Arthur led the goblin back through the trees, careful to keep to the shadows. The tether that bound it tugged faintly at his mind—unfamiliar, but undeniable—like a rope knotted around both their throats. The creature trailed a few paces behind him, hunched and twitching, claws flexing as if the urge to maim still lingered, but unable to resist his command.
When the crooked rooftops of Ashwood Hollow came into view, Arthur slowed. He couldn't risk the creature being seen—not yet. If a single villager glimpsed it, pitchforks and torches would rise before he could explain. So he skirted the hamlet, circling past the half-dead orchards until the small, neglected patch of farmland emerged from the dark. His land. His cage.
The fields looked as they always had—tired, unyielding, a mirror of his own futility. He had sweated under the sun, cursed at broken tools, watched neighbors shake their heads with pity. That word burned more than any wound.
Arthur turned to the goblin. Its glowing eyes waited, patient in their chains. Filthy. Crooked. Vile. But strong. He jabbed a finger at the patch of stubborn soil.
"Dig."
The creature blinked once, then fell to its knees. Claws tore into the ground with brutal ease, dirt spraying in dark arcs. Within minutes, the goblin had carved more than Arthur had managed in a day. Arthur's chest rose and fell, trembling not with fear but with something sharper, hotter.
Power.
He crossed his arms, watching the field transform under the goblin's labor. Every mound of soil, every broken fence, every tool suddenly looked different—like pieces on a board waiting to be moved.
Arthur wiped his brow and muttered, almost in awe, "This is how I leave Ashwood Hollow. One goblin at a time."
The night stretched as the creature worked, tireless. Stones were clawed loose, trenches dug, burdens lifted that had broken Arthur's back in years past. For the first time, the farm no longer looked like a prison. It looked like a workshop, a forge for something greater.
Arthur leaned on his shovel—not to toil, but to supervise. "Efficient," he murmured with a crooked smile. "Ugly little monster, but efficient."
The tether pulsed faintly again, and with it came knowledge. One goblin—that was the limit of his hold. No army, no instant swarm. If he wanted more, it would come through this one's brood, like a herd swelling from its first ox.
His lips curled. "So that's it. Not a knight. Not a summoner. A… breeder. A goblin broker." He chuckled, dry and low. "Fitting. At least they won't ask for wages."
The goblin paused, yellow eyes flicking toward him, then bent back to its labor. Arthur pointed to the far end of the field. "Pile the stones there. Yes, there. Gods, you're already better than Branik the drunkard. Doesn't whine, doesn't drink, doesn't eat me out of house and home. Almost respectable—if I squint."
He laughed under his breath, mocking in falsetto: "'Poor Arthur, poor boy, can't till a field to save his life.'" His tone sharpened to a hiss. "Well, look at me now. Poor boy with a laborer that works until its claws bleed."
His eyes gleamed, every clawful of dirt like coin dropping into a chest.
"One day," he whispered, voice hard as the stones being hauled aside, "I'll walk out of Ashwood Hollow with more than dirt under my nails. And no one will ever say poor Arthur again."