We smelled them before we saw them.
Not rot. Not blood. Burnt grease and damp canvas — the smell of a fire fed badly and a camp thrown together without care. Voices carried through the thinning trees ahead, harsh and clipped, punctuated by the scrape of metal against stone.
Montaron slowed us with a raised hand.
"Camp," he murmured. "Hobgoblins."
We edged closer, careful now. The trees opened just enough to give us a view.
Three of them.
They'd cleared a shallow circle beneath the canopy, trampling brush into submission rather than removing it. A low fire smoldered at the center. Bedrolls lay scattered around it, weapons stacked close — spears and shields leaned within arm's reach, blades positioned for grabbing rather than comfort.
One of them sat on a log, turning something over in his fingers.
A ring.
Gold. Plain. Catching firelight in a way that made it look more important than it was.
"Flame-dance," the hobgoblin said slowly, mangling the word. "That what human call it."
Another snorted. "Shiny lie. Human lie lots."
"She run," the first said. "Run like scared. Say name big. Say ring matter."
The third leaned toward the fire, squinting. "Maybe make fire move. Jump. Dance."
"Put in fire," the second said at once.
"If burn us, you burn first," the third replied.
They stared at each other, teeth bared, weighing that.
I swallowed.
Montaron leaned closer, his voice barely a rasp.
"So," he murmured, "what's the plan, then? Ye goin' to charm 'em?"
I didn't answer.
He huffed softly. "Sing real pretty. Ask nice for the ring."
A thin smile tugged at his mouth, gone as fast as it came.
A thought crept in uninvited, thin and desperate.
If this is still a game…
If dying just means waking up…
I didn't believe it. Not really.
But holding it for half a second loosened my chest enough to breathe.
Montaron shifted his grip on his hilt.
"Right," he said quietly. "Hope the other two remember how to behave."
He flicked his gaze toward Imoen, then Xzar. "You stay back. Make noise. Make pain."
Xzar giggled under his breath.
"I'll take the loud one," Montaron muttered. "The one who thinks he's in charge."
His chin dipped toward the third hobgoblin — the one standing a little apart, half-listening, absently picking at his backside as the argument dragged on.
"You," Montaron said to me, low and final. "Take that one."
I followed his gaze.
"…The one scratching himself?"
"Aye," he said flatly. "If that's where his mind is, he won't see you comin'."
He snorted, quiet and dismissive.
"They're hobgoblins. Thick enough they'll be dead before the thought reaches their feet."
Jaheira had slipped wide to the left at some point, Khalid answering by drifting the opposite way — the kind of quiet coordination that didn't ask permission.
Montaron moved.
One of the hobgoblins barked a laugh.
He pointed, thick finger jutting toward Montaron as the halfling burst from cover.
"Look! A—"
The stone struck him in the temple with a sharp, wet crack.
The hobgoblin lurched sideways, words collapsing into a grunt as the world clearly stopped agreeing with him. His hand flew to his head, fingers coming away slick, his laugh gone as if it had never been there.
Jaheira didn't pause to admire the work.
She was already reaching for another stone.
Everything broke at once.
The camp erupted — hobgoblins snarling as hands flew for weapons, shields yanked upright, steel scraping free in a rush of motion that came a heartbeat too late.
Montaron hit them like a blade loosed from a trap, low and fast, straight for the one who'd been shouting orders. The leader barely had time to bring his shield up before steel flashed, Montaron's short blade snapping high to deflect a heavy swing that would have split a taller man in half.
Behind him, Xzar's laughter rose — sharp, delighted — and a dart hissed through the air, burying itself in the leader's upper arm. The hobgoblin snarled, pain cutting through his authority just long enough for an arrow from Imoen's bow to thud into his shoulder.
The leader roared and dug in, feet planting hard. He was tougher than the others — broader, meaner, moving with ugly confidence even under fire.
I wasn't watching him.
The hobgoblin Jaheira had struck was still on his feet — swaying, blinking, trying to understand why the ground wouldn't stay still.
That was mine.
I lunged.
Too early.
My swing went wide, blade slicing nothing but air and my own balance. My boot slid on churned dirt and I pitched forward a half-step, heart slamming hard enough to drown out everything else.
The hobgoblin recovered faster than I did.
He snarled and slammed his shield into me. The impact knocked the breath from my chest and sent a bright flash across my vision. I staggered back, jaw clenching hard as the shock rippled through me.
That hurt.
Not like a warning.
Not like a dream.
Pain bloomed sharp and immediate through my ribs and jaw, through the part of my mind that had still been pretending there might be space between mistake and consequence.
So much for waking up.
Another stone snapped past my head, close enough that I felt the air shift. Jaheira again — not rescuing me, just denying him the follow-up.
The hobgoblin roared and came at me anyway.
To my right, steel rang as Khalid stepped in, shield locked, sword coming up in a controlled arc to intercept the third hobgoblin before it could decide who to help. His movements were tight and deliberate, stance firm, eyes fixed.
Behind me, Montaron and the leader crashed together again, blades biting, the halfling darting inside the bigger hobgoblin's reach as another dart flicked past and Imoen's bowstring snapped once more.
I dragged my sword back up, arms shaking, breath ragged.
No flourish.
No panic.
Just weight. Distance. Timing.
The hobgoblin raised his shield again, confident now, convinced he'd broken me.
I stepped inside the shield.
Not fast.
Not clever.
Close.
The shield scraped my arm as he lunged, his weight carrying past where I'd been. I drove the sword forward without thinking about form or approval or anything beyond the space between us.
The blade punched in low, under the ribs.
There was resistance — wrong and stubborn — and a sound I hadn't expected to hear from my own hands. The hobgoblin froze, shield slipping from his grip as his breath failed him.
His eyes found mine again.
Not angry.
Confused.
I held there for a heartbeat too long before pulling free. When I did, he folded, knees buckling as if they'd simply decided they were done. He hit the dirt at my feet and didn't get back up.
I stood there, sword hanging heavy in my hands, breath coming too fast.
The fire crackled behind me — suddenly loud, suddenly ordinary.
Somewhere nearby, steel rang again.
Someone shouted.
An arrow snapped through the air.
I didn't look.
All I could see was the shape on the ground that hadn't been there a moment ago — and the dark spreading beneath it, slow and undeniable.