Elara moved, one careful step at a time, toward the gaping maw of the cave. A cold wind snaked around her, carrying the scent of wet rock, dust, and something deeply earthy, like disturbed soil. The entrance, from this close, swallowed the sky, a dark absence that felt less like a natural opening and more like a wound in the earth.
She paused at its very edge, the blackness inside an impenetrable wall. To simply walk into it felt suicidal. Light. She needed light. Her gaze swept the immediate vicinity, landing on two rough wooden sticks propped against a stone, almost swallowed by ferns. Torches. Crude, but undeniably torches, their ends wrapped in a dark, hardened cloth that smelled faintly of something sticky and burnt. The monsters had left them.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for one. The wood was rough in her palm. From her satchel, she pulled out a flint and steel, a small fire-starting kit sheâd bought for her smithy, a lifetime ago. She scraped the flint against the steel, the sharp clink echoing in the sudden silence. A tiny orange spark flew, then another, dancing in the gloom before landing on the torchâs cloth-wrapped tip.
Fwoosh!
A gasp escaped her lips as the torch ignited, a small, tentative flame blossoming into something bigger, brighter, hungry. It crackled, a soft, comforting sound, pushing back the oppressive darkness. Warmth spread outward, a welcome contrast to the cold air. Its light, dynamic, and alive, danced on the rough cave walls, turning shadows into shifting, secret performers. The cave transformed, no longer a void, but a mysterious hallway, beckoning.
Clutching the torch high, she stepped inside.
Her first few steps were hesitant, her boots finding themselves on uneven, rocky ground. Water dripped from unseen cracks above, tiny plinks echoing eerily. The torchlight chased away the immediate shadows, revealing rough-hewn stone, dark fissures, and patches of damp, shimmering moss. The cold pressed in, but the torch carved out a small, defiant circle of warmth around her.
She moved deeper, each footfall measured, deliberate. The sounds of the outside world faded into a distant memory. Here, only the soft crackle of the torch and the echoing beat of her own heart broke the silence. She passed formations of rock that twisted into shapes that mimicked sleeping giants, or grotesque, ancient faces. Sometimes, a faint rustle, a soft skitter-skitter sound, brushed against her ears, but nothing large, nothing threatening. The monsters, the ones who had fled, truly seemed to be gone. They had run. From her. The thought still felt absurd.
The passage wound deeper into the mountain, a relentless spiral into the earthâs belly. It widened then narrowed, sometimes a vast chamber, then a passage. She listened to the ragged rhythm of her own breathing, the frantic pulse in her ears, and the steady, quiet consumption of the torch.
Hours bled into a timeless eternity. Her arm ached, stiff and protesting from holding the torch aloft. Her legs burned with the effort of navigating the treacherous, uneven ground. Hunger was gnawing at her. The darkness stretched before her, an endless maw, pulling her deeper and deeper. She didnât know where she was going, only that she had to find an answer. Why were they so afraid?
Then, she saw it.
Tucked into a small alcove, a shallow depression carved into the cave wall, lay a curled-up lump of green. Small. Pathetically small. A faint, almost delicate snore drifted from its pointy nose.
A goblin.
Elara froze, her breath catching in her throat. The torchlight flickered over its face. Wrinkled green skin, a ridiculous pointy nose, and long, floppy ears. It looked⦠harmless. Tiny. Vulnerable.
But a tidal wave of memories, sharp and brutal, crashed over her. Not this goblin, not precisely. But the image of a goblin. The first one. The one in the sun-dappled field who had lunged with a rusty dagger. The one who had killed her. Over and over and over again. Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Its snarling face. The cold, brutal sting of the dagger. Her own primal screams of terror. The suffocating despair. The grinding frustration. The endless, horrifying cycle of dying and waking, only to die again. This little, sleeping creature was a mocking shadow of that nightmare, a dark echo of the monster who had ripped her from her life and plunged her into this hell.
She remembered the bone-deep terror. The desperate, futile attempts to run, to scramble, to hide. The way it had always found her, always ended her. Tears pricked at her eyes, unbidden, for all the pain, all the torment she had suffered.
Here, now, lies a goblin. Sleeping. Harmless. Helpless. She could crush it. She could stab it before it even stirred. It felt like a cruel, twisted joke. The thing that had haunted her every waking moment was now just a small, ugly, defenseless lump.
A cold, hard resolve solidified within her. Not revenge. Not anger anymore, not truly. But a fierce, unyielding need for answers. She had faced this creature in a hundred different deaths. Now, she would face it awake. And it would talk.
Her dagger slid from its sheath. The cold steel was a stark contrast to the torchâs warmth in her other hand. The flickering light danced on its surface, a tiny, reflected flame. She moved closer, soundlessly, until she stood directly over the sleeping creature.
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She leaned down, her face inches from its lumpy green ear. Her voice was a low, steady whisper, a sound she hadnât known she possessed. "Wake up," she breathed.
The goblin snorted once, a loud, grotesque sound. Its eyelids fluttered, then snapped open. Small, beady, black eyes. They blinked once, twice, adjusting to the sudden, harsh light. Then they widened. Wide. Wider than Elara thought possible. They were filled with pure, raw, screaming terror.
The goblin didnât even try to reach for its tiny dagger. It let out a small, choked sound, a desperate wheeze. Its whole body stiffened, then tried to scramble backward, little legs kicking, arms flailing. But Elara was ready. She pressed the cold dagger against its throat, just enough to stop its frantic struggle. To let it know it was trapped.
"Why?" Elara demanded, her voice still low, still steady. "Why are all of you so afraid?"
The goblin trembled violently. Its green skin blanched to a sickly pale hue. Its beady eyes darted wildly between Elara's face and the cold steel at its throat. It couldnât speak. It just shivered, like a leaf caught in a gale.
"Talk!" Elara commanded, a little louder this time, a thread of impatience entering her voice. "Why did those ogres run? Why did the skeletons flee? Why are you, a monster, afraid of a human?"
The goblin swallowed hard, its scrawny throat bobbing. Its voice, when it finally came, was a high, shaky stammer. "Humans... humans have become... worse than monsters."
Elara blinked. Worse than monsters? Her mind reeled, trying to process the absurdity of the statement.
"We monsters," the goblin stammered on, its voice still shaky, a desperate plea for understanding, "we're evil, yes. We steal food from villages sometimes. We might smash things. We might even... eat a traveler or two, if they get lost." It shivered again, its gaze fixed on the dagger. "But we're... we're lawful."
Elara frowned. "Lawful? What do you mean?"
"We have rules!" the goblin insisted, its fear slowly giving way to a frantic need to explain. "Even us goblins. Even ogres. Even the fierce dragons. We have laws! We don't steal from each other. A goblin never steals from another goblin. An orc never attacks an orc. We don't kill our own. There's no... no crime among monsters. We stick together. We follow our rules. We're evil, yes, but we're lawful evil."
The goblin paused, its beady eyes fixed on Elaraâs face, searching. "But humans... you're chaos."
A cold knot tightened in Elara's stomach. Chaos. The word resonated with a chilling accuracy. She thought of the war she had witnessed, armies fighting with no clear side, nobles turned bandits, the 'holy brigade' hunting anyone with the forbidden knowledge, evangelists spreading it like a plague, families tearing each other apart. Trees burning, cities crumbling. The entire world shattering. It was chaos. And she, Elara, had started it.
"You twist everything," the goblin continued, its voice gaining a strange, bitter strength as its fear ebbed. "You change the rules. You steal from your own. You kill each other. You make the world turn upside down. You use magic in ways that even the Demon Lord would never. You break all the laws. Even your own laws. You are chaos."
Elaraâs grip on the dagger loosened. The cold steel felt less important now, less substantial. The goblinâs words struck her like physical blows. They were true. Every single word. Everything he described, she had seen. And she had, in a horrifying, undeniable way, caused it. Her guilt, which she had so desperately tried to bury, surged back, a suffocating wave. She had started the chaos. She had broken the rules. She was the one who had transformed humans into "worse than monsters."
"I'm not like the rest," Elara said, her voice hollow, filled with a weary honesty that surprised even herself. She sounded so tired. So very tired of the chaos, of the crushing guilt. "I... I tried to stop it. I gave up. I left them." Her gaze locked with the goblin's beady eyes. "I ran away from the humans. From the war."
The goblin stared back, its head tilted, its small body still. It seemed to search her face, its primitive instincts sifting through her words, her tone. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, its trembling ceased.
She pulled the dagger back. Its purpose evaporated. The weight of her own weariness pressed down, and she slumped to the ground, her gaze falling to her dirt-smudged shoes.
The goblin rubbed its throat, still clearly in shock but no longer aggressive. It watched her, a thoughtful expression on its wrinkled face.
"If you abandoned the humans," it mumbled, its voice less shaky now, almost conversational, "then... then perhaps you can join the rest of the refugees."
Elara frowned. "Refugees? Who?"
"Monsters," the goblin said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Monsters from all over the world are gathering here. In the Demon Lord's lair. For safety." It looked at her, its beady eyes expectant. "He is... very powerful. He gives us safety. From the humans."
Elaraâs mind reeled, spinning with the sheer absurdity of it. Monsters. Running from humans. Seeking safety in a Demon Lordâs lair. It was so utterly, bewilderingly upside down. The very creatures feared were now refugees. From her kind.
"I can take you to the Demon Lord," the goblin offered, pulling her from her thoughts. "He will decide. If you can stay here. If you are truly not like the other humans."
A strange, grim humor bubbled up inside Elara, a dark chuckle born of sheer, utter absurdity. She, Elara, the human, is asking for refuge from monsters. "Will they," she asked, a small, wry smile touching her lips, "will they be afraid of me?"
The goblin let out a raspy chuckle, a dry, scratchy sound, like stones grating together. "Petrified," it rasped. "Every single one of them. More scared of you than of a dragon, probably." It gave a small, jerky nod. "But here."
It reached a clawed hand into a small, dirty satchel tied to its waist. It pulled out two things. The first was a piece of cloth, a shawl, old and ragged, emanating a truly foul odor. A strong, earthy smell, mixed with something else, something vaguely⦠rotten, clung to it like a shroud.
The second was a wide-brimmed hat. It was crafted from tough, dark leather, old and worn, its brim exceptionally wide, designed to cast a deep, obscuring shadow. It, too, carried a strange, subtly unpleasant scent.
"These might help," the goblin mumbled, pushing the smelly items towards her. "And the hat will hide your face. Humans... they stand out. Humans are scary. Best not to be... human."
Elara stared at the foul-smelling shawl and the wide-brimmed hat. They were meant to make her look less human. To hide her terrifying humanity from the scared monsters. A wave of disgust, cold and sharp, washed over her, mixing with a strange, dark fascination. She, the human, the animator from Pixelbloom, had to disguise herself to be safe among the monsters.
She was at the bottom of the rabbit hole now. And it was even stranger, more messed up, than she could have ever imagined. Slowly, with a mix of revulsion and a dawning, morbid curiosity, she reached out and took the smelly shawl and the hat.