The stench reached them long before the camp came into view.
Rot. Stagnant blood. The sweet, clinging reek of meat left to bloat under the sun.
When they crested the last ridge, the sight was worse than the smell.
The second goblin encampment sprawled below like a disease eating into the land. Crude walls of warped timber and rusted scrap marked its edge, their surfaces crusted with dried gore. Shallow pits brimmed with black, oily water—each holding half-sunken corpses of men and beasts, their skin marbled and bloated. Flies moved in lazy clouds, crawling in and out of eyeless sockets and slack jaws.
Fires guttered low in the filth, coughing up greasy smoke that clung to the lungs. Around them, goblins and hobgoblins swarmed in restless knots, shoving and snarling. Some crouched over the dead—human soldiers by the look of the tattered armor—gnawing and tearing with wet, animal sounds.
Elrick's stomach knotted. His hands clenched instinctively, though they found no hilt—he had no blade to draw. Beside him, Beatriz did not move.
The gold veins she had borne in the last battle had faded during their march, sinking deep beneath her skin. Now, they returned. Faint at first, then brighter—spreading from her hands and neck like molten cracks through black stone.
Her golden mask tilted toward the elrick.
She said nothing. She didn't need to.
Elrick's jaw tightened. He had traveled with her long enough to read the silence.
He released a slow breath. "Go."
Her head dipped once—an almost reverent bow—and then she moved.
Each step was deliberate, pressing deep into the earth. The forest seemed to lean away from her passage, the air heavy with the weight of her presence. The veins burned hotter, crawling up her body until her helm gleamed faintly with inner light.
The spear slid free from her back with a clean, ringing pull. The golden blade caught the pale sunlight, the inscriptions along the shaft glowing faintly, as though the weapon itself could sense the slaughter to come.
The first goblin sentry spotted her as she broke the treeline.
His eyes went wide. His cry was not a battle-shriek, but a warning—high, panicked, and raw.
Heads turned. Weapons wavered in shaking hands. The camp, for the barest heartbeat, froze.
Then she was upon them.
Her pace blurred into something inhuman, the earth splitting under her steps. Armor sang with each stride. The air cracked behind her, sharp as a whip, scattering ash and dust in her wake.
The chieftain—tall, rangy, with a predator's build—had begun to push open the hide flap of his central hut, drawn by the noise. His slit-pupiled eyes barely glimpsed the black-and-gold shape tearing through his kin before—
Beatriz struck.
She entered the camp like a falling star, the gold veins on her body blazing bright enough to sear the eyes. The first goblin she met ceased to exist in any shape that could be recognized. The shockwave of her entry rattled the shoddy barricades, scattering smaller goblins off their feet.
Screams rose—high, shrill, and laced with fear.
It was not the sound of warriors calling to arms. It was the sound of prey realizing the predator was already among them.
From the ridge, Elrick watched in silence.
Somewhere deep inside, he thought he might almost pity them.
Almost.