The new goblins arrived as if summoned by the old godâs attention. They came in twos and threes, wide-eyed and silent, their skin pale beneath streaks of dirt and moss, their limbs too thin from hunger. Some bore bruises that hadnât yet faded, and one carried a jagged scar across his ribs that hadn't healed cleanly. They didnât speak, not in any words Kezra understood, but their body language spoke volumesâslumped shoulders, averted gazes, and the hollow expression of those whoâd been hunted too long. She counted five in total. Two young males, one female, and what looked like a bonded pairâsiblings, perhaps, or mates. None older than Drak. All were terrified of him.
Their presence shifted something in Hollowfang. The original membersâthose who had bled, hunted, and grieved togetherâwatched the newcomers with a wary suspicion that grew more visible each day. Rik no longer smiled. Sha narrowed her eyes whenever one of the newcomers touched the communal food stockpile. Even Urr, who had rarely spoken, began keeping a crude club on his person at all times. Kezra understood their unease. Resources were tight. Space was limited. And these newcomers hadn't earned their place. But they were goblins, like them. And more than thatâKezra saw herself in their eyes fear and uncertainty, just looking for a place to exist. She remembered what it felt like to wake alone beneath the moons, her blood cooling in her veins. She couldnât turn them away. That didnât mean she could keep the peace.
On the third night after their arrival, the first fight broke out. It wasnât over food or spaceâit was over fire. One of the young males, bolder than the others, tried to claim a spot near the hearth before the core group had returned from patrol. Rik struck first. A sharp stone, thrown without hesitation, cracked the boy across the brow and sent him tumbling backward in a daze. He didnât cry out. He didnât retaliate. But the act ignited something deeper in the camp. Sha stepped between Rik and the others, her blade drawn. The siblings bristled. The girl bared her teeth. It was a standoff born not from hatred but from fear. And that fear had become tribal. Kezra arrived seconds later, her voice slicing through the tension like cold steel.
âEnough.â
They froze. Even Rik.
Kezra stood between them, arms crossed, eyes scanning each faceâfriend and stranger alike. âWe donât fight each other. If thatâs the kind of tribe you want, leave now.â No one moved. No one spoke. She lowered her voice. âThis fire belongs to all of us. But if you want to stay near it, earn your place.â Her gaze landed on the wounded boy. Blood trickled from his brow, staining his cheek. âTomorrow, you hunt. You gather. You help. Or you move on.â He nodded, slowly. So did the others. Kezra didnât look at Rik. She didnât want to see the hard light in the girlâs eyes. Not the part that said, You chose them over me.
Stolen story; please report.
That night, she sat alone beneath the overhang, away from the fire, the stars veiled behind thin clouds. The brand between her shoulders itchedânot a physical sensation, but a psychic weight, like a thread pulled tighter with each decision she made. The old god hadnât spoken again, not directly. But its presence lingered. Like an observer she wondered what it wanted. Not her worship, surely. It was like curiosity. Perhaps even amusement. She imagined it perched just beyond the veil of sight, like a child peeking through curtains, waiting to see if the ant would build something before the rain.
The next morning, the newcomers worked. They fetched wood, gathered roots, and even helped lay stone for the new shelter wall. But the divide didnât vanish. It became invisible insteadâwoven into side-glances and silence. The core group spoke less around them. Meals grew quieter. Even Shaâs laughter, once bright and constant, had dulled. Kezra tried to bridge the gap, offering joint tasks, shared hunts, even assigning the bold boy to work directly under Drak. The boy returned bruised and sore but still walking. Kezra took that as success. Yet still, she felt the fracture widening beneath her feet, a fault line waiting for pressure.
It came that evening, as dusk swallowed the trees. One of the siblingsâthe girlâfailed to return. Her brother came back alone, bleeding from his thigh and mumbling in panicked circles. The only word Kezra understood was âtaken.â Drak volunteered to track her. So did Rik. Kezra hesitated. She didnât want another loss. But neither did she want the tribe to see her as afraid. So she agreed that the three would of them would go and that was Drak, Rik, and herself. They moved fast, following broken branches and blood traces, deeper into the woods than they had ever dared.
They found her corpse at the base of a shallow ravine.
She hadnât died quietly. Her body was tornâlimb half-missing, torso scored with claws that had cut through bone. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. No sign of the creature that had done it. But above her, carved into the bark of a tree, was a familiar spiral. Kezra dropped to her knees, hand clenched at her side, and whispered a curse she hadnât known she remembered. Rik didnât cry. Drak didnât speak. They burned the body there, beneath the tree, the smoke rising into the growing dark.
They didnât speak on the way back. But the silence between them had changed. As though grief had become a familiar companion, walking beside them instead of behind.
That night, the tribe watched Kezra differently.
Some with respect.
Others with doubt.
All with expectation.
And high above them, behind the clouds, the old godâs laughter felt closer than ever.