The first pale light of dawn crept over Emberstead's palisade, painting the sharpened logs in muted gold. Smoke drifted lazily from the squat chimneys of the houses, carrying with it the scent of ash and boiled roots. To Arin, who had fallen into an uneasy sleep by the hall's hearth, the morning air was both unfamiliar and oddly comforting.
He woke stiff and sore, the rough bench pressing into his back. The warmth of the fire had faded, leaving only smoldering embers that gave off faint red glows in the half-light. For a moment, disorientation clouded his thoughts — the weight of two worlds pressing together. His past life's fading fragments brushed against the present: his name, his awareness of systems, the window no one else could see. Then, as always, the here-and-now pulled him firmly back.
He stretched, careful not to draw attention to himself too quickly. Villagers were already stirring. A woman in a plain wool dress walked briskly across the hall, gathering empty bowls and stacking them with the quiet efficiency of habit. Outside, the sound of tools clattering reached Arin's ears: men readying carts, axes splitting wood, and voices raised in the rhythm of daily labor.
For a village on the edge of wilderness, Emberstead was alive in a way the deep forest had not been. Yet beneath the bustle lay tension — subtle, but undeniable. Watchmen stood near the gates even in the growing light, their spears planted in the earth, eyes sharp against the lingering shadows beyond the palisade. One of them, a broad-shouldered man Arin recognized as Bren, barked orders to a younger guard about checking the southern fence line. His tone carried the clipped edge of someone who expected danger, not mere routine.
Children darted between cottages, their bare feet slapping against packed dirt, laughing as though the air was not so heavy. A mother hissed at them to hush, casting a glance toward the gate as though laughter itself might draw ill luck.
Arin's eyes followed these details, piecing them together like fragments of a puzzle. He had survived his first night within walls, but safety was a thin veil here, stretched taut over fear. He could sense it in the way villagers moved with purpose, in the way their eyes lingered on the treeline whenever the wind shifted. Emberstead was not merely wary of outsiders — it was wary of everything.
He rubbed at his arms, the memory of last night's whispers returning: goblins, trolls, lizardkin, wights. Names spoken like curses, half-believed and wholly feared. He had faced only one goblin, and even that had left his muscles aching and his mind restless. What would happen if more came? If something worse than goblins prowled the dark?
As he stepped outside the hall, the chill of morning kissed his skin. Villagers paused in their work to glance at him, some quickly looking away, others staring longer than courtesy allowed. Suspicion hung in their gazes, mingled with something else — curiosity, perhaps, or the unease of seeing someone who had walked out of the wilds alive.
Bren caught sight of him and gave a curt nod. "You're awake. Good. The Headwoman will want words soon."
Arin inclined his head in return, though questions swirled in his mind. Headwoman? What judgment awaited him now? His survival had earned him warmth and food for one night — but survival was not the same as belonging.
The morning light strengthened, spilling over the rooftops. The village seemed almost peaceful in its simplicity — smoke rising, axes ringing, children laughing. And yet, as Arin watched Bren scan the treeline with narrowed eyes, he knew peace here was fragile, a surface layer hiding the ash and embers beneath.
And he had walked straight into it.
The longhouse of Emberstead was darker than the hall Arin had seen the night before. Bren led him inside without ceremony, the heavy door shutting with a wooden thud that swallowed the outside light. The air smelled of tallow smoke and dried herbs strung from the rafters. Animal skulls and antlers adorned the beams, their empty sockets watching as if to judge him too.
At the far end, a woman sat upon a carved oak chair set just off the hearth. She was neither old nor frail, though streaks of silver threaded her dark hair. Her gaze was sharp, cold, and steady—the kind of gaze that measured worth and found most lacking.
"Elira," Bren said, bowing his head. "Brought him, as you ordered."
Her eyes flicked past Bren, fixing on Arin. She did not rise. She did not smile.
"So," she said, her voice low and edged. "The stray."
Arin stiffened under the word, but Bren's hand clamped briefly on his shoulder, warning him to hold his tongue.
Elira leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You arrive at our gates with blood on your sleeve and no name worth speaking. You claim you fought a goblin, yet no one saw it but you. You say you come from the forest, yet give no clan, no road, no hearth where you once sat."
Arin opened his mouth. "I—"
She cut him off with a raised hand, her eyes narrowing. "Do not stammer at me, boy. I've heard better lies from bandits and deserters. Tell me—are you thief, coward, or spy? Which stink clings to you?"
"I'm none of those," Arin forced out, though his voice felt small against hers.
"None?" Her lips curled into something colder than laughter. "Then what are you? A spirit cast from the wood? A vagabond begging bread from mouths already starved?" She leaned back, dismissing him with a flick of her fingers. "Emberstead is no refuge for nameless men. If you mean to linger by our fire, you'll earn it—or you'll be cast out for the crows."
Arin's hands curled into fists at his side. He swallowed the anger rising in his throat. "I don't ask for your fire or your bread. Only a chance to prove I mean no harm."
Elira tilted her head, studying him like a hawk studies a mouse. "Bold words. Every drifter claims the same. Few make good on them."
Bren shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.
The silence stretched, heavy as an axe waiting to fall—until it shattered.
A horn blast ripped through the village, low and brassy, echoing against the walls of the longhouse. Shouts rose outside, urgent and sharp. Bren was already halfway to the door when it banged open, a boy stumbling in, breathless.
"South wall!" he cried. "Shapes in the dark—goblins!"
Elira rose at last, tall and commanding, her cloak brushing the floorboards. Her expression did not waver.
"To the wall," she snapped at Bren. "Rally the watch. Drive them back or die on the timbers."
Then her gaze swung back to Arin, fierce as a drawn blade. "And you, stray. You swear you mean no harm? Then take a spear and stand the wall. Prove it with blood. If you falter, I'll see you bound and left for the carrion birds before the sun sets."
The words struck harder than the horn's cry. There was no mercy in them, no second chance. Arin felt the weight of the villagers' distrust pressing heavier than his wound.
Bren thrust a spear into his hands without a word, then shoved him toward the door. The blare of the horn still echoed, and outside the air was alive with panic—boots thudding, torches flaring, the cries of men and women rushing to defend the palisade.
Arin stumbled after them, the spear rough in his grip. His pulse hammered in his ears. He had asked for a chance to prove himself. Now Emberstead would demand it—or destroy him.
The alarm bell's toll still echoed across Emberstead, a grim, metallic heartbeat that had scattered the weak and the unarmed into cellars and smokehouses. The palisade bristled with every man, woman, and youth strong enough to bear steel or spear. Torches guttered along the south wall despite the brightening dawn, their smoke smudging the air with the acrid bite of pitch.
Arin stood there among them, pressed into line with a crude spear shoved into his hands. No one asked if he was ready. There was no room for readiness — only the wall, the enemy, and survival. Bren's broad frame loomed at his left, while to his right a trembling farmhand clutched a woodcutter's axe.
From the treeline south of the fields came a stillness that pressed on the ears. Birds had fled long before, leaving only the drum of the villagers' breath.
Then the forest stirred.
Figures broke from the undergrowth in a crouching, measured stride. Goblins — but not the shrieking scavengers of campfire tales. These bore scars seared into their hides, curling brands that smoked faintly against mottled flesh. Their eyes gleamed with an alien focus. They did not rush. They advanced.
A hiss rippled down the palisade. Someone muttered the word like a curse: "Branded."
"Spears forward!" Bren's bellow cut across the fear, steady as stone. "Hold, damn you!"
The branded goblins slammed into the wall with a crash of claw and steel. Their crude weapons scraped along the sharpened logs, jabbing through gaps. Villagers thrust down from above, desperate shouts mingling with the guttural snarl of the attackers.
The palisade shuddered under the assault.
Arin braced, heart hammering, the haft of his spear slick in his palms. One goblin vaulted through a gap where the logs sagged, landing in the dirt within the wall. Its cleaver was jagged, black with old blood, and it came at him with unnerving purpose.
He barely raised the spear in time. Wood cracked as iron bit into it, the shock numbing his arms. The goblin pressed hard, snarling in his face.
Something broke loose in Arin. He planted his feet, teeth bared, and shoved back. The haft jarred against the goblin's blade, opening a breath of space — just enough. With a raw cry, Arin rammed the spear upward, the point tearing into the goblin's ribs.
The creature choked, clawed at the shaft, but Arin leaned with all his weight, driving the wood deeper until the goblin buckled. It collapsed in a heap, its branded skin still faintly smoking.
For a heartbeat, he could hear nothing but his own ragged breathing. His hands trembled, blood dripping down the shaft. But he was still standing.
Around him the wall blazed with struggle — steel against claw, shouts against guttural screeches. And then, just as suddenly as they had come, the branded pulled back. Not routed, not broken, but retreating in eerie order to the cover of the trees.
The defenders stood panting, staring at the bloodied logs, the gouges in the wood, the corpse at Arin's feet.
"They tested us," Bren said grimly, spitting into the dirt.
Elira dropped down from the walkway above, her boots striking the earth with sharp finality. She spared the fallen goblin a glance, then her eyes fixed on Arin. They lingered a heartbeat too long on his bloodied hands, his shaking arms.
"You live," she said coldly, voice flat as tempered steel. "Barely."
Arin swallowed, unable to answer. Fear still clung to him, thick as sweat — yet beneath it stirred something stubborn, something new. He had stood his ground. He had killed.
And in the silence that followed, all Emberstead could feel it: this was only the beginning.
The fight at the south palisade was over almost as quickly as it began. The branded goblin Arin slew lay sprawled in the dirt, its body already dragged aside by grim-faced guards. Yet victory was hollow. Not far from where Arin stood, a villager's body rested against the wall, his throat torn open, blood soaking the soil beneath him. Another man groaned nearby, clutching his chest where a jagged gash had ripped through leather and flesh alike.
The air reeked of blood, iron, and burning pitch from the torches. The crackling of the palisade's watchfires mingled with shouts and sobs as the defenders tried to regroup. Mothers called for sons, wives clutched at husbands, and all the while the dead man's widow knelt over his body, wailing.
The grief twisted quickly into something sharper. Whispers began to ripple through the crowd, venom hidden just beneath the surface.
"If he hadn't been here, would the beast have come?" one man muttered.
"The brands… you saw them, didn't you? That's no chance," another hissed. "It's an omen. His omen."
Eyes turned toward Arin. He felt the weight of their gazes like stones pressing down on his shoulders. The widow's head snapped up from her husband's corpse, her face streaked with tears. Hatred burned in her eyes as she spat toward him.
"You brought this," she hissed, her voice raw with grief. "My man is dead because of you."
Arin opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he say? That he hadn't chosen this, that the goblin would have come regardless? The words felt empty even before they reached his tongue.
A sharp, commanding voice cut through the murmurs.
"Enough."
Elira strode into the circle of torchlight, her dark cloak brushing the dirt. The watch captain's presence was ironbound, her voice carrying above the chaos with practiced authority.
"This is proof," she declared, her gaze sweeping across them all, pausing only briefly on Arin. "The goblins are not acting alone. Two branded corpses within our walls in a single night? That is no accident."
She gestured to the dead villager, her face hard as stone. "One of ours slain. Another wounded. And these brands appear within a day of his arrival."
Her words were not an accusation, not directly—but they sharpened the edge of suspicion already aimed at Arin.
"Burn the creature," Elira ordered curtly. "No trace left. Double the watches along the south wall."
Men moved quickly, dragging the branded goblin toward the fire. Flames rose, and the stench of charred flesh filled the night. The crowd fell to uneasy silence, broken only by the crackle of fire and the wounded man's ragged breathing.
Arin stood apart, alone in the torchlight. No cheers marked his survival. No gratitude met his efforts. He was not seen as savior, only as a weapon—dangerous to use, dangerous to keep. Every eye still lingered on him, suspicion hardening into fear and bitterness.
Exhaustion tugged at his body, but guilt gnawed sharper. He could not shake the image of the widow's face, nor the dead man's blood on the ground.
Elira's gaze cut to him once more, her expression unreadable. "You'll return to the hallfire. The headman's council will decide what's to be done with you."
There was no room for protest.
The branded corpse hissed and cracked in the flames, sending acrid smoke curling into the night sky. The villagers' whispers followed Arin as the guards pulled him back from the wall, their words circling in his mind. Curses. Omens. Death.
And the brand carved into goblin flesh, stark and undeniable, lingered as the truest omen of all—a sign that something larger stirred in the dark, and that he was bound to it whether he wished or not.
The hallfire was quieter than before, though no less tense. Shadows leapt across the rafters, thrown high by the central blaze. The long benches were filled not with common villagers this time, but with the elders of Emberstead — a handful of figures whose faces bore the weight of age and authority.
Arin was led in by Bren, the watchman's grip firm on his arm. Murmurs followed him, villagers packed close to the walls, their eyes sharp with grief and suspicion. The scent of smoke and scorched flesh still clung to his clothes.
At the head of the gathering sat the headman: Tharos, a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard that spilled down his chest. His eyes, pale as winter skies, studied Arin without warmth. Beside him rested Edda, the village's eldest matron, her gnarled fingers wrapped around a carved staff of ashwood. She said nothing, but her gaze was heavy, as though she could weigh his soul with a glance. To Tharos's right leaned Coren, a lean elder with sharp cheekbones and sharper words, his reputation as a trader marked in the calluses of his hands.
It was Tharos who broke the silence first.
"You slew the branded goblin," he said, his voice gravel against stone. "But one of ours lies dead, and another clings to life. Bravery does not wipe away the cost."
Arin swallowed, the weight of the hall pressing in. He could feel every eye upon him. His voice felt thin in his throat, but he forced it out.
"I didn't bring them here. The brands—the markings—I don't know what they mean. But the goblins came for blood, not for me."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Coren leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Not for you? How convenient, then, that branded beasts appear the moment your boots touch our soil. Coincidence does not sit well with me, boy."
Edda finally spoke, her voice brittle but sharp as flint.
"The mark of curse burns hotter than coincidence. And curses draw death wherever they linger." She tapped her staff lightly against the floor, the sound echoing like a judge's gavel. "But it is not yet clear if the curse lies in the goblins alone, or in you."
Arin's fists clenched in his lap. He wanted to shout, to demand they see reason, but the weight of the dead villager's widow's stare silenced him.
Tharos raised a hand, stilling both whispers and accusations. "Enough. We will not spill more words than blood. The branded corpse has been burned. The brands themselves prove this is no random raid. Something drives the goblins, something foul." His gaze swept to Arin. "And until we know what, you will remain here, under watch. You'll pull your weight, or you'll be cast out to the wilds where the truth will find you swiftly."
Bren's grip on Arin's arm tightened, not cruel but unyielding, as if to remind him that this was mercy of a sort.
The council gave no verdict of guilt or innocence. Only a judgment of necessity: he would stay, he would fight, but he would never be trusted.
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. Then Elira stepped forward, her eyes cold as tempered steel.
"We strengthen the watches tonight," she said. "If more branded filth come scratching at our gates, Emberstead will be ready. See to it."
The crowd began to disperse, their mutters trailing into the night. Some spat near Arin's feet as they passed. Others only stared. None offered thanks.
When at last the hall emptied, Arin sat alone near the dying fire. Its embers glowed red, mirroring the heat in his chest. He had survived, yes—but not as one of them. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
---
Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 2
HP: 13/13
MP: 6/6
Strength: 10 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 10 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0