Dual Realm Exchange System

Deep within Moonveil Forest, where the silver light of the false moon barely reached the ground, stood a settlement no human map acknowledged.

Blackroot Den.

Calling it a village would have been generous.

The Dark Goblins had built their home into and beneath an enormous hollow hill whose roots twisted together like the ribs of some ancient beast.

Crude wooden walls connected natural stone outcroppings, sharpened stakes filled the gaps, and narrow tunnels descended beneath the earth into sleeping chambers, storehouses, breeding dens and workshops.

Smoke escaped through disguised vents beneath giant mushrooms while bone charms hung from trees.

At every entrance, Goblin sentries watched the forest with glowing green eyes.

Once, Blackroot Den had held barely thirty adult warriors.

Now there were more than eighty.

That growth had changed everything.

Now, Dark Goblins moved through the settlement carrying iron weapons instead of chipped stone.

Now, their hunters returned with deer, boars and stolen livestock.

Now, captured tools from human settlements had been copied by crude Goblin smiths, while Fey-touched shamans painted black-violet symbols onto arrows and armor.

To the Goblins living there, this was prosperity.

To everyone around them, it was the beginning of a disaster.

At the center of Blackroot Den stood the Clan Hall.

Inside, a massive Dark Goblin sat upon a crude throne carved from the stump of an ancient black tree.

Varkas Blackroot was large for his kind.

Standing upright, he reached almost to the chest of an average human, with shoulders far broader than the Goblins who served beneath him.

Numerous scars crossed his purple-black skin, including one thick white line beginning beside his left eye and disappearing beneath the iron plate protecting his jaw.

His right ear had been cut nearly in half, and three fingers on his left hand were crooked from poorly healed breaks.

None of those injuries were accidents though.

Every one had been earned before Varkas rose to become Clan Leader.

The Dark Goblins did not inherit leadership merely because some ancestor had possessed a nicer chair.

They inherited it by surviving everyone who wanted that chair.

Varkas had survived twelve challenges by killing seven challengers personally, crippling three badly enough that they never challenged anyone again, and the remaining two had wisely sworn loyalty after waking up.

He had spent most of his adult life fighting humans, beasts, Goblin rivals and occasionally his own relatives.

Yet the creature currently sitting before him made the Chieftain’s scarred fingers tighten against the throne.

"Still nothing?"

The Goblin scout dropped to one knee. "No, Great Chief. Hruk’s patrol did not return."

"How late?"

"More than half the daylight cycle."

Varkas’s eyes narrowed.

Thirteen warriors gone, and Hruk was an experienced hunter.

Also a loud fool, admittedly, but no coward.

More importantly, the fellow knew when to run.

If the entire patrol had vanished without one survivor reaching the clan...

Then someone had killed them rather quickly.

"Where were they hunting?" Varkas asked with furrowed brows.

"Southern trail. Near where the humans enter the false-moon woods." The scout reported truthfully.

Varkas drummed thick fingers against the throne.

"Send no rescue patrol."

The scout blinked in surprise.

"Great Chief?"

"If Hruk is alive, he will return. If he is dead, sending ten more warriors into whatever killed him merely gives the enemy ten more bodies." Varkas responded slowly.

The scout immediately lowered his head. "Yes, Great Chief."

Varkas watched him leave, knowing that his decision would surprise any outsider.

Humans usually imagined Goblins as stupid creatures who solved every problem by throwing more Goblins at it.

Indeed, Common Goblins often did so, but Dark Goblins who behaved that way rarely remained alive long enough to become old.

Varkas had survived because he understood simple arithmetic.

Thirteen warriors missing hurt indeed, but losing another thirteen because pride demanded immediate revenge would hurt twice.

His gaze drifted around the hall.

Weapons hung from the walls, the food stores were full, and the children no longer fought over scraps every night.

Three winters ago, that had not been true.

Three winters ago, Blackroot Clan had hidden from Dire Wolves.

Humans entered Moonveil Forest with shining weapons, killed Goblins for rewards and called it honorable work.

Other Fey mocked them as vermin.

Even Common Goblins occasionally overwhelmed isolated Dark Goblin families through sheer numbers.

Varkas had hated every moment of it.

He had grown up watching his mother divide one rabbit between seven younglings.

He remembered humans setting fire to a Goblin burrow because merchants had reported raids along a road twelve kilometers away.

Nobody had checked whether the Goblins in that burrow were responsible.

They were Goblins, and that had been enough reason.

Varkas had decided early that he would never beg another race to permit his clan to exist.

So he became stronger.

He learned the Fighter’s path.

He learned ambushes, formations, human weapon styles and exactly how frightened creatures behaved when trapped.

When he finally killed the previous Clan Leader, he inherited twenty-six warriors, starving families and a settlement one bad winter away from collapse.

Now eighty warriors obeyed him, the younglings ate daily, humans avoided several southern trails, and even the White Wolves had been driven from hunting grounds they once considered untouchable.

Varkas was proud of that.

The fact that he had achieved much of it with someone else’s power was the part he preferred not to think about.

A smaller Dark Goblin approached his throne.

Unlike the warriors, she wore layered hides decorated with little bone charms.

"Father."

Varkas’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"Vesha."

His eldest daughter approached without kneeling.

Nobody else in the hall would have survived such familiarity.

"Hruk is dead," she stated.

"You don’t know that."

"He bragged before leaving that he would bring back a human Mage’s staff."

Varkas grunted. "Then perhaps stupidity killed him before the humans could."

Vesha smirked at that.

For a moment, the Chieftain looked almost ordinary, then her amusement faded.

"The hunters say the beasts are restless again. The White Wolves attacked two of our gatherers yesterday."

"They ran?"

"One did."

"And the other?"

"Stupid."

"Then he deserved what happened."

Vesha frowned. "You always say that."

"Because every Goblin who dies stupidly leaves another mouth for the clan to feed and one less spear when enemies come."

His daughter crossed her arms. "We have enough spears now."

Varkas stared at her. "No clan ever has enough spears."

Especially not theirs, at least, not anymore.

Suddenly, a low musical note drifted through Blackroot Den.

Varkas stopped breathing and every Goblin in the Clan Hall froze.

The sound was beautiful, warm, and almost playful.

Yet it filled Varkas with more fear than the roar of any monster he had faced.

Another note of music followed, and outside, conversation died as warriors lowered their weapons, shamans stopped chanting, and even crying younglings became strangely quiet.

Vesha’s face drained of color. "He... he’s come too early!"

Varkas stood. "Go below."

"Father—" Vesha began worriedly.

"Now!" Varkas barked with fatherly authority.

She hesitated, and Varkas’s expression hardened.

In the end, Vesha left after pleading with her father to be safe.

Only after she disappeared behind the inner passage did Varkas walk toward the entrance.

By the time he stepped outside, hundreds of Dark Goblins had gathered around the central clearing.

Every head faced the same direction as the violet mist between the trees parted, and a procession entered Blackroot Den.

Beautiful Fey creatures walked at the front carrying lanterns filled with floating moonlight.

Behind them came several horned attendants dressed in silks far finer than anything the Goblins owned.

And between them walked a Satyr.

Ravelhorn the Reveler.

He appeared almost absurdly elegant for something entering a Goblin settlement.

His lower body was covered in smooth dark fur, ending in polished black hooves, while his upper body resembled a handsome young man with pale bronze skin.

Two curved horns swept backward from his head, decorated with thin golden chains and tiny violet gems.

A dark-purple coat rested across his shoulders while in one hand he carried a slender black flute.

His smile was warm enough to belong at a noble banquet.

"Chief Varkas!"

Ravelhorn spread his arms.

"My industrious little friend! How wonderful to see Blackroot Den flourishing!"

Every Goblin lowered themselves, but Varkas did not.

He bowed his head, and that was all.

Ravelhorn noticed this immediately, but his smile did not change.

"My, my. Still quite the proud fellow, eh?"

Varkas met his gaze. "I lead this clan."

"Mhm, mhm, of course you do!" Ravelhorn walked closer while nodding twice emphatically.

"You are powerful, brave, and respected. A father to your people even, if one wishes to become sentimental." Ravelhorn began listing with a tone of praise, his voice almost affectionate.

"So because of this, it is exceedingly important that you, and your lovely little mongrels, never misunderstand the order of things."

The black flute tapped softly against Ravelhorn’s palm, and Varkas suddenly felt the world become impossibly heavy.

BOOM!

His knees struck the earth, the ground cracked, and a second pressure slammed across his shoulders.

Varkas growled and tried to rise, his muscles bulging as Fey energy erupted around his body.

For half a second, he lifted one knee.

Ravelhorn’s smile widened... then Varkas’s face smashed into the dirt.

The Chieftain’s warriors stiffened, several reached unconsciously toward their weapons.

Varkas saw them.

"DON’T!"

Every hand immediately stopped where they were.

Ravelhorn glanced around pleasantly.

"Oh, excellent! Discipline!"

He placed one hoof on Varkas’s back.

"You see why I like you, Chief Varkas? Most creatures confuse courage with stupidity. You usually know the difference."

Varkas tasted blood, and hatred burned through him, yet he remained still.

Because his daughter was beneath the hill.

Because hundreds of his people were watching.

Because if he fought, Ravelhorn would not merely kill him.

He would make an example of the clan.

"What do you want?" Varkas forced out.

Ravelhorn sighed. "Progress, old fellow."

The pressure disappeared, and Varkas slowly pushed himself upright.

Ravelhorn had already turned away as though nothing humiliating had occurred.

"The old crossing remains dormant. My associates grow impatient, and impatience is such an ugly emotion."

"You told me clearing the southern paths would be enough."

"And you have done splendidly indeed."

Ravelhorn smiled over his shoulder.

"But humans continue entering Moonveil."

"Their town is large. Killing hunters will not empty it."

"Correct!"

The Satyr sounded genuinely pleased.

"So we shall change strategy."

An attendant unfolded a stolen human map across a wooden table.

Rosewood sat near its center while around it were farms, roads and smaller settlements.

Ravelhorn tapped the map.

"Fear travels faster than armies. Hunters disappearing is unfortunate, but entire villages disappearing is a message."

Varkas’s jaw tightened.

He wanted territory, food, and safety.

He wanted a future where Dark Goblin younglings did not hide whenever human adventurers entered the woods.

But burning human farming settlements had never been the plan.

Ravelhorn looked at him, and that pleasant smile sharpened.

"Something troubles you, old fellow?"

"...No."

"Wonderful!"

His finger traced several nearby settlements.

"Strike three villages. Take their food, and take captives if useful. Leave enough survivors to tell Rosewood Town that Moonveil Forest no longer welcomes them."

Varkas stared at the map, noting that the three villages marked were named Boar, Bison and Otter.

One name in particular stood out to Varkas, which was Otter Village.

It was a farming settlement roughly twenty-five kilometers from Rosewood with sixty to seventy houses, lots of livestock and grain, with few serious defenses.

Varkas knew it.

His scouts had watched the village before.

Its chief was an old human called Garrick and his loud-mouthed grandson trained daily with a spear near the edge of the fields.

This was easy prey, too easy.

Ravelhorn tapped Otter Village with one elegant fingernail.

"Deal with this one first."

Varkas remained silent.

Ravelhorn smiled. "Chief Varkas?"

The Chieftain lowered his head. "When?"

"Hmmm... how about... tomorrow night? Yes, that should be fine."

Ravelhorn turned away after making his orders, and his fantastical procession followed.

Within moments, the violet mist swallowed them.

Only after the music disappeared entirely did Blackroot Den breathe again.

Varkas stood before the map for a long time.

His warriors waited patiently, and nobody spoke about the dirt across their Chieftain’s face because nobody was stupid enough.

Vesha eventually emerged from beneath the hill.

She looked at Otter Village, then at her father.

"Are we really doing it?"

Varkas stared at the name beneath Ravelhorn’s claw mark.

He hated humans.

He hated how easily their Guilds classified Goblins as monsters.

He hated hiding.

He hated Ravelhorn even more.

Yet Blackroot Clan had become strong beneath the Satyr’s shadow.

Strong enough that backing away now might destroy everything Varkas had built.

His hand slowly closed around the map.

"We prepare the warriors."

Far beyond Moonveil Forest, lamps were already beginning to glow inside Otter Village.

At The Otter’s Den, Garrick was probably complaining about his grandson’s endless talking.

Kellan would almost certainly be practicing the spear forms his father taught him, dreaming about the day he became powerful enough to impress a certain Mage from Rosewood.

Livestock settled into their pens, families prepared supper, children played beside the lake.

Even Widow Marla had decided to rest tonight rather than perform her trademark ’hospitality’ sessions.

None of them knew that a black claw had just marked their village on a map.

And tomorrow night...

The Dark Goblins were coming!

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