They dropped the Washingtons at the Jensen homestead just before dusk.
It was efficient. Quiet. No speeches.
Caleb and Ruth went straight to work unloading tools and animals as if they'd lived there for years instead of hours. Naomi stayed close to Emily, the two of them already trading quiet observations about fire control and restraint. Aaron walked the perimeter with Luke for a few minutes, stone shifting subtly under his boots as if the ground itself was listening.
Mark didn't linger.
This run wasn't about settling in.
It was about finding out who else was still out there.
---
They took the Ford back onto the gravel roads, dust trailing behind them like a thin scar. The trailer stayed behind this time—lighter, faster, quieter.
Carl had a list in his head. People he trusted. People who showed up when fences went down or storms rolled in. People who worked without being asked.
"First one's the Daltons," Carl said. "North road. If anyone held out—"
The farm came into view.
Empty.
No smoke. No lights. No movement.
Mark killed the engine well short of the house. They approached on foot, spacing automatic, senses sharp.
The place looked… paused.
Tractor still half-hooked to an implement. Back door unlocked. A coffee mug overturned on the porch, long since gone cold.
No bodies.
No blood.
No dust.
"They left," Luke said quietly.
"Or were taken," Carl replied.
Emily scanned the treeline, heat-sense spreading outward.
"Nothing nearby," she said. "Not even residual."
Mark nodded once. "Mark it. We move."
---
The second farm was worse.
Same silence.
Same absence.
But here, the barn door hung open, hinges twisted like something strong had forced it. The field fence was crushed in two places, posts snapped clean.
Still no bodies.
Luke clenched his jaw. "This wasn't a raid. This was pressure."
"Driven off," Carl agreed. "Or herded."
Emily shook her head. "They didn't die here."
Which almost made it worse.
---
The third farm announced itself before they reached the driveway.
Emily stopped so abruptly Luke nearly ran into her.
"There," she said. "Heat. Multiple. Close."
Mark raised a fist. They froze.
He crouched, easing forward just enough to see past the hedgerow.
The yard was a ruin.
Two human bodies lay near the porch—an older couple, twisted where they'd fallen. The dust hadn't fully scattered yet, still clinging to clothes and hair in pale smears.
And standing over them—
Goblins.
Six of them.
Five were the smaller kind they'd already fought—thin, hunched, weapons crude but sharp.
The sixth was different.
Taller.
Nearly human height.
Its arms were longer than they should have been, elbows hanging low, fingers brushing the dirt when it moved. Its back was straighter too, posture confident in a way the others weren't.
It barked something sharp and guttural.
The smaller goblins snapped to attention immediately, shifting positions, spreading out without hesitation.
Luke's eyes narrowed. "It's giving orders."
Carl's voice was low. "That's not luck anymore."
The larger goblin kicked one of the bodies with its foot, snarled something, then pointed toward the house.
Two goblins moved instantly.
Emily felt it then—a hotter, denser presence at the center of the group.
"Leader," she whispered. "Stronger heat signature. Focused."
Mark's grip tightened on his spear.
For a long second, no one moved.
Then Mark eased back, slow and controlled.
"No," he said quietly. "Not here. Not now."
Luke looked at him sharply. "We can take them."
Carl shook his head once. "Maybe. Maybe not. And not before dark."
Emily swallowed. "Night favors them. Not us."
Mark nodded. "We've got what we came for. Information."
He glanced at the sky—already deepening toward purple.
"We push this now, we risk losing people. Worse, we let something follow us home."
Carl's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.
"So we pull out," Carl said. "Fast."
Mark nodded. "Fast and clean."
They backed away the way they'd come, slow at first, then quicker once the hedgerow swallowed them. No branches snapped. No gravel shifted.
When they reached the truck, Mark didn't ease it forward.
He started it and *went*.
The Ford roared to life, tires biting hard as they tore back down the gravel road, dust exploding behind them in a long, blinding plume.
Emily focused outward, heat-sense flaring.
"They noticed," she said. "Movement. Confusion."
"Pursuit?" Luke asked.
She shook her head. "No. We're far enough. Too much open ground. They won't chase blind."
Carl exhaled slowly. "Good."
The miles stretched out between them and the third farm—enough distance, enough turns, enough broken sightlines to make following a gamble.
By the time the Jensen homestead came back into view, darkness had fully settled.
Mark slowed at last, knuckles aching from the wheel.
"They're organized now," Luke said quietly.
"Yes," Mark replied. "And they're operating close enough to threaten our outer ring."
Carl looked back toward the road they'd come from. "Which means we stop scouting blindly."
Emily's voice was steady, but hard. "And we start planning for leaders."
The homestead lights glowed ahead—warm, defended, alive.
They'd made the right call.
But the image of that taller goblin stayed with them all.
Because next time—
Running might not be an option.
________________________________________
They rolled back into the homestead well after dark.
Lanterns were already lit. The yard was alive with quiet movement—people settling animals, checking fences, shifting tools into defensible places. The place felt awake in a way it hadn't that morning.
Mark killed the engine and sat there for a second longer than necessary, hands resting on the wheel.
Carl was the first out.
"What'd you find?" Sarah asked immediately, stepping down from the porch.
Mark didn't soften it. "Empty farms. Then bodies."
That brought everyone in close.
Luke described the first two farms—how nothing was left behind, how it felt like people had been *moved*. Emily spoke next, voice precise as she explained the third.
"Six goblins. Five standard. One larger."
She hesitated. "It was directing the others."
That did it.
Jethro straightened from where he'd been leaning against the barn wall.
"Taller?" he asked. "Longer arms?"
Emily nodded. "Yes."
Jethro exhaled through his nose. "Hobgoblin."
The word carried weight.
Mark looked at him. "Explain."
"Leader caste," Jethro said. "Common in folklore and games. Stronger than a normal goblin. Smarter. Not a boss—but a field commander."
Luke frowned. "How much stronger?"
Jethro considered. "Individually? Maybe worth two goblins. Tougher, better reach, better coordination. The real danger isn't its strength—it's what it *does* to the others."
Carl nodded slowly. "Turns a mob into a unit."
"Exactly," Jethro said. "And if there's one, there can be more."
Silence settled as that sank in.
Mark looked toward the treeline, dark and unreadable.
"We can't leave that alone," he said.
Carl joined him. "No. That thing establishes control, it starts pushing lines. We already saw the result."
Evelyn spoke quietly from the porch. "Predators don't stop hunting because they've eaten once."
Mark nodded. "Tomorrow, and the next day, we hunt goblins."
Sarah stiffened. "Even with everything else going on?"
"Especially because of it," Mark replied. "We let leaders stand, they come for the walls before they're finished."
Carl crossed his arms. "We don't need to clear the forest. We just need to make it too expensive for them to operate here."
Luke looked between them. "Heavy patrols."
"Targeted strikes," Mark corrected. "Small groups. Rotations. No overextension."
Jethro tilted his head, already mapping possibilities. "Break cohesion. Kill leaders first. Scatter the rest."
Emily nodded. "I can track them. Especially the bigger ones."
Mark turned back to the group.
"We build," he said. "We farm. We bring people in."
Then his voice hardened.
"But for the next couple of days, goblins become the priority threat."
Carl met his gaze. "Agreed."
The decision settled like a stone.
Outside the homestead, the forest stayed quiet.
But it was no longer unseen.
And somewhere out there, a Hobgoblin leader moved pieces on a board it thought it understood.
It was about to learn—
That this territory was no longer uncontested.
________________________________________
Carl waited until the yard had quieted.
Not silent—never that—but settled. Lanterns dimmed. Goats bedded down. Voices lowered as people drifted into routines that already felt older than a single day.
Caleb Washington stood near the fence line, hands resting on a post, watching his goats with the kind of attention that never really turned off. He looked up as Carl approached.
"Mind if I borrow you a minute?" Carl asked.
Caleb nodded. "Of course."
They walked a short distance away, far enough that words wouldn't carry back to the house.
Carl didn't ease into it.
"Has anyone talked to you about how we're handling combat rotations?" he asked.
Caleb shook his head. "Not in detail."
Carl leaned against the fence. "The people with combat-oriented affinities—strength, agility, fire, things like that—they grow faster when they're exposed to real fights. Pressure. Decision-making. Same as training, just accelerated."
Caleb absorbed that quietly. "And people who don't go out… fall behind."
"Yes," Carl said. "Which creates problems later."
Caleb nodded slowly. "I've seen that before. Different context."
Carl hesitated, then continued. "That brings me to Naomi."
Caleb's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"She has a Fire Affinity," Carl said. "Control-based. Clean. That kind of ability matters in a fight—not just for damage, but for awareness and denial."
"I know," Caleb said quietly. "I've seen it."
Carl didn't press immediately. He waited.
Caleb stared out into the dark fields. "I spent my whole life trying to make sure my kids didn't have to fight," he said. "Now the world's asking them to anyway."
Carl nodded. "I get that."
"She's capable," Caleb went on. "Smart. Careful. But capability doesn't make it easier to watch."
"No," Carl agreed. "It doesn't."
They stood in silence for a few seconds.
Then Carl said, "I'm not here to tell you what she should do. Or to recruit her behind your back."
Caleb looked at him. "Then why tell me at all?"
"Because if she chooses to stay out," Carl said honestly, "she'll be weaker for it later. And if she chooses to go in, she deserves to do it with eyes open—and with her father knowing why."
Caleb exhaled slowly.
"You're saying there's no safe way to protect her by deciding for her."
Carl met his eyes. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
Caleb rubbed a hand over his face, then straightened.
"Then I won't decide," he said finally. "Not this."
Carl nodded, a measure of respect clear in the gesture.
"I'll talk to her," Caleb continued. "Explain it. Let her choose."
"That's all anyone can do," Carl said.
As they turned back toward the house, Caleb paused.
"If she goes," he said quietly, "I'll expect you to treat her like any other member of the team."
Carl didn't hesitate. "I will."
Caleb nodded once. "Good. Because when it comes to a fight, you're a hard man, Henley. And hard men make strong men. And woman,in this case"
They rejoined the others without ceremony.
Inside the homestead, Naomi sat near the fire with Emily, the two of them speaking in low voices, flames bending subtly as they talked.
Caleb watched his daughter for a long moment.
Then he walked inside.
Whatever choice she made—
It would be hers.
________________________________________
Carl didn't have to look far for Naomi.
She was sitting on the low bench near the hearth, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, hands moving as she spoke. Emily sat across from her, firelight reflecting in both their eyes.
"…it's not about bigger flames," Emily was saying. "It's about control. Where the heat goes. Where it *doesn't*."
Naomi nodded, intent. "I noticed that. If I don't rush it, the fire behaves. If I push—"
"It fights back," Emily finished.
Naomi smiled faintly. "Exactly."
A small flame hovered between them, no bigger than a candle, perfectly still. Naomi shaped it with subtle motions, not touching it—guiding airflow, temperature, balance. Emily mirrored the movement, and the flame stretched, thinned, then settled again.
Two fires.
One conversation.
Carl stopped just inside the doorway and watched.
He didn't interrupt.
Caleb came up beside him quietly. "She decided already, didn't she?"
Carl nodded. "Looks like it."
Caleb exhaled, then squared his shoulders. "Then at least she decided right."
They stepped back, leaving the moment intact.
_______________________________________
The night passed under rotation.
Three shifts.
No one stood watch long enough to dull. No one slept too deep to wake fast.
Emily and Naomi took one shift together, heat-sense overlapping, watching the treeline for movement that never quite came close enough to test them. Luke and Aaron held another, strength and stone anchoring the perimeter. Carl, Mark, and Jethro rotated through all three, checking lines, listening, adjusting.
The forest stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
Which meant morning mattered.
________________________________________
At first light, the homestead stirred as one.
Gear was laid out. Armour checked. Shields strapped. Weapons chosen deliberately—no excess, no improvisation left to chance.
This wasn't a patrol.
It was a hunt.
Carl stood at the center of it, tower shield planted briefly at his side as he adjusted the straps. He looked calm. Solid. Exactly where he belonged.
"Formation stays tight," he said. "I anchor. You move."
Ethan rolled his shoulders, restless energy contained but eager. "Fast in. Fast out."
Emily checked the spear she carried for distance work, fire sitting low and controlled in her chest. "I'll keep range and overwatch."
Jethro stood slightly apart, eyes unfocused, already mapping terrain and possibility.
"Secondary ranged damage," he said calmly. "Primary control. Callouts are mine."
Mark studied the group for a moment, then nodded.
"This is the template," he said. "We don't improvise until we've earned it."
Jethro looked up. "I'm going with every team."
Mark didn't argue.
"Your edge matters," Carl said. "Especially now."
"With Hobgoblins," Ethan added.
Jethro nodded. "Especially with Hobgoblins."
Emily glanced toward the house where Naomi stood watching from the porch, calm and resolved.
Another fire.
Another choice made.
The sun crested the horizon, burning away the last of the mist that clung to the fields. Somewhere beyond the trees, goblins shifted and scattered, unaware that patterns were about to change.
The first hunting team stepped out together.
Measured. Deliberate. Ready.
The quiet threshold had been crossed.
Now they were pushing back.
________________________________________
They were two hours out when Emily stopped.
Not abruptly—no sudden freeze—but with the kind of stillness that made everyone else halt without being told.
Carl planted the shield instinctively, angling it toward the tree line. Ethan drifted wide to the left, light on his feet, already moving into a flanking position. Jethro raised a hand, palm down.
"Hold," he said quietly.
Emily didn't look back. Her gaze was fixed on a stand of trees a long way off, beyond a shallow dip in the land.
"Contact," she said. Calm. Certain. "Not close. But moving."
Jethro's head tilted slightly, his awareness spreading outward to match hers. "Pattern?"
"Yes," Emily replied. "Six small heat sources. Loose cluster. And one larger."
Carl's jaw tightened. "Hobgoblin."
Emily nodded. "Center mass of the group. Hotter. Denser. The others are adjusting around it."
"How far?" Ethan asked.
"Out of range," Emily said. "Well out. But not wandering."
Jethro closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them. "They're sweeping. Not hunting randomly. They're checking territory."
Carl glanced at Mark's earlier map in his mind, then back to the ground ahead. "They're inside our outer ring."
Ethan grinned thinly. "Good. Saves us walking."
Carl shot him a look. "Discipline."
Ethan sobered instantly. "Yes, sir."
Emily shifted slightly, adjusting her stance. "They don't know we're here yet. Their attention's forward. The Hobgoblin's keeping them spread—covering angles."
Jethro nodded. "Smart enough to avoid ambushes. Not smart enough to sense us."
He lifted a finger and made a small circling motion.
"Carl anchors here," he said. "We don't advance into their sweep. We let them walk into *our* kill zone."
Emily's lips curved faintly. "Fire can shape the space. Funnel them."
Ethan flexed his hands. "And I cut the edges when they commit."
Carl adjusted his grip on the shield, feet settling into the dirt like roots. "Then let's teach the Hobgoblin something."
Emily focused again, heat-sense tightening, tracking the subtle shift of warmth through the trees.
"They're coming closer," she said. "Slow. Confident."
Jethro's voice was quiet, precise. "Good. Confidence makes leaders predictable."
The forest ahead rustled softly.
Six small fires.
One larger one.
And for the first time since the world changed, the goblins were about to walk into a fight that had been designed for them.
________________________________________
The first goblin died without ever understanding why it had stopped moving.
Emily tightened her focus—not on the creature itself, but on the space around it. Heat bloomed suddenly to its left, not as flame but as pressure, a wall of rising warmth that stole air and instinctively forced it right.
Straight into Carl's shield.
The impact was ugly. Bone cracked audibly as the goblin hit the hardened leather face. Carl stepped forward into the blow, not back, driving the shield edge-first and crushing the creature against a tree trunk.
It screamed once.
Then it collapsed inward, body drying and tearing itself apart into dust before it finished falling.
"Contact confirmed," Jethro said calmly. "Emily, widen the heat. Two meters. Push them right."
Emily swallowed, heart hammering—but she did it.
Fire licked through the underbrush, not burning leaves, not lighting the forest—just denying space. The goblins shrieked as their formation broke, instinct overwhelming whatever discipline the Hobgoblin tried to impose.
It barked orders—sharp, furious.
Too late.
"Ethan," Jethro said. "Now."
Ethan exploded out of cover, speed carrying him past the first goblin before it could react. His blade took the creature at the knee. He didn't slow. Didn't watch it fall. He pivoted, slammed into the second goblin shoulder-first, and drove his weapon up under its ribs.
Blood sprayed.
The goblin convulsed, then disintegrated mid-spasm, dust coating Ethan's arms and face.
The Hobgoblin roared.
It charged.
Carl met it head-on.
The impact drove Carl back a step—only one—but the ground shuddered. The Hobgoblin was heavier, stronger, its elongated arms slamming against the shield again and again, claws tearing gouges into the hardened leather.
Carl's axe came up in a tight, brutal arc, biting into the Hobgoblin's forearm. Bone cracked. Dark blood splashed across the shield face.
"Emily," Jethro snapped. "Vertical heat. Behind Carl. Cut retreat."
Emily reacted instantly.
Fire surged up in a narrow column behind Carl, not touching him, but turning the space into an invisible wall. The Hobgoblin hesitated—just a fraction of a second.
That fraction was enough.
Carl stepped into it, shield slamming forward, then ripped his axe free and brought it down again, burying the blade deep into the Hobgoblin's shoulder. The creature howled as Ethan hit its exposed flank at speed, blade striking again and again, fast and brutal.
Dark blood spilled freely—too freely.
It screamed.
Not like the others.
Lower. Angrier.
"Jethro," Emily gasped. "It's not breaking."
"I know," Jethro replied. "That's fine."
He lifted both hands.
The ground beneath the Hobgoblin bucked—not violently, not enough to throw it, but enough to ruin its footing. A pebble-sized stone punched upward into its ankle joint with surgical precision.
The Hobgoblin stumbled.
Carl didn't waste it.
He drove the shield edge into the creature's chest, pinning it upright for a heartbeat, then wrenched his axe free and took its head off in a single savage swing.
The Hobgoblin tried to snarl one last order.
Dust filled its mouth instead.
The remaining goblins broke.
"Don't chase," Jethro ordered immediately. "Emily—pressure left. Ethan—cut right."
Emily forced heat into the undergrowth, her control sharp now, instinct and instruction aligning. The goblins fled exactly where Jethro wanted them.
Into open ground.
Ethan ran one down, tackled it hard, and finished it with a single decisive strike. Another made it three steps before Carl's thrown axe took it in the spine, the heavy blade pinning it to the dirt as the body dissolved around it.
Silence fell hard.
Blood steamed faintly on the forest floor.
Dust drifted through shafts of broken sunlight.
Carl leaned on his shield for a moment, axe resting against his shoulder, breathing heavy but steady. Ethan wiped his blade on the grass, hands shaking—not from fear, but release.
Emily stood frozen, chest rising fast.
"I—" she started.
"You did exactly right," Jethro said immediately. He stepped closer, voice calm, grounding. "You didn't burn them. You *moved* them. That's control."
Emily swallowed and nodded. "I can do that again."
Carl looked at the place where the Hobgoblin had fallen.
"Worth two goblins," he said. "Maybe."
Jethro shook his head slightly. "Not anymore."
They didn't celebrate.
They looted quickly, efficiently—leather, crude weapons reset to clean, and one monster core that pulsed faintly among the dust.
Then they moved.
Because the forest had learned something today.
And so had they.