The march began in the cold, grey stillness of the pre-dawn. The air in the valley was always frigid before the sun crested the eastern peaks, but as we began our ascent into the foothills, the chill took on a sharper, more biting edge. It was the clean, thin cold of altitude, a cold that spoke of stone and wind and unforgiving heights. Our path was a barely-there trail of scree and packed earth that wound its way upward through stands of hardy, dark-green pines. The rhythmic crunch of our boots on the gravel, the soft clink of leather and steel, and the steady, shared breathing of the squad were the only sounds that dared to challenge the immense silence of the mountains.
Corvus was a ghost ahead of us. He had departed hours ago, a flicker of shadow against the moon, long before the first hint of morning had touched the sky. As his summoner, our connection was a strange and esoteric thing, a new sense I was still learning to interpret. It wasn't a clear picture or a stream of words. It was a feeling, a subtle, persistent thrum at the very back of my consciousness, like a phantom limb I could feel flexing miles away. I could sense his general direction, a pinpoint of cynical darkness on my internal map of the world. I could feel the shift in his intent, the moment his rapid, purposeful flight had transitioned into the slow, circling pattern of observation. He was no longer traveling; he was watching.
My hand rested on the worn leather grip of the Orcish cleaver at my hip, a habit of readiness that had been beaten into me by the brutal realities of Norrath. The weapon was a crude, heavy thing, a far cry from the elegant, soul-bound legend Elara now carried within her, but its weight was a familiar, grim reassurance.
"Corvus seems to be far enough ahead now," I murmured, my voice a low cloud of condensation in the frigid air. I didn't need to look at Elara, who walked beside me with a fluid, ground-eating stride that made the steep incline look effortless. We had reached a level of battlefield synergy where words were often just confirmation of what we both already knew. "I can sense that he's reached the area of the conflict. He's observing."
Elara's gaze was fixed forward, scanning the terrain ahead with the practiced, all-encompassing awareness of a predator. Her hands were empty, a fact that I found far more intimidating than if she had been brandishing a weapon. It meant her Runic Greataxe was just a thought away, ready to explode into reality with lethal intent.
"For them to have a succession crisis in the first place implies a degree of political structure we haven't seen from them before," she noted, her tone purely analytical. She was processing the intelligence from a tactical standpoint. A structured enemy was a predictable enemy, but also a more resilient one. "A chaotic rabble just kills the chieftain and the strongest one takes over. A formal conflict between heirs means they have some concept of legitimacy, of a right to rule. That makes them more organized, and more dangerous."
"It's not that surprising, when you apply the logic of their culture," I countered, my mind instinctively shifting into the familiar comfort of analysis. It was how I made sense of the world, how I imposed order on the chaos. "Goblins, at their core, are brutally pragmatic. They trust what they can see, what has been proven. A strong chieftain produces strong offspring. To them, a bloodline isn't about nobility; it's a proven track record of survival and strength. It's a tangible asset. Following the son of a successful leader is simply a lower-risk investment than backing an unknown challenger." I glanced back over my shoulder. Gnar was marching directly behind us, his hobgoblin squad forming a silent, disciplined wedge at our backs. "Gnar, is that right? Does the old tribe think in terms of bloodlines?"
The Hobgoblin War-Chief considered my question for a moment, his intelligent eyes thoughtful. The Gnar of three weeks ago would have grunted an affirmative. The Gnar of today offered a nuanced, considered response.
"Yes, Speaker," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily in the thin air. "A strong father makes a strong son. It is known. Grul was the son of a great chieftain, which is why so many followed him, even when he was weak and mad. The blood was strong, even if the mind was rotten. The tribes will fight for the children of the old chief because they believe the strength of the father is in them. It is the only way they know."
"Which begs the question," she stated, her breath pluming in a white cloud that was snatched away by the wind, "which of the three has the least support from the rest of them?"
My own mind was already churning, running predictive models based on the limited data Corvus had provided. The patriarchal structure of every goblin tribe we had encountered suggested a strong bias towards male leadership. Strength, in their society, was not just a virtue; it was the sole currency of power. And that strength was traditionally demonstrated and embodied by males. A female leader, while not impossible, would be a statistical anomaly, an aberration fighting against the crushing weight of cultural inertia. She would have to be exponentially more cunning, more ruthless, or more powerful than her male counterparts just to be considered their equal. Before I could even finish formulating the hypothesis, Gnar provided the answer, not as a theory, but as an undeniable fact.
The speed and certainty of his response were staggering. There was no hesitation, no pondering. He spoke with the absolute conviction of someone stating a fundamental law of nature, like gravity or decay. This wasn't the guttural guess of a goblin; it was the reasoned, confident analysis of a political strategist who understood the very soul of his people.
"It will be with the female, Captain," he answered, his deep voice resonating with a finality that left no room for debate. He didn't even glance at Elara, his gaze fixed on the treacherous path ahead, but his words were directed at her with military precision. "She might have some support. Goblins from her mother's line, perhaps. Those who are weak and hope she will favor them. But the warriors, the true strength of the tribe, will follow one of the two brothers."
He took a heavy step, his iron-shod boot crushing a loose piece of shale into dust. "It is a matter of risk," he continued, elaborating without being prompted, a clear sign of his evolved intellect. "A warrior's life is hard. His loyalty is an investment. He gives his spear to a chief in exchange for food, for safety, for the chance at loot and a better position. The brothers are a known quantity. They are male. They are the sons of the old chief. They represent the old ways, the familiar path. To follow them is the safe bet. The female is a new path. A dangerous path. To follow her is to risk everything on an unknown. Most goblins will not take that risk. They will choose the familiar pain over the unknown promise."
My mind latched onto his words, absorbing them, categorizing them. This was a data point of immense value, a confirmation that the Racial Evolution Sub-System wasn't just a physical upgrade; it was a cognitive one. I was not just leading soldiers; I was cultivating advisors, intelligence assets who possessed an innate understanding that I could only ever hope to achieve through secondhand analysis.
Gnar wasn't finished. His analysis moved from the current political state to its inevitable, bloody conclusion.
"Once the warriors have chosen," he stated, his voice dropping into a lower, grimmer register, "the brothers will not tolerate a rival. They may fight each other later, but first, they will deal with the sister. They will force their will on her weaker group, absorb her followers, and kill anyone who resists. It is the only way to certify control. You do not just defeat a rival; you erase them. You make an example of them, so that no one else ever considers following a new path again."
A profound silence fell over our group, heavier than the mountain air. Gnar's words painted a grim, brutal, and utterly believable picture. It was the savage calculus of goblin politics, a system I was beginning to understand was as rigid and unforgiving as any law of physics.
Elara gave a single, sharp nod. She didn't need to say anything. I could feel her tactical mind processing the information, filing it away. The sister, the one with the least support, was the weakest. But in the grand game of strategy, the weakest piece is often the most desperate. And desperate people, desperate leaders, were willing to make alliances they otherwise wouldn't. They were willing to take risks. They were potential assets.
I looked up towards the distant, snow-dusted peaks. We were on a diplomatic mission to a human settlement, but the world had just laid another opportunity at our feet. The goblin civil war wasn't just a distraction we could exploit for safe passage. It was a potential recruiting ground. The sister, abandoned by the traditional power structures of her people, facing certain annihilation at the hands of her brothers, would be in desperate need of a powerful, unexpected ally. An ally who could offer her not just survival, but victory. An ally who could offer her a new path, a new kind of power.
An ally like me.