Dravak sat on the stone seat and watched his tribe breathe.
Firelight licked wet rock. Smoke clung to the ceiling in a thin black skin. The coughs were fewer now. The stink of rot had eased. Warriors sharpened spearheads with dull patience, their eyes clearer than they had been in weeks. Across the cavern, the little goblin tied a strip of cloth across a wound, his hands small and sure. Strange, that one. Strange ideas. Stranger results.
Since the runt had come, the tribe had shifted. Ten ready spears had become twenty, then more. Fewer bodies dragged to the stream. More backs straight. The change had not come from strength of arm. It had come from bark, water, cloth, and a will to work that never seemed to fray. It felt wrong and right at the same time, like gripping a blade by the edge and finding it did not cut.
Dravak let his gaze sweep the cavern once more, then called up the System. The familiar pane rose before his eyes, clean and cold.
He dismissed the pane and rolled his shoulders. He knew he was one of the lucky few that gained access to the System. Normally, it was something exclusive to the Humans, but occasionally a special individual, usually a powerful leader, of a monstrous race such as his would gain access to it. Not even his old tribes Chief had gotten it. It was one of the many reasons he left that tribe. He knew he was destined for greater things. These days, when he was stressed or worried, he opened his Status to calm himself down. The numbers were his comfort. Numbers did not lie. Numbers did not laugh. Numbers did not whisper weakness when a chief chose to try a new path.
He looked again over at the little goblin. Grub tied his last knot, checked it with a tug, and moved on without looking for praise. The tribe tracked him with their eyes, wary as if watching a blade that did not gleam like a blade should. Dravak understood why. Power that wore a familiar face was easy to trust. Power that wore bark oil and quiet hands was harder. Change had taken root here. He was not sure yet if it would bear fruit or thorns.
A distant howl rose from the forest mouth, thin and cold, the sound threading through stone. Heads turned toward the entrance. Dravak’s jaw tightened. He did not rise yet. He let the sound fade, then looked back to his tribe, counting in his head, weighing in his gut. Warriors. The few still set apart on their hides. The odd little healer who was not a healer. When the second howl came, it was nearer. Warriors shifted uneasily on their mats, hands straying toward spears. Children whimpered into their mothers’ arms. Dravak pushed himself to his feet. He barked orders, sharp and clipped, and the cavern stirred with movement. More guards were posted at the cave mouth, their spears gleaming in firelight. Outside, torches were planted into the hillside, each staked high and bright to push back the dark. The light stretched their vision into the trees, enough that a wolf’s approach would not be silent or unseen. The tribe settled again, not calm, but steadier. The measures helped, though the tension still coiled in the air. Through the evening the howls came, not constant but enough to gnaw at the nerves. Sometimes one, sometimes two together, always moving along the tree line like shadows with teeth. Dravak sat in silence and listened to them, his jaw clenched. They were not near enough to strike, not yet, but they were close enough to remind the tribe of their hunger.
It was well after nightfall when the scouts returned. They slipped past the guards into the firelight, sweat streaking their skin. One fell to a knee before Dravak’s chair, his voice rough with urgency. “Dire wolves, Chief. Not two or three. A full pack. Thirty strong. Hunting the forest north of here.” The cavern hushed at once. Even the fire seemed to soften its crackle. Dire wolves. Larger than any man, thick with muscle and cunning as soldiers. No goblin needed to be told what thirty of them meant. Dravak rose, his shadow stretching long across the cavern wall. His voice cut the silence, hard and unyielding. “You have heard. A full pack. Thirty strong.” Murmurs rippled sharp and fearful, but he silenced them with a glance. He lifted his axe from where it rested against the stone. The weapon hummed faintly in his hand, its edge glimmering with a buried light. A relic from his old tribe, plucked from the ruin of a human raid. It had killed men, beasts, and worse, and still it had never dulled. “If we wait, they will find us here,” Dravak said. “They will come to this cave, to our children, to our sick. If we hide, we die. So we will not hide. We will strike first.” His words hit like hammer blows, ringing through the cavern. “They hunt in groups. We will hunt them. Break them apart, bleed them, until their numbers are thin. Only when they are weak will we march on their den. This is not choice. It is survival.” A few voices barked assent, but most held silence, the weight of his words pressing harder than stone. Dravak’s gaze swept the firelit faces one by one, letting none escape. “Sharpen your blades. Rest while you can. At first light, we hunt wolves.”
The murmurs rose again, not panicked this time but low and grim. Spears were checked, straps tightened. Mothers hushed their young. The fear had not gone, but he had bent it into readiness. That was what mattered. Dravak lowered the axe across his lap, his face unreadable. Inside, his gut was a knot. He knew the truth. Thirty wolves against thirty-five warriors was no clean fight, even with him at their head. They would pay in blood, perhaps more than they could afford. He had given them certainty because a chief must, but certainty was not the same as safety. He let none of that show. He sat silent, staring into the fire until the smoke stung his eyes, and listened as another howl echoed over the hills.
Soft steps broke the silence. He did not need to look to know who it was. Only one goblin walked with such care, measured and quiet, as though each step had weight. Grub stopped at the edge of the firelight and bowed his head once. “Chief.” Dravak’s eyes shifted toward him. “Speak.” “I know my place is here,” Grub said. “I am no warrior. But if you find the den, if you kill the pack… I ask one thing. Do not kill the pups.” The words drew stares from every side of the cavern. Warriors blinked, then muttered sharp and derisive. “Madness.” “Soft.” “They’ll grow teeth soon enough.” A few laughed outright, but not for long. Dravak lifted his hand, and silence fell. Another strange idea from this strange little Goblin. He leaned forward, elbows braced heavy on his knees, voice low. “Why? Why let a threat live? Pups grow into hunters. Leave them breathing, and one day they return for our throats.” Grub raised his eyes, steady in the firelight. “Because they could be more than a threat.” Dravak’s brow furrowed. “Explain.” “Dire wolves are strong,” Grub said. “Cunning. Loyal. They fight for their pack until death. If they are taken young, raised here, that loyalty could be turned to us. A pack beside the tribe, not against it.” The fire cracked, sparks spitting into the dark. Warriors shifted uneasily, the idea sour in their ears. Dravak studied him in silence, the weight of his stare pressing harder than stone. “No tribe has done this,” he said finally. “Not mine, not the great hordes with hundreds of spears. Wolves do not serve. They tear, they kill. That is their nature.” “Maybe they do not need to serve,” Grub said softly. “Maybe they only need to belong.” The murmur that followed was no laughter this time, but unease, a rustle like dry leaves stirred by wind. Dravak sat back, his expression carved and cold. “I make no promise. If even one wolf lives, the pups die. Their scent will lead the survivors to us. Only if every hunter falls will I bring them back.” Grub nodded once, as though the answer had been expected. “That is all I ask.” He bowed his head again and slipped away into the shadows.
Dravak’s gaze lingered on the fire. Strange words, stranger still from a slave who now sat among his kin. Bark and cloth had saved warriors when steel could not. Perhaps wolves might one day do the same. He felt the axe hum against his lap, the howl still echoing faint in the distance, and knew the following days would bring blood.
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At first light the goblins set out, thirty-five spears in a long line, their shapes swallowed by mist. Dravak led from the front, the axe across his back humming with a steady pulse. The wolves’ howls still drifted through the hills, closer now, carrying hunger in every note. He pushed the tribe hard, covering ground until the scent of musk and blood grew strong on the wind. The first ambush came swiftly.
They found a gulch where two ridges pinched together, a natural choke. Dravak placed his best shieldbearers at the narrow mouth, spears braced behind them, while others flanked high along the slopes. When six wolves trotted through the draw, Dravak’s roar broke the silence. Spears rained from above, a wolf fell skewered through the spine, and the rest lunged forward into the waiting shields. The clash was brutal. One wolf bowled a warrior down and tore out his throat before three more goblins brought it down in turn. Another’s fangs closed around a leg, dragging a goblin screaming into the dust before his comrades drove steel into its ribs. When it was done, four wolves lay dead in the gulch, two of his warriors beside them. The survivors buried their dead shallowly beneath cairns of stone before moving on. The next day the rain came, slicking the leaves, turning soil to sucking clay. Dravak led them along a ridge path where deer trails wound below. Half the tribe crouched above with rocks and spears, the rest waited below with shields braced. The wolves arrived in a pack of five, single file, their paws near silent on wet stone. At Dravak’s signal the ridge came alive. Rocks thundered down. One wolf fell with its skull shattered, another stumbled broken-legged. The rest leapt forward, howls splitting the morning. Goblins surged from below, spears flashing in the rain. The fight was short but sharp. One warrior’s belly was ripped open before his comrades pulled him free, his life spilling into the mud, but no others fell. When it ended, three wolves lay dead, a fourth twitching in its last breath, the fifth lost in the brush.
The third skirmish came days later, under a pale sun. Dravak had a carcass dragged into a clearing, the scent of rot heavy enough to sting the nose. They waited in silence, spears ready, until the brush broke and six wolves padded in, drawn by the meat. They fought among themselves first, snapping and snarling as they tore into the bait. Dravak’s hand rose, and the trap closed. Spears flew, goblins surged. Chaos bloomed in the clearing. A wolf launched itself over the bait and straight into the line, ripping into a goblin’s arm before biting deep into his throat. Another warrior was dragged down, his screams cut short under rending fangs. But the goblins held formation, stabbing and hacking until the soil turned black with blood. When the last wolf twitched its last, five carcasses lay sprawled around the bait. Two of Dravak’s spears were gone, their bodies added to the tally of the fallen. The final ambush was set in the marshes, where the ground turned treacherous underfoot and reeds grew tall enough to hide a hunter. Dravak chose the ground carefully, knowing the wolves’ weight would work against them here. When four of the beasts entered, lured by goblin scouts, their first strides sank them to the belly in mud. Goblins rose from the reeds, spears leveled. The wolves thrashed, snapping at reeds and shafts alike, but every movement only pulled them deeper. Spears punched through fur and flesh until three wolves lay still, the last thrashing free only to limp away bleeding into the swamp. This time no goblins died.
When the tribe gathered again, the air stank of blood and wet earth. Fifteen wolves lay dead across the hills and marshes. Five goblins had fallen, their names spoken aloud before stones were heaped over them. The pack was halved, and the Ironfang tribe stood thirty strong. It was a grim tally, but better than the slaughter that would have come had they faced thirty wolves in the open. Dravak looked out across the weary faces of his tribe and knew the harder fight still lay ahead.
Grub
When the warband left at dawn, the cavern felt too large. The silence after their footsteps faded was heavy, broken only by the crackle of fire and the thin coughs of the sick. Grub stood in the center of it, watching the backs of thirty-five warriors vanish into mist, and felt the weight of Dravak’s trust settle on him like a cloak. The chief had left him with the children, the four freed slaves, and the three warriors still recovering from fever. The heart of the tribe. If he failed, nothing Dravak did outside would matter. Grub filled the silence with work. He rose early to see Dravak and the warband off, then got to work, pressing bark between cloth and stone until the resin bled dark, soaking fresh strips. He changed the bandages of those still coughing, wiped sweat from brows, and made certain the stink of sickness did not rise again. The three goblins who had been bedridden only days ago regained their strength bit by bit. First they could sit unaided, then stand, and soon after walk laps around the fire. Color returned to their faces, and their voices no longer rasped like dry reeds. They were far from whole, but their eyes no longer held the glassy glaze of fever. By midday, they rose fully. They swayed on their feet, ribs sharp beneath their skin, but they refused to lie idle any longer. “We are warriors,” one growled, his breath still ragged but his will unbroken. “Not useless.” Grub argued, though only half-heartedly. He had seen the fire in their eyes, the need to stand with their kin, and he understood. He set his terms instead: bark-oil cloths tied tight across their mouths, no contact with the children, and his right to continue tending their fevers. They agreed without complaint.
The ex-slaves seized the chance to prove themselves. Once they had fought in their own tribes before capture, and with spears in hand again, that pride began to return. They drilled the children under the watchful eyes of the recovering warriors. Stances first, feet planted and knees bent. Then grips, firm and steady, never wavering. They barked corrections when a child’s spear wobbled, and the sick warriors added sharp instruction of their own, demonstrating the Ironfang way: thrust and withdraw, strike and guard. The children wobbled and faltered, their lines bent and crooked, but they grinned through it all, proud to be treated as more than mouths to feed. Grub moved between them, checking masks, steadying nerves, offering quiet words when a child’s hands shook. When the training paused, he guided them to haul water, scrub hides, or grind resin-soaked bark, folding the rhythms of survival into their day. The work kept their minds busy, and it kept fear from settling too deep.
At night, the howls carried across the hills. At first sharp and wild, they soon grew fewer, stretched thin against the dark. By the third evening they sounded different, almost mournful, as though the forest itself lamented the missing voices. Grub listened in silence, pressing another cloth dark with resin, knowing each cry meant the warband was still fighting, still bleeding to keep them safe. The cave endured. Slowly, steadily, it began to breathe as a tribe again.
Dravak
The march to the den was silent. The goblins moved in a tight column, their steps heavy with fatigue. Even with half the pack slain, the wolves had not broken. If anything, their howls carried more venom now, the kind that came from grief sharpened into rage. Dravak felt it vibrating in his chest as he led his warriors through the trees. When the den came into view, he raised his hand and the column halted. The earth split in a hollow at the base of a ridge, its mouth dark, its walls clawed bare. The stench of wet fur and blood carried on the breeze.
From the shadows, the wolves surged. Fifteen strong, their hackles high, their teeth bared, their eyes blazing with the fury of cornered beasts. They did not scatter or test the goblins’ flanks. They charged as one, shoulder to shoulder, as if daring death to break them apart. Dravak lifted his axe high and roared. “Hold the line!”
burned hot around him. Strength filled tired arms, speed quickened weary feet. Goblins braced their spears in the earth as the first wave of dire wolves slammed into them. The impact cracked bones and snapped wood, warriors dragged screaming into the dirt beneath snapping jaws. Dravak’s tore from his throat, a sound so deep and fierce it shook the ridge. Wolves faltered mid-leap, eyes wide, their charge stuttering for a heartbeat. That heartbeat was enough. “Push!” Dravak bellowed. Spears thrust forward, iron tips striking true in unison. thrummed in his blood, carrying through every arm and hand until the goblins moved like a single beast. Wolves fell shrieking, black blood staining the ground, but the survivors tore back into the line. The fight collapsed into chaos. Dravak waded into the thick of it. His axe sang with each swing, the weapon’s buried light gleaming red in the firelit dark. He split a wolf’s skull with one blow, buried the blade in another’s shoulder and wrenched it free in a spray of gore. His
Then the alpha came.
It dwarfed the others, shoulders broad as a man’s chest, its black coat streaked with scars, its eyes a molten yellow. It barreled through the melee, scattering goblins like kindling, its jaws closing on a spear shaft and snapping it in half with one bite. Dravak met its charge head-on. The clash threw him back a step, the wolf’s weight like a boulder slamming into his chest. Its teeth snapped inches from his throat as he shoved with every ounce of Strength, axe haft jammed crosswise between them. The alpha’s breath was hot and foul. Its claws raked his armor, gouging furrows deep into the metal. Dravak twisted, slamming his forehead into its snout, then drove his knee into its ribs. The wolf howled and lunged again, its fangs raking his shoulder. Pain burned but he did not yield. He shoved it back, rolled with the momentum, and brought his axe up in a savage arc. The blade bit deep into the beast’s side. The wolf roared and leapt again, fury unbroken. It crashed into him with the force of a falling tree, driving him into the dirt. Its jaws clamped on his arm, crushing, blood pouring down his hand. Dravak bellowed, his roar mixing with the beast’s. He headbutted it again and again until bone cracked. His free hand drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it into its belly, once, twice, three times, before the wolf’s paw batted it away. They rolled, locked in a storm of teeth and steel. Goblins shouted, tried to close in, but Dravak’s own voice cut them off. “Hold the line! This one is mine!”
He wrenched free, staggered to his feet, axe gripped in blood-slick hands. The wolf circled him now, head low, lips peeled back from its fangs. It feinted left, lunged right, and Dravak’s axe swept down to meet it, sparks flying as steel met tooth. The weapon sank into its shoulder, but still it fought on. It struck him square in the chest, claws tearing furrows through armor and flesh beneath. He spat blood, planted his feet, and roared again, a sound that froze the smaller wolves mid-strike. The alpha came once more, leaping high, its weight blotting out the sky. Dravak gripped his axe with both hands and swung upward with all the strength left in his body. The blade split through jaw and skull in a spray of blood and bone. The wolf crashed down on top of him, shuddered once, and lay still.
Silence swept the ridge. Around him, goblins pressed forward, driving the last wolves back step by bloody step. They fought with a desperation that burned like fire, every lunge and snap turning back to the den mouth. They would not abandon what was inside. Dravak saw it then, as clear as his own reflection in still water. This was not just survival. This was the fight of guardians, standing before their young. The same fight that would fill his chest if he were the last wall before the tribes children in the cave. When the final beast fell, the quiet that followed was deafening. Smoke and sweat and blood hung thick in the air. Dravak shoved the alpha’s body aside and rose, chest heaving, axe dripping. He looked across the battlefield. Nine goblins lay broken and still, their blood soaking the dirt beside the carcasses of fifteen wolves. Only twenty-one of his warriors still drew breath. It was victory, but it had cost them dearly.
The ridge was quiet but for the ragged breath of survivors and the drip of blood into soil. Dravak wiped his axe clean against the wolf’s pelt, then walked slowly towards the dens entrance. His chest burned with every breath, wounds stinging, but his eyes were on the den mouth. The wolves had died circling back to it. They had fought as he would have, as any chief would have, when the last defense of kin was at stake. He lifted his voice, low but carrying. “Hold here. Guard the mouth. No beast comes or goes.” A few warriors straightened, planting their spears firm in the earth. The rest he beckoned forward. Ten followed as he stooped into the den, torches lighting their way. The tunnel sloped down, walls claw-scored and rank with musk. The air was close and wet, each breath thick with the stink of fur, milk, and blood. The goblins’ torchlight painted shadows that leapt and twisted across the walls. Dravak moved first, shoulders scraping the stone, his axe heavy in one hand, the light in the other. His warriors followed in silence, spears braced, eyes darting to every crack and corner.
The sound came before the sight. High-pitched whines, thin and uneven, the mewling of small lungs not yet grown strong. Dravak’s steps slowed. He rounded a bend, and the den opened into a low chamber. There, in a hollow scraped from earth and lined with fur, huddled eleven small shapes. Wolf pups, scarcely bigger than goblin infants, their eyes still clouded blue. They squirmed over one another, nipping weakly, ears twitching at the torchlight. One, smaller than the rest, lagged behind the tangle, its ribs sharp beneath its skin. It gave a thin, broken yelp, then pressed close to the others. The goblins behind Dravak hissed through their teeth. One raised his spear, voice low with disgust. “Chief. We end them now. Beasts grow teeth fast.” Dravak’s grip tightened on his axe. His first instinct, the right instinct, was to finish it. Burn the den, snuff them out before they grew. That was the safe choice. The wise choice. Yet his mind turned, unbidden, to the runt’s words spoken by the fire. Strange words, about turning enemies into kin. About loyalty that could be bent, not broken. His gaze lingered on the pups, whining, pressing against one another for warmth. He thought of the wolves throwing themselves into spearpoints rather than yield this ground. He thought of himself, standing before the children in his cavern, and felt a chill in his chest. He raised his hand, stopping the warrior with the spear. “No.” Murmurs stirred behind him, uncertain, uneasy. Dravak did not look back. His eyes stayed on the pups. “They live. Gather them. Carefully. They come with us.” The torchlight flickered over the tiny bodies as the warriors obeyed, lifting the pups one by one into rough cloaks to carry. The smallest gave a thin squeal when lifted, then fell silent, blinking into the firelight. Dravak turned back toward the tunnel, axe heavy at his side. It was madness, he knew. Perhaps worse than madness. Yet so had been bark oil and cloth. So had been freeing slaves. So had been listening to a runt that no other chief would have kept alive.
Grub
The waiting was the hardest part. Each day followed the rhythms Grub had set, yet each hour carried a weight that pressed heavier than any bucket of water or bundle of wood. The children drilled in crooked lines until their arms ached. The ex-slaves barked commands louder than before, their pride swelling with every improvement. The three once-sick warriors stood straighter now, no longer coughing into cloths but shouting corrections from the edges of the training circle. “Lower your stance.” “Tighten your grip.” “Again.” Their voices had the iron of warriors once more. The children listened. They stumbled, thrust, laughed, and picked themselves back up, eyes shining as they learned to stand like spearmen. Even their play carried the shape of discipline now, sticks held like blades, games mimicking the drills. The tribe’s heart, once fragile, beat stronger with each passing day. But always, in the background, came the howls. Sometimes distant, sometimes near. Sometimes sharp with fury, sometimes stretched low and mournful, as though the pack called for those that would never answer. Each sound made the children stiffen, made the mothers hold them close. Grub felt the echoes in his chest but said nothing. If the wolves howled, it meant Dravak still fought. That was enough.
Then, one night, the howls stopped. No mournful cry, no hunting call, no sound at all. The silence pressed heavier than the noise ever had. The children lay awake staring into the fire, and Grub sat among them with the certainty that something had ended out there in the dark.
On the fifth day, Grub set the cave in order. He knew the warband would return bloodied, perhaps broken, and he would not have them collapse into chaos. With the help of the four ex-slaves and the three warriors who had regained their strength, he prepared a space beside the fire. Fresh furs were spread in neat rows for the wounded to lie upon. Water was carried in buckets. Cloth was cut and sorted, some left dry for binding, some soaked dark with bark-oil. Every step was measured, calm, as though order itself might soften the edge of whatever was coming back through the trees. When the guards’ shout rang out, the cavern held its breath. Shadows staggered down the hillside, spears dragging, armor torn, faces streaked with blood and ash. The warband returned. They came broken and weary, fewer than had left. Fourteen were gone. Grub stepped forward before the murmurs could rise into panic. His voice was quiet, but steady. “This way. Lie down here.” He guided the first warrior to the furs, then the next. They were too exhausted to argue, too wounded to resist. He bound gashes, pressed resin-soaked cloths to wounds, and hushed those who tried to stand. The four ex-slaves moved with him, bringing water, holding cloth, steadying trembling hands. None of the warriors questioned him. Not this time.
Dravak followed last, his axe black with dried gore, his face carved in stone. He said nothing as he watched Grub move among his warriors. His gaze lingered not on the wounded, nor on the goblin crouched over them, but on the sight waiting by the fire: three warriors once sick, standing tall again, and ten children in crooked lines with spears in hand. His tribe had lost much. And yet, somehow, here was strength waiting for him still.
Dravak
The cavern was heavy with smoke and the sharp stink of blood. Warriors groaned on the furs Grub had laid out, their wounds bound tight beneath resin-soaked cloth. The children stood silent, their crooked line straightening when Dravak entered. Behind them stood the three warriors who had been sick when he left, their bodies lean but strong again, and the four ex-slaves, spears gripped firm in callused hands. Dravak stopped in the center of the cavern. His eyes moved slowly across them, and his voice came low, steady, worn with fatigue. “I see warriors before me. Stronger than when I left. You have done well. I am proud.” The words rumbled through the cavern, and the children stood taller, their small hands clutching spear shafts until their knuckles paled.
"Grub. To me." Grub finished binding a warriors bleeding arm and stood. He motioned to the 4 new warriors, and they moved to take his place tending the wounded. He walked over to where Dravak stood, in front of the proud line of children holding their spears.Then Dravak turned and beckoned. Two of his warriors stepped forward with a bundle wrapped in hide. The air stirred as the eleven wolf pups squirmed free, their cries sharp, their eyes still cloudy with youth. The children leaned forward as if pulled by strings. Dravak’s face was carved in stone. He did not speak at first, only looked at Grub. “This was your request. Speak.”
Grub stepped forward into the firelight. His hands were steady, though his voice was softer than the chief’s. He addressed the children. “These are not trophies. They are the future. Each of you will take one, raise it, feed it, keep it close. Care for it as you would your kin. If you do, they will grow with you. They will be your strength, and you will be theirs.” His gaze lingered on the children. “You are young now, but you will not always be. These wolves will be grown when you are ready to fight as warriors. They will stand with you if you make them yours now.” The children trembled with excitement, eyes wide as the pups yipped and squirmed. Dravak reached into the bundle and lifted the first, its fur dark as night, and placed it into a child’s arms. One by one, he handed the pups out. The children clutched them close, their faces lit with pride and something gentler, something the tribe had not seen in a long time. When the last had been given, Grub guided the children to fetch bowls of meat scraps. The pups tore into the food with squeaks and growls, tails wagging, and the children laughed as they fed them piece by piece.
At last, only one pup remained. Smallest of the litter, its ribs sharp, its cry thin. Dravak hefted it in his scarred hands, its tiny body trembling. He glanced at Grub, and for the first time that night, a rough laugh broke from his chest. “This one is not meant for me. It is yours.” He set the runt down at Grub’s feet. The little wolf nosed at Grub’s toes, mewling, and Grub crouched to scoop it into his arms. The cavern was quiet, but not with fear. For once, the silence held something else. The children cuddled their pups, whispering names already, and the wolves curled into them, tails flicking as they settled.
When the worst of the wounded had been tended, Grub crossed to Dravak. The chief still sat on his stone seat, axe leaning at his side, his face pale beneath his scars. He did not protest when Grub knelt and began binding the claw marks on his arm, pressing resin-dark cloth to slow the bleeding. Dravak’s gaze never left the fire, but he allowed it.
Fourteen gone. Nearly half his warband. His tribe had been cut deep, and the wound would not heal quickly. He grieved for those lost, and he worried for the days to come. But as he looked past the fire to the children cuddled and sleeping with their wolfpups, and the seven who had stepped forward as warriors while he was gone, he felt the faintest spark of strength. Somehow, in the midst of death, new life had been brought into his hall. He glanced at Grub, who was deeply focused as he placed a resinous strip of cloth onto his shoulder, then moved to wrap a bite wound on his leg. Somehow, this little Goblin was once again at the center of it all.
A wind stirred through the mouth of the cave, dry and sharp. It carried a bite colder than before. Dravak felt it run across his scarred skin and knew the seasons were turning. Harder days lay ahead. Yet as the pups slept curled in the arms of his children, the tribe endured.
For now, that was enough.
