic!" someone yelled.
Mira was already there, clutching a satchel of herbs and cloth. She helped pull the guard aside and began binding his wound, eyes darting from the fray but hands steady.
A goblin leapt onto the barricade, shrieking—its claws slashing wildly. Reivo blocked one, two, three strikes, then pivoted low and swept its legs. The goblin crashed onto the stones, stunned, and Tomas pierce it with his blade, killing it.
Another wave came. This time larger.
But the defenders were ready.
Molten oil was hurled from clay jars and lit with fire arrows—fwump—a wall of flame roared to life, separating the goblins and forcing them to go around. The villagers closed ranks, spears thrusting through gaps in the barricades, shields locked.
Reivo's arms ached, his breath ragged, sweat dripping into his eyes—but he never stopped. Every move was deliberate: a parry, a counter, a feint, a cut. He wasn't just surviving—he was protecting.
One goblin almost got through the right flank, slipping under a spear—but a young hunter tackled it with a shout, wrestling it to the ground. They rolled in the dirt until the hunter managed to stavi it with a hunting knife in the throat.
Reivo caught a glimpse of Mira again. She was still tending the wounded, her hands stained red, face pale but resolute.
The wave lasted just 10 minutes but for everyone it seemed like an hour.
Finally an arrow pierces in the eye the last goblin, letting everyone take a breath. A breath that didn't last long.
Because then it came.
The boss.
From the misted treeline, a monstrous goblin emerged—taller than any of the others, nearly human height, its body bulkier and lined with thick, sinewy muscle. It wore crude armor made of animal bones lashed together with sinew and rusted chain. In one hand, it carried a jagged cleaver that shimmered with a sickly green aura.
Its eyes locked onto the defenders.
And it smiled.
But it didn't charge.
Not yet.
It stood there, watching. Studying.
Reivo stared back, jaw clenched.
The front waves had been just a test.
The true fight was still to come.