Arthur led the goblin back through the trees, careful to stay in the shadows. The tether that bound it pulled faintly at his mind—an unfamiliar, but undeniable presence—like a rope knotted around both their throats. The creature trailed a few paces behind him, hunched and twitching, its claws flexing as if the urge to maim still lingered, but unable to resist his command.
The bond pulsed again, subtle but insistent. Arthur felt it like a breath against his thoughts, a rhythm that wasn't his own. It didn't speak, but it responded. When he imagined silence, the goblin stopped grunting. When he thought of speed, its steps quickened. It was more than obedience. It was alignment.
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 his small, neglected plot of land emerged from the dark. His land. His cage.
Ashwood Hollow slept under a blanket of smoke and silence. The crooked rooftops leaned like tired shoulders, and the windows flickered with the last embers of hearths. Arthur had walked these paths for years, always with his head down, always with empty hands. The village had never offered him more than pity and rot.
He remembered the way the blacksmith laughed when he failed to lift a sack of grain. The way the baker's wife whispered behind her hand. The way Merlin looked through him, not at him. All of it settled like ash in his lungs.
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 in 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.
The goblin moved like a machine built for ruin. Its claws split roots, shattered stones, tore through soil with a rhythm that felt unnatural. Arthur watched, arms folded, as the field shifted shape. Trenches formed. Rocks stacked. The land bent to his will—not through sweat, but through command.
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 murmured, 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 turned to the goblin again. It had paused mid-dig, claws caked in dirt, head tilted slightly as if waiting for praise—or correction.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You done already?"
The goblin blinked, then resumed digging with a sudden burst of energy, flinging clumps of soil in wild arcs. One landed near Arthur's boot.
He stepped back, scowling. "Easy, you little mud cannon. I said dig, not launch a siege."
The goblin grunted, then slowed its pace, claws moving with exaggerated care. It looked up once, as if checking for approval.
Arthur sighed. "You're like a dog with knives for paws."
The goblin tilted its head again, then gave a low, wheezing snort—almost like a laugh, if goblins could laugh.
Arthur rubbed his temples. "Great. A goblin with a sense of humor. That's what I needed."
He pointed toward the pile of stones again. "Stack them. Neatly. Not like you're building a nest."
The goblin shuffled over, picked up a rock, and placed it with deliberate precision. Then another. Then a third—balanced awkwardly on top, teetering.
Arthur watched it wobble, then fall with a thud.
The goblin flinched, looked back at him, then quickly tried again.
Arthur groaned. "You're trying. I'll give you that. You're just… bad at it."
The goblin paused, then gave a soft grunt and nodded once, solemnly.
Arthur blinked. "Wait. Did you just agree?"
The goblin nodded again, slower this time.
Arthur stared for a moment, then chuckled. "Well, at least you're self-aware."
He walked over and nudged the top stone into place himself. "There. Like that. See? Flat. Stable. Not a goblin sculpture of chaos."
The goblin mimicked the motion, placing the next stone with exaggerated care. It wobbled slightly, but held.
Arthur gave a short nod. "Better. Still ugly, but better."
The goblin puffed its chest slightly, proud.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't get cocky. You're still covered in dirt and smell like a drowned rat."
The goblin sniffed itself, then visibly winced.
Arthur smiled. "Yeah. You know it."
He turned toward the farmhouse, the goblin trailing behind, claws twitching, posture low but eager. Like a beast that didn't quite understand its master, but wanted to please him anyway.
Arthur muttered, "Come on, buddy. Time to go home. You've earned a corner to sleep in. Maybe even a bucket of water."
The goblin perked up at the word 'home', then stumbled slightly over a root, catching itself with a grunt.
Arthur didn't stop walking. "Careful. I'm not carrying you. If you break a leg, you crawl."
The goblin hurried to catch up, claws clicking softly against the stones.
Arthur glanced sideways. "You're a mess. But you're my mess."
The goblin blinked, then gave a low, contented grunt.
Arthur didn't smile. But something in his chest loosened.
The tether pulsed again, and with it came knowledge. One goblin—that was the limit of his power. No army, no instant swarm. If he wanted more, it would come from this one's brood, like a herd swelling from its first ox.
His lips curled. "So that's it. I'm not a knight. I'm not a summoner. I'm a... breeder. A goblin broker." He laughed, a dry, low sound. "Fitting. At least they won't ask for wages."
One goblin. One tool. But tools could multiply. If this one bred, and the offspring obeyed, then the farm would become a factory. Not of crops. Of power. Of servitude. Arthur imagined rows of goblins digging, hauling, guarding. A fortress built from claw and blood.
No more begging for help. No more broken tools. No more shame.
The goblin paused, its yellow eyes turning to him, and then returned to its work. Arthur pointed to the far side 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, imitating in falsetto: "'Poor Arthur, the poor boy, can't till a field to save his life.'" His tone sharpened to a hiss. "Well, look at me now. The poor boy with a laborer who works until its claws bleed."
His eyes gleamed, every clawful of dirt like a coin dropping into a chest.
He looked toward the hills where the lights of the hamlet twinkled faintly in the night. Home. Or rather, the cage that had always smothered him.
Ashwood Hollow. A place where the soil was thin, where the smoke from the forges always tasted bitter, where laughter in barns hid rot in its heart. A place that raised him only to break him.
Arthur tightened his grip on the knife. He had a goblin now. His first. And if he could make this one serve, there would be more. Enough to change everything.
He set his jaw, whispering to himself as if binding a vow to himself:
"This will do."
The goblin paused, waiting for the next command. Arthur didn't speak. He didn't need to. The bond pulsed once, and the creature resumed its work.
Arthur turned toward the village, the knife still at his side, the moon casting long shadows across the field.
The night had given him labor. Soon, it would give him a legacy.