The war chamber had once been a goblin treasury.
Now, its vaulted ceilings echoed with human voices, and its polished obsidian floor reflected banners of conquest instead of trade sigils. War maps covered the central table, stretching across carved stone slabs, layered with fresh ink markings and small iron figurines representing battalions, fleets, and supply lines.
Aurelian stood at the head of the table.
Around him gathered his senior commanders, battalion captains, and intelligence officers—the men and women who had survived the campaign that shattered the western goblin dominion. They bore the weight of victory in their posture and the exhaustion of it in their eyes.
General Varrek placed a sealed dossier before Aurelian.
"Our scouts confirm it," Varrek said. "The fractured border colonies are irrelevant now. The real power remains deeper inland."
Aurelian opened the dossier, scanning the parchment silently.
"These are not colonies," Varrek continued. "They are kingdoms. Fully structured. Military academies. Trade networks. Diplomatic channels with other species. They operate more like our own empires than the raiding states we've crushed."
Captain Elira leaned forward, pointing to three marked territories.
"The Triarch Confederacy," she said. "The Obsidian Crown. And the Verdant Assembly. Each controls vast resources. Each commands organized armies. Each maintains professional intelligence services."
"They are not primitive," another officer added. "They are disciplined."
"They are strategic," Varrek said. "And they are already studying us."
Aurelian closed the dossier slowly.
"Good," he said.
The word unsettled several officers.
"They will not collapse like their frontier cousins," Elira warned.
"They do not need to collapse," Aurelian replied. "They need to be dismantled."
He turned to the map, tracing the inner territories with one gloved finger.
"These kingdoms thrive on infrastructure," he said. "Administration. Coordination. Communication. Break those pillars, and they fracture from within."
Varrek folded his arms. "Direct assault would be costly. Possibly catastrophic."
"Yes," Aurelian agreed.
The room quieted. His agreement surprised them.
"So we will not begin with assault," he said.
Several captains exchanged glances.
"What do you propose, my lord?" Elira asked.
Aurelian stepped back from the table.
"We go inside," he said.
Silence followed.
Varrek frowned. "Inside… how?"
Aurelian nodded toward the intelligence officers waiting near the chamber wall. One of them stepped forward, carrying a narrow obsidian case etched with sigils.
"Black magic," Aurelian said simply.
A murmur passed through the commanders.
Captain Rhoen stiffened. "Transformation magic is unstable. Temporary. Dangerous."
"Yes," Aurelian said. "All useful tools are."
The obsidian case was opened, revealing scrolls inscribed in shifting violet script.
"Our arcane division has refined an illusionary metamorphosis," Aurelian continued. "It alters physical features. Voice patterns. Even scent markers. For limited durations."
"They will become goblins," Varrek said slowly.
"They will appear as goblins," Aurelian corrected.
Elira studied the scrolls. "How long does the disguise hold?"
"Long enough," Aurelian replied, "to walk their streets, listen to their councils, map their defenses, and learn their rhythms."
Captain Rhoen hesitated. "And if they are discovered?"
"They die," Aurelian said calmly.
The bluntness settled over the chamber like falling dust.
"We have sent soldiers into death before," he added. "The difference now is that their deaths may prevent thousands more."
Varrek studied him carefully. "You intend infiltration before conquest."
"I intend certainty before conquest," Aurelian replied.
He moved pieces across the map, sliding iron figurines through invisible routes.
"They will track patrol cycles. Guard rotations. Political tensions. Identify rival factions among goblin elites. Learn how they communicate. How they celebrate. How they mourn. Every society has weaknesses hidden inside routine."
Elira nodded slowly. "You plan to collapse their stability."
"I plan to remove their confidence," Aurelian said.
The intelligence officer spoke cautiously. "The spell requires mental discipline. The soldier must fully commit to the role. Doubt disrupts the illusion."
Aurelian turned to the commanders.
"Then we choose soldiers without doubt."
No one argued.
Training began immediately.
Selected volunteers were gathered in underground arcane halls where runes burned cold blue against stone. Scholars and battle-mages drilled them relentlessly—not just in disguise, but in behavior.
They learned goblin dialects. Social gestures. Rank symbols. Military customs. Dining etiquette. Even regional slang.
A soldier hesitated during rehearsal, mispronouncing a greeting phrase. The illusion flickered around his face, exposing human skin beneath green-tinted glamour.
The supervising mage dismissed him instantly.
"Next," she said.
Only those capable of absolute immersion remained.
Captain Elira observed one session from a shadowed balcony.
"They're becoming actors," she murmured.
"They're becoming weapons," Varrek corrected beside her.
Weeks later, the infiltration teams departed under moonless skies.
They vanished through hidden mountain passes and disguised trade caravans. Some sailed aboard merchant vessels under forged identities. Others traveled alone, slipping across borders using smuggling routes known only to exiles and criminals.
Each carried encoded memory scrolls to record observations without written evidence.
Each understood they might never return.
Back within the war capital, Aurelian gathered the full army in the outer citadel.
Tens of thousands assembled beneath black banners bearing the crest of the liberated coalition. Veterans stood beside new recruits drawn from territories recently freed. Many wore armor scavenged from fallen goblin arsenals, reshaped and repainted with human insignia.
The air trembled with anticipation.
Aurelian stepped onto the elevated stone platform.
The army quieted instantly.
"Our war changes today," he said.
He spoke without flourish, voice carrying through the massed ranks.
"The enemies ahead are not scattered raiders."
"They are kingdoms."
"They are organized."
"They are proud of their civilization."
"They believe themselves superior not only in strength, but in intellect and culture."
He walked slowly along the platform.
"They believe humans are vermin that learned to speak."
"They believe our survival is an inconvenience."
"They believe our rise is temporary."
A ripple of anger moved through the soldiers.
"They have built empires on that belief," Aurelian continued.
"They built palaces from labor stolen from human backs."
"They built academies that teach our inferiority as fact."
"They built armies trained from birth to enforce it."
His voice hardened.
"That ends now."
The wind snapped the banners behind him.
"Our next campaign is not against colonies or outposts," he said.
"It is against the heart of goblin power."
The soldiers leaned forward, drawn by the gravity of his tone.
"We will climb their hierarchies," he said.
"We will break their systems."
"We will tear down their illusions of permanence."
He raised one hand, fingers closing slowly into a fist.
"We will remove these vermin from the roots to their thrones."
A roar surged through the ranks, but he silenced it with a glance.
"They will not be spared because they call themselves civilized," he said.
"They will not be spared because they build libraries or compose poetry or hold councils that pretend to value reason."
"They have done all these things," he continued, "while chaining humanity beneath them."
"They called us inferior," he said quietly.
"They called us lesser."
"They called us disposable."
His voice lowered further.
"And now that same inferior species will end their rule."
The silence that followed vibrated with restrained fury.
"They believe our compassion is weakness," Aurelian said.
"They believe our hesitation is morality."
"They believe our divisions make us manageable."
"They are wrong."
He gestured toward the horizon beyond the fortress walls.
"We will study them," he said.
"We will infiltrate them."
"We will learn every ritual, every routine, every careless habit that makes them believe they are untouchable."
"And when we strike," he continued, "it will not be war alone."
"It will be dismantling."
His gaze swept across the sea of armored soldiers.
"This is not conquest for land," he said.
"This is conquest for existence."
He placed his hand over his chest.
"The price of liberation does not diminish with progress," he said.
"It grows."
"Because the closer we come to freedom, the harder those who fear it will resist."
He lowered his hand.
"These kingdoms will fight with intelligence."
"They will fight with strategy."
"They will fight with propaganda and diplomacy and deception."
A faint smile touched his expression.
"So will we."
He stepped back, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
"Prepare," he said. "The next war will not begin with swords."
"It will begin with masks."
The army erupted—not in reckless cheering, but in a unified, thunderous chant that rolled across the citadel like approaching artillery.
And far beyond their borders, inside the fortified goblin kingdoms that believed themselves untouchable, unseen figures wearing borrowed faces had already begun to listen.