Flash back .
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.
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The road narrowed as the forest thickened.
Arthur slowed his pace, senses stretching outward, every sound weighed before it reached him.
The air here felt wrong—not cursed, not magical, but disturbed. Too quiet in places where birds should have nested. Too many broken branches at knee height. Too much churned earth where no cart should have passed.
He crouched, fingers brushing the dirt.
Footprints.
Small. Narrow. Bare or poorly shod.
Too many to count.
Arthur exhaled through his nose.
"Goblins," he murmured.
(A/N:You know if this was Cu culain this would have sound better )
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He followed the signs carefully.
The trail wasn't subtle, but it wasn't careless either. The goblins had learned—learned enough to avoid main roads, to move in loose groups instead of a horde, to scatter tracks where possible. Still, numbers always betrayed them.
Scraps of cloth snagged on thorns. Old bones stripped clean and tossed aside. A faint, sour stench clinging to the air.
Arthur's grip tightened on the strap of his pack.
He remembered villages like this trail led to.
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The first body lay half-hidden near a stream.
An old man. Farmer, by the look of his hands. Throat torn open, not clean enough to be a blade. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, then knelt and checked anyway.
Cold.
Gone at least a day.
Arthur straightened slowly.
He did not pray.
He did not curse.
He followed the trail deeper.
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The forest closed in.
Light thinned, branches weaving overhead like ribs. Arthur moved quietly now, each step deliberate, weight rolling from heel to toe. His sword stayed sheathed, but his hand never left the hilt.
He spotted crude markings carved into bark—jagged symbols scratched deep with dull iron.
Territory marks.
"They're nesting," Arthur muttered.
That was worse.
A sound reached him then.
Laughter.
High-pitched. Broken. Too many voices overlapping in a way that made Arthur's skin crawl.
He froze.
Listened.
Clinking metal. Crude armor. The scrape of something being dragged.
Arthur shifted position, climbing a low rise and peering through the brush.
Below, in a shallow clearing, they gathered.
Dozens.
Thirty—no, closer to forty goblins moved about the space, some squabbling over scraps, others sharpening weapons too large for their frames. A few carried stolen shields, dented and mismatched. One stood watch, spear in hand, eyes dull but alert.
Arthur counted exits.
Two main paths. One narrow ravine. Trees dense enough to funnel movement.
Good.
He could work with that.
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He stayed there longer than he should have.
Watching.
Learning.
This wasn't a raid party.
This was a staging ground.
Arthur's jaw set.
"If I turn back now," he whispered, "they'll move on."
He didn't move.
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He drew his sword slowly, the faint whisper of steel sounding louder than it should have in the stillness.
Arthur didn't feel fear.
He felt focus.
The same steady heat that had carried him through darker roads and harder choices. The same certainty that told him when to advance and when to stand his ground.
Forty goblins.
He smiled faintly.
"Then I'll thin the herd."
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Arthur stepped back into the trees, circling wide, placing himself upwind.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Somewhere ahead, a goblin laughed again—unaware.
Arthur lowered his stance, blade angled forward.
The hunt had begun.