The smoke still lingered long after the goblin's branded corpse had been fed to the flames. It clung to the air above the south palisade, acrid and heavy, winding its way through the wooden beams and creeping into the nostrils of anyone who drew too close. Even when the villagers pulled the carcass into the fire pit and scattered the ashes with shovels, the stench refused to die. The smell was a reminder, a scar upon the afternoon sky.
The sun hung high above Emberstead, but its light seemed muted, as though dimmed by the grief and unease that had settled over the village. The usual chorus of hammering, chopping, and children's laughter had stilled. Work went half-done or abandoned altogether; men leaned on tools they no longer had the will to use, while women gathered in clusters, whispering with eyes that shifted toward the stranger in their midst.
Arin sat apart from them, near the embers of the hallfire. His body ached from the fight, but it was not fatigue that pressed down on him most heavily—it was the weight of their stares.
By the well, a cluster of older villagers whispered fiercely, their voices carrying across the still square.
"You saw the marks, didn't you? Not natural. Burned right into the flesh."
"Cursed," another spat. "That's what it was. My grandsire told tales of the Shale-Tusk wars, when beasts bore such brands. Always meant some darker hand was pushing them."
"Aye," a third murmured. "And what arrives the same day as a branded goblin? Him. The boy who walked out of the forest as though the woods themselves let him pass."
Arin lowered his gaze, letting the words wash over him like cold rain. He could not argue against them; he barely understood this world himself.
From another corner came hushed talk of trade caravans.
"They'll not come this month. Who'd risk the western road with talk of goblins branded by some unseen master? We're cut off now. The shrine's offerings won't be enough if the fields sour again."
"It's him. His presence draws it, like iron draws lightning."
"And what would you have? Drive him into the woods and hope the brands follow?"
"Aye. Better him than more of us in the ground."
The widow of the slain man stood rigid by her husband's body, her hands trembling as she pressed them against the rough cloth that shrouded him. When her gaze found Arin, she spat into the dirt. "One day in our walls, and my husband lies dead." Her words rang louder than the whispers, cutting through the village like a knife.
Others did not rebuke her. Instead, they looked to Arin with the same unspoken suspicion, their grief hardening into something that might one day find its shape in action.
Arin turned away, jaw clenched. The urge to defend himself, to shout that he had fought beside them, burned on his tongue. But he swallowed it back. Words would not change their minds. Not here. Not yet.
It was then that a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
Bren, the watchman, stood over him, eyes still shadowed from the battle but carrying none of the venom the villagers cast. His jaw was tight, his scar pulling at his cheek, but his voice was low and steady.
"Don't heed them overmuch," Bren said. "Fear makes folk meaner than they truly are. And grief makes sharper tongues still."
Arin looked up at him, searching for any trace of mockery. There was none. Only weariness.
"They blame me," Arin said quietly.
"They'd blame the wind if it carried ash into their homes," Bren replied. He crouched down, his gaze flicking toward the wrapped corpse by the wall. "A man dead means someone to curse. Easier than cursing the dark beyond the palisade." He straightened, his hand tightening briefly on Arin's shoulder before withdrawing. "You fought when others might've fled. That counts for something—even if they won't say it."
Arin almost thanked him but stopped. Gratitude felt fragile, like a word that might break if spoken. Instead, he nodded once.
Bren gave a grunt and moved off toward the southern wall, barking orders at a pair of younger men to repair the splintered timber. His voice carried strength, enough to rattle them into motion. Yet even Bren's presence could not smooth away the tension that gripped the air like a tightening rope.
The sun dipped lower as the afternoon wore on, its light stretching shadows across the village. Arin lingered where he was, the murmurs of gossip still filtering through the square.
"…marshes crawling with mirelurks, or so the traders said last spring. Maybe they've wandered north."
"Or wights. Old bones rising again. My uncle swore he saw one near Redfen Marsh when he was a lad. If they stir, brands on goblins are the least of our worries."
"Better wights than shale-tusks. You can burn a corpse once. A tusk doesn't stop until it's broken your spine in two."
Laughter followed the grim jest, bitter and short-lived. Yet beneath it all was the same refrain: the world beyond Emberstead was darkening, and with it their patience for the stranger in their midst was wearing thin.
A bell tolled softly—the summons for the elders. One by one, men and women of gray hair and stern eyes made their way to the oak doors of the hall. Bren walked with them, his scarred face grim. The widow followed, her grief sharpened into fury.
Arin stood apart, watching them enter. He knew what waited within: judgment, whispered behind closed doors. The question was not whether he had fought, but whether they would let him remain within these walls when night fell.
The doors closed, and the square emptied, leaving Arin alone with the scars of battle at his feet. The sun crept lower, shadows stretching long like fingers across the dirt. And still, he felt the weight of unseen eyes—both human and not—pressing in.
The sun hung heavy in the west, staining the sky with a dull amber as the village tried to settle after the clash at the southern wall. The blood had long since been scrubbed from the packed earth, though dark stains still clung where water could not reach. The corpse of the branded goblin was ash by now, smoke carried off on the shifting wind, yet the air still tasted of iron and burnt flesh.
In the square, villagers spoke in hushed tones, but hushed did not mean kind. The words carried, sharp and barbed.
"Came with him, didn't it?" whispered one woman by the well, her hands never pausing in wringing a cloth. "A stranger comes, and the very same day branded fiends test our wall."
"A curse, that's what it is," muttered a gray-haired farmer, his knuckles raw from gripping spear and hoe alike. "Did you see how it looked at him before it fell? Like it knew him. Like it hated him."
Near the firepit, where a widow sat silent and hollow-eyed, her grief made the whispers bite harder. "Her man wouldn't be lying cold if not for him," someone breathed. "We've all felt the world shifting strange this past year. Outsiders bring storms."
Arin heard it all. He sat apart, a weight pressing into his shoulders, his hands clenched around nothing. Every word was another stone on his chest. He could still see the dead man's face — slack, pale, blood pooling at his throat — and the widow's stare carved into him deeper than any blade. He wanted to protest, to shout that he hadn't brought this upon them, but his tongue was lead. Guilt, undeserved or not, had found its grip.
A voice broke the circle of whispers.
"You'd do well to keep your tongues leashed."
Bren, the weathered watchman, strode past the mutterers with his bow slung across his back. His scarred face bore no softness, but his words cut through the air. "The boy stood at the wall while half of you hid your children in cellars. He took a blade to one of those things. That counts for more than venom in the dark."
The villagers shrank beneath his glare, though their eyes still flicked toward Arin with suspicion. None answered him outright, but the whispers dulled, their edges filed for the moment.
Bren settled himself near Arin with a groan, lowering onto the same beam of cut wood. For a long while, neither spoke. The square carried on, grief and murmurs ebbing like a poisoned tide.
At last, Bren tugged at his beard and muttered low, so only Arin could hear. "They'll say what they say. Folk need someone to blame. Easier to wag fingers at the new face than admit the world's gone crooked." He glanced at Arin then, his one good eye steady. "Don't wear their words too close to your heart, lad. They've short memories. What they'll remember is who bleeds beside them when the next horn sounds."
Arin's throat worked, but no words came. Bren didn't seem to mind.
The younger watchmen drifted near as if by habit, their presence a silent shield. One, a broad-shouldered fellow named Halric, clapped Arin's shoulder in passing — rough but firm, a soldier's mark of respect. Another, lean Rurik, gave a brief nod, his eyes sharp with the same wary readiness as Bren's. Even the quietest among them, Lathen, offered a wordless grunt as he passed, which for him was as good as open loyalty.
They said little, but their gestures spoke enough. Bren's men stood with him — and through him, with Arin. They were not the whole of the guard, but they were the tighter knot, the ones most trusted on the wall. Their support was subtle yet solid, and it made the glares of the villagers sting a little less.
Still, the balance was clear. For every hand that reached, two pulled away. For every whispered comfort, there were louder accusations. And in the cracks between, Arin sat, a stranger whose blade they needed but whose presence they despised.
Bren leaned closer, voice lower still. "Mark my words, lad. This wasn't their full measure. Goblins don't brand themselves. Someone's whipping them into order. They tested our wall today, not broke it. That means they'll come again."
As if the world itself conspired to answer, a crow wheeled above the treeline beyond the palisade, its harsh caw cutting across the square before vanishing into the woods. The villagers glanced uneasily toward the sound, muttering charms under their breath.
The sun dipped lower. The shadows of the palisade stretched long across the village square, and with it came a sense that the day's peace would not hold. The horizon itself seemed to darken faster than it should, as though the forest beyond waited, listening, patient.
The sun sank low, bleeding red into the jagged tree line, and the shadows crept long across Emberstead. By the time the torches were lit along the palisade, the forest had swallowed the last of the light, pressing close like a tide of ink. The air carried the sharp bite of coming frost, every exhale curling into mist as the villagers pulled in on themselves, cloaks and shawls drawn tight.
Evening meals were subdued affairs. Families ate quick stews of roots and grains, some with slivers of meat if they had been lucky hunters. Pots simmered over low flames, but no laughter rose with the smoke. Instead, the talk carried like the shifting of dry leaves—soft, restless, and heavy with fear.
Arin settled near the great hallfire, its orange glow painting the square in restless light. The villagers clustered tighter than usual around it, shoulders brushing, children clutched close. It was not warmth they sought, but safety, however illusory.
"The south wall won't hold another rush if they come in force," muttered one man, a farmer with dirt still under his fingernails. His words were low, but Arin caught them all the same.
"Aye," another agreed, sharpening a rust-pitted spear by the fire. "We've pitch, but not near enough arrows. Gods help us if more than a dozen show."
Further down the circle, two older women spoke in voices trembling with worry.
"My boy's on watch tonight."
"They put mine there too. I told him the wall's cursed now, with that branded thing dying against it. Said it's just wood and nails, but I can see the truth in his eyes—he's frightened."
A young herdsman spat into the dirt. "Frightened or not, we'll all be corpses if the gates fail. Best we stand ready, all of us, else it won't just be a man or two buried tomorrow."
The words drew sharp glances, but none argued. The silence that followed was heavier than the crackle of the fire.
From where Arin sat, the divide was clear: those around Bren, the watchmen loyal to him, gave Arin nods of quiet acknowledgment as they passed with buckets of pitch or adjusted their spears in the torchlight. The others—the farmers, the herders, the wives clutching children—looked away, lips pressed thin. Fear of the goblins and suspicion of the outsider blended until the air itself seemed thick with it.
Bren had found him earlier, clasping his shoulder with a firm grip. "Don't let their stares weigh on you, lad. A blade's a blade, whether their tongues admit it or not. When the wall's tested, men remember who stood beside them."
Those words lingered now, a fragile tether against the dark.
Beyond the palisade, the forest whispered. A crow called—loud, sharp, too near—and several villagers froze. A child whimpered before being hushed. On the wall, torchlight flickered over the rigid outlines of watchmen, their silence more telling than any alarm.
The fire burned lower, logs collapsing into embers. The hours stretched thin. Fear pressed closer with the night.
Arin leaned toward the blaze, letting the heat sink into his bones. His eyes stayed fixed on the flames, but his ears strained against the dark beyond the palisade.
Waiting. Always waiting.
Great — we'll move into Section 3, where the tension turns into something heavier as night fully falls. This will be the transition section before the branded goblin night raid erupts. It should deepen the unease, give the villagers' fear sharper edges, and push Arin closer to the realization that he'll be thrown into the heart of the next attack whether he likes it or not.
By the time the moon lifted above the treetops, Emberstead had fallen into the rhythm of uneasy vigilance. Torches sputtered along the palisade, their smoke curling upward like thin, accusing fingers. The smell of pitch hung heavy, almost choking, as if the very air had been steeped in fear.
The villagers who weren't on watch had withdrawn into their homes, shutters barred, doors latched with iron hooks and wedges of wood. From the hallfire square, the glow of cooking fires dwindled one by one until the settlement lay in a pool of silence, broken only by the crackle of the central blaze and the low murmur of watchmen along the walls.
Arin sat where Bren had told him to stay—by the hallfire, close enough to be seen, far enough from the palisade to mark him as neither villager nor true defender. He could feel the invisible line that had been drawn around him.
The watchmen near Bren had offered small kindnesses: a waterskin passed his way, a nod of quiet respect. But the rest of the settlement kept its distance. When women emerged briefly to draw water from the well, they avoided his gaze, their footsteps quick, as though the longer they lingered near him, the more likely ill fortune might strike their families.
Overhead, the forest canopy whispered with the night wind. It wasn't the sound that chilled Arin—it was the stillness between those gusts. No owls called. No night-creatures stirred. The woods seemed to be holding their breath.
A pair of watchmen shifted uneasily on the southern wall. One spat over the edge into the dark, muttering too loudly:
"Wouldn't be surprised if they came again. Things like that don't strike once and leave."
Another, Bren's voice steadier, cut him off: "Eyes sharp, tongue still. Fear feeds on itself."
Arin caught Bren's silhouette against the torchlight, broad-shouldered and unyielding. The man stood like a pillar, one of the few keeping panic from spilling into chaos.
But panic had roots already. Whispers carried in the dark:
"The brands were no accident…"
"…drawn to him, you'll see…"
"…we should drive him out before—"
The words faded when Arin's head turned, but their weight lingered. Each murmur was a stone stacked on his shoulders.
He pressed his hands together, fingers raw from gripping wood and steel in the earlier fight. His body begged for rest, but his mind knew better—rest was for those who could trust the night to pass unbroken.
Above, a torch guttered. Its flame hissed, then caught again, throwing a long shadow across the palisade. For the briefest moment, the shape stretched inhuman—jagged, too many angles. Arin's breath stilled, and he wasn't the only one. A dozen heads turned toward the south wall.
Silence. Only the fire. Only the wind.
But the stillness carried weight, heavy and waiting. The kind of silence that comes before something breaks.
Arin felt it in his bones. The branded weren't finished. Not yet.
The fire's warmth had sunk into embers when Arin caught it—a flicker where no torch should be.
He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes toward the treeline beyond the south palisade. At first, he thought it was the night playing tricks on him, the way shadows shifted when the wind bent the trees. But then he saw it again: a glint, low to the ground, like the faint catch of moonlight on metal.
His throat tightened.
"Bren," he called, voice hushed but sharp. "South wall. Something's there."
The watchman was beside him in moments, boots crunching on gravel. Bren followed Arin's stare, his hand already on the haft of his spear. The torchlight caught the hard set of his jaw. "You're sure?"
Before Arin could answer, the silence of the forest cracked. A shrill, guttural cry tore through the night, echoed by half a dozen more.
The woods erupted.
Shapes burst from the treeline, hunched and feral, their eyes gleaming sickly yellow in the firelight. Branded goblins, their twisted marks glowing faintly like coals, charged the palisade with a frenzy that made the earth itself seem to quake beneath their feet.
"TO ARMS!" Bren's shout ripped through the village like a warhorn. The alarm bell clanged overhead, frantic and uneven as another watchman hammered it with the butt of his spear.
Villagers poured from the hallfire, some half-dressed, others already gripping axes, pitchforks, or battered shields. The wounded from earlier were carried deeper into the square, while the able-bodied scrambled toward the south wall.
Arin didn't wait. His body moved before thought could stop it, seizing a half-burnt torch from the ground and gripping the broken dagger still strapped to his side. His pulse hammered in his ears.
The first goblin slammed against the palisade, clawing and shrieking, its branded flesh hissing as if the very marks burned it from within. A spear thrust from above pierced its shoulder, but it didn't falter—it clawed higher, teeth snapping, dragging itself upward with unnatural strength.
Another followed. Then three more.
The south wall shuddered under their assault.
Arin felt the air split with the raw stink of sweat, smoke, and blood. The night was no longer silent. It was alive with fury, fire, and the branded's unholy cries.
And this time, Arin was not a bystander. The line between villager and outsider had vanished in the chaos. He was on the wall, weapon in hand, breath ragged.
The branded had returned.
And Emberstead would burn if they faltered.
The south wall shook with the fury of the branded. Goblins shrieked and clawed at the timber palisade, their branded flesh glowing faintly in the torchlight as though some cursed fire burned beneath their skin. Spears stabbed down from above, but even pierced and bloodied, the creatures did not relent.
Arin gripped the spear in one hand and the half-burnt torch in the other, knuckles white with strain. The heat of the torch licked his arm, but he welcomed it. Better fire in his hand than fear in his chest.
The first goblin crested the palisade with a guttural roar, its claws digging deep into the timber. Arin lunged before thought could hold him back, jamming the torch into its face. The creature shrieked, the branded flesh sizzling as if the fire awakened some deeper torment. It toppled backward, thrashing as it fell into the others clawing below.
"Again! Burn them if you can!" Bren's shout rang beside him, his spear thrusting down into the next climber.
Arin swung the torch wildly, the flames casting frantic shadows across the wall. A goblin leapt, catching the lip of the palisade, its yellow eyes locked on him. Arin thrust forward, spear stabbing into its throat. Hot blood splattered across his hand, and the creature spasmed before tumbling into the dark.
The line of defenders roared, their fear momentarily broken. But it lasted only heartbeats. More goblins surged from the treeline, dozens of them, their cries filling the night with madness.
The palisade trembled as the branded hurled themselves against it, claws gouging into wood, teeth gnashing. A spear snapped in two under the press. A villager was dragged screaming over the wall, his cries cut short in the dark. Another defender was mauled, his chest torn open as a goblin scrambled over the top before being hacked apart by axes.
Arin's lungs burned as he fought, torch flaring, spear striking in desperate arcs. His body screamed for rest, but the onslaught left no room for weakness. Each movement blurred into the next — swing, stab, shove, dodge. His ears rang with the chaos: steel clashing, wood cracking, goblins shrieking, villagers shouting prayers and curses alike.
At one point, a goblin landed squarely on the wall in front of him, its brand a jagged line running down its chest. It lunged low, claws swiping. Arin barely twisted aside, the claws raking his sleeve and cutting shallow into his arm. Pain flared white-hot, but he didn't falter. He rammed the torch into its chest and drove the spear tip upward, forcing it back with a roar of his own.
The creature shrieked, its brand glowing brighter as it convulsed, before finally crumpling into the mud below.
"Hold the line!" Elira's voice cut through the chaos, cold and commanding. She strode along the palisade with her sword slick with blood, eyes sharp and unyielding. Where she struck, goblins fell in twain, but her presence was no balm. She was fire tempered into steel — not comfort, but survival.
The battle stretched on like a nightmare. The wall became slick with blood, hands raw from gripping wood and weapon. Arin's muscles screamed with exhaustion, but his body moved as though dragged by sheer instinct. He burned another goblin with the torch, stabbed another through the throat, and kicked one off the wall before its claws could sink into a watchman's leg.
And then, as he wrenched his spear free from yet another goblin's chest, the world seemed to shiver.
A faint hum filled his ears, soft but undeniable. His breath caught, his vision sharpened, and a window flickered before his eyes — unseen by all but him.
---
[Level Up!]
You have reached Level 3.
+3 HP, +1 MP
+3 Attribute Points gained.
---
The window vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Arin's chest heaving, blood running down his arm, and the battle raging still. But something within him felt steadier, sharper — not strength enough to end the battle, but a spark to keep fighting.
The branded were not yet finished. Their cries echoed into the night, promising more blood before dawn. And though Arin's body screamed for respite, he tightened his grip on his spear, torch guttering low, and braced for whatever came next.
Emberstead's survival now had a sliver more weight resting on his shoulders.
The night's chaos gave way to a gray, reluctant dawn. Smoke clung to the village like a second skin, seeping into hair, clothes, lungs. The south palisade bore scars of the fight: gouges where goblin claws had scraped the wood, blood soaking the frozen earth just beyond. A handful of villagers moved in silence, dragging corpses — goblin and human alike — into rough piles. The stink of blood and charred flesh turned the morning air bitter.
Arin leaned against the wall, his body heavy with exhaustion, every breath dragging. His arms throbbed from the fight, but it was not his own pain that weighed on him most. It was the sight of a woman clutching a bloodied tunic, her knees sinking into the dirt beside her husband's body. Her wails tore through the silence sharper than any blade.
A man groaned nearby, laid out on a makeshift stretcher, his chest bandaged in haste where the goblin's blade had bitten deep. He lived, but only just.
Elira's voice cut through the grief like steel. "Burn them."
Heads turned. She stood near the firepit where the goblins' branded corpses had already begun to smolder, their foul flesh hissing as the flames licked them. Her arms were crossed, her expression cold and unyielding. "Goblins and our dead. Burn them both. No rot, no taint. The living need no more curses hanging over their heads."
Some hesitated, but her tone brooked no argument. The villagers began their grim task.
As the fire took hold, whispers stirred like dry leaves.
"Those brands… they weren't natural."
"Some curse brought them here."
"And he came the same day, didn't he?"
Eyes darted toward Arin. The widow's gaze lingered longer than the rest, red-rimmed and blazing with grief. "If you hadn't come, stranger… maybe my Tomas would still be alive."
Arin stiffened. The words struck harder than any goblin's claw. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
"Enough," Bren's voice rang out, firm and steady. The watchman stood tall, his broad frame shadowed by the fire's glow. "You think this boy brought them here? Then you weren't at the wall. He fought harder than half of us, bled for this village though he owes us nothing. If not for him, there'd be more lying dead."
A few other watchmen nodded, their voices quieter but resolute. "He held the line."
"Aye, without him, the wall might've broken."
But not all were convinced. A farmer shook his head, spitting into the dirt. "Or maybe they came because of him. A curse draws curses. You can't trust a stranger falling from the trees."
The division split the air like a blade. Some looked at Arin with suspicion sharpened by fear, others with reluctant respect. None with warmth.
Elira raised her voice once more, cutting short the murmurs. "Speculation is a fool's game. What matters is this: branded goblins are not wandering beasts. They are weapons. Something marks them, drives them. And it means worse will come." Her gaze swept the crowd, cold and unflinching. "From this day, the south wall is doubled in watch. Every able hand will mend the palisade before nightfall. And you—" her eyes snapped to Arin, narrowing like a drawn bow, "—you'll stay close to the fire, under guard. Headman's council will decide your place here. Until then, you're neither friend nor foe."
Her words left no room for reply.
The villagers returned to their grim duties. The branded corpses burned hotter, their twisted flesh sending up greasy smoke that curled into the dawn sky. The acrid stench clung to the throat, impossible to swallow down.
Arin watched in silence, the heat of the pyre pricking his face. He felt their suspicion pressing against him like invisible chains. Some gave him nods of respect as they passed — Bren, his closest men — but others turned their faces away, leaving him alone in a village that both needed him and feared him.
For now, he endured. But the weight of the widow's words lingered, heavy as the dawn smoke curling above the burning dead.
The flames roared higher, consuming branded flesh until nothing remained but ash and bone. Smoke coiled into the pale sky, carrying with it the bitter stench of blood and fire. The villagers dispersed slowly, some with suspicion etched in their eyes, others with weary gratitude left unspoken.
Arin remained by the pyre until the last flicker dimmed, the weight of their stares pressing on his shoulders heavier than any sword. His body ached, his mind dulled with fatigue, but within him something stirred — not pride, not relief, but a steady, undeniable shift.
The world acknowledged his survival.
---
Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 3
HP: 16/16
MP: 7/7
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: 3
---
Thus ended the night of fire and fear, but not the whispers it had left behind.