The field was quiet now.
Quiet in the way only battlefields ever were, thought Marcus Tran as he surveyed the scene. Broken blades scattered among bodies, the stench of blood hanging just under the smoke of campfires. Most of the goblins were dead. A few still breathed, but he knew that wouldn't last long.
The legionaries moved like a well-drilled machine. Optios barked orders. Squads hauled bodies into heaps, sorting goblins from hobgoblins. Swords and daggers were taken, and anything still usable was pulled into neat piles. Spears. Leather bits. Even boots. Anything not ruined was stripped.
Marcus Tran, the new supply tribune, stood in the center of it all with a wax board in hand, shouting numbers to two younger recruits tallying numbers.
"Stack anything metal in column B! That means buckles, too, genius! You think we've got iron to waste?"
"Potion wagon forward!" he snapped at another group. "Double check the seals! I'm not losing stock because someone stacked them like a sack of potatoes!"
Near the edge of the field, a pair of auxiliaries moved through the wounded goblins — daggers in hand, throats opened quick and clean. Mercy, in a place like this, was a sharp blade.
The sun was sinking fast now. Orange light filtered through the trees, painting the field in a strange warmth that didn't reach the skin.
Harold stood beside Hale, cloak drawn tight around his shoulders, watching the last of the gear come in. His jaw was tight.
"We're running out of light," he muttered.
Before Hale could answer, a commotion at the treeline drew their eyes.
A team of adventurers sprinted into view — panting, sweat-soaked, their rough armor streaked with brush and blood. One of them raised a hand high.
"We found it!" he shouted. "We found the den!"
They didn't even wait to catch their breath, just shoved the scout's slate into Hale's hands and began pointing. Harold and Evan were there in moments. Here, the scout said, jabbing a finger into the charcoal-drawn map. East slope. Hidden hollow behind a rockfall. Looks like it was disguised, but we caught the tail of a runner going in. If they regroup and the den works to make more, they'll be able to launch another attack before dusk. We have to neutralize it now to secure the rear.
Evan was already nodding. "That lines up with the direction they broke. I thought they were running blind. They weren't."
Hale's eyes scanned the map. "Tight approach. Narrow entrance. Defensive for them. Bad for us."
"How many?" Harold asked.
"Hard to say," the lead scout replied. "We didn't press close. At least three dozen in sight, could be more behind. Sounded like a lot. Goblins for sure — maybe a few bigger ones too. Could be another squad or two of hobs."
Harold exhaled slowly. The light was falling fast.
"We hit it now," he said. "Before they move or reinforce. Hale?"
"I want both centuries," Hale replied immediately. "I'll take First on the approach. Second will bring up the rear."
Evan stepped forward. "I'll take the auxilia ahead. We'll take the back of the entrance. If there are goblins, there's no way there's only one entrance. We will find other holes."
"Do it," Harold said. "We can't afford to let this fester. Take torches"
Carter and Garrick were already organizing their squads. Shields were rechecked. The last of the scavenged spears were redistributed, mostly to veterans in the first century who didn't yet have one.
The scouts led out again, this time not ranging far. No broad sweeps — just silent hand signs, flagging direction as the army fell into a wedge formation behind Hale.
Hale turned to his officers, voice low. "Once we move, we do not stop until that den is ash. Break through, clear it, and burn everything that doesn't scream like a man. Optios need to keep control. Once we breach the den, it will get chaotic." For a moment, a strange quiet settled over the troops. The leaves whispered in the breeze, and a solitary bird called out from the trees, its song eerily echoing over the field. The calm was unsettling, as if the forest itself held its breath.
Then, as if punctuating the silence, Hale gave the signal to advance.
Then he nodded to Carter. "Leave two squads to guard the wagons and hold the camp. Keep the potion crate under full watch. If we don't come back, fall back to the Landing."
Marcus didn't flinch. "I'll have it ready to move by dawn."
Harold gave a final look at the field behind them — the churned grass, the broken weapons, the piles of the dead — and then turned toward the trees. He turned and tossed the goblin sword he had picked up onto the pile of swords by Marcus and moved off to join the formation.
The legion moved like a wave — into the woods, into the falling light. The den waited.
The forest grew sharper as they approached the den — shadows twisting, trunks narrowing, the slope rising until it funneled into a steep, rocky pass flanked by dense brush and jagged ridges.
Hale raised a fist, and the column halted.
Ahead, a dark hollow yawned beneath a curved outcropping of stone — the entrance, just as the scouts had described. Rocks had been stacked to obscure it, but the trail of scuffed footprints and torn earth made the lie plain.
"First Century," Hale said, drawing his sword with a smooth motion. "Advance in information. Shields high. Second Century, follow behind us. standard spacing."
Garrick passed the signal. They began to move — careful, steady, shields up.
Then the knife-edge spur above exploded.
Small shutters snapped open along the stony slope—concealed slits in the rock. Dozens of goblin archers burst into view, green-skinned and grinning, bows already drawn.
The first volley hit like a scream.
One legionary dropped with a strangled cry — an arrow buried deep in his neck. Another stumbled, shield raised too late, a shaft sprouting from his thigh.
"Testudo!" Hale roared.
The call echoed like a war drum.
The line immediately shifted — practiced instinct taking over. Shields rose and locked overhead. Side shields overlapped. A living wall formed in seconds, flat planes of oiled wood braced for impact. The next volley struck like hail against a roof — arrows glancing off shields, embedding in leather, pinging harmlessly against reinforced edges.
But they had nothing to fire back with. No bows, no slings, nothing that could respond to the rain of arrows from above. Only short spears and blades. Hale's mind screamed at the futility of it.
"Advance!" Hale bellowed, sword raised. "Hold formation! Shields up!"
The testudo moved forward, slow but implacable.
Then the den screamed.
A swarm of goblins burst from the entrance in a rush of limbs and steel — behind them, taller shapes. Hobgoblins. At least a dozen of them. They crashed into the front of the first century like a wave.
The line buckled.
"Hold!" Garrick shouted. "Lock shields!"
The Century held but barely. The front was bowing from the strain of holding the monsters back. Goblins slammed into them, trying to break the formation with speed and mass. Arrows continued to rain down from the ridge, forcing the rear to keep shields raised even as the front fought for their lives.
Behind the fight, Carter paced, the Second Century poised behind him — but the pass was too narrow.
They couldn't reinforce. Then Harold was beside him, voice sharp.
"Those archers are pinning us down," he said. "Send two squads around. Get up that ridge. Hit those sniper holes from above, then sweep down through the Den."
Carter's eyes flicked up. Then he nodded.
"Three squads. I'm not taking chances."
He turned and barked the order. Three options peeled off immediately, racing low and fast toward the far slope with their squads, vanishing into the trees.
Harold turned back — just in time to see the real fight begin.
The front rank of the First Century had been holding — barely — behind their shields. Sword arms are bloody. Faces were soaked in sweat.
Then their blades began to glow.
Soft at first. A flicker of blue-white light along the edges. Then brighter — mana flowing down steel. They raised them in unison.
And struck. The sound was a song.
Steel sang as it cut — not with brute force or precision. Implacability. Like slicing water with light. Goblins fell in clumps — cleaved through shields, arms, and bone. Nothing could stop the sword light.
Then Garrick's voice roared out, hoarse from the strain.
"Shift!"
The front rank moved — rotating back, shields high. The second rank stepped forward, seamlessly locking in.
It was something they drilled, but not very often. But it worked.
The rotated rank reset — panting, wounded, but still standing and just in time.
"Push!" Garrick bellowed.
The line surged. Shields slammed forward, staggering the goblins. Blades flashed out again — this time not just cutting but slamming forward to stab into the goblin bodies. The ground in front of the formation turned red and wet.
More hobgoblins rushed to stem the tide — but the next rank's fury met them.
The line didn't break. It advanced.
Behind them, the second century waited — swords drawn, eyes locked.
Up on the ridge, the first of the detached squads reached the goblin snipers.
Harold didn't look away.
The last wave of goblins had broken.
Their bodies littered the base of the ridge, some still twitching. The archers had been silenced. The testudo had advanced. The den entrance now lay open, black and reeking of blood and something older — the stink of a place where things had lived and died for years.
Elements of the First Century were beginning to enter.
Harold stood near the Second Century's staging point, watching as the squads slipped one by one into the shadowed opening. Optios barked orders. Shields were drawn tighter. Torches were passed forward, lit by quick flares of mana.
Then the sound hit them.
A roar. Low, guttural, massive. It rolled from the depths of the den like thunder in a stone canyon.
Harold's breath caught, and the color drained from his face.
"That's a troll," he said. "A hill troll. Has to be." Before the sentence had entirely left his mouth, he was moving — hand on sword, already halfway to the mouth of the den.
Carter stepped in front of him, arm outstretched. "My lord. Stop."
"We need to get in there—"
"No," Carter said, firm. "We can't fit more people inside. That tunnel's too tight. And if we crowd it, we'll block each other."
Harold's jaw clenched. "That thing could rip through a squad in seconds."
"And if it does, we'll act. But until then…" Carter looked him straight in the eye. "Trust them to work the problem."
Harold stopped just short of the entrance, the roar still echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat. He stared into the blackness, his fingers curling and uncurling around his hilt.
Inside, the sounds of battle raged — steel on stone, shouting, and more distant thuds.
He turned, pacing back and forth at the edge of the staging area like a wolf in a too-small pen.
Carter didn't move. Just stood with his arms folded and his eyes steady.
Then, without turning, he said, "Stand still, my lord."
Harold froze.
Carter finally looked at him. "Don't make the men nervous. They're watching. We need to project confidence — even when we don't feel it."
Harold exhaled slowly. His hand dropped from the sword.
"Right," he said, quieter. "You're right."
He stayed still after that. He wasnt close to calm but worked to appear that way. He didn't know how Carter did it. His eyes remained fixed on the mouth of the den, every second stretched thin as wire.
Then—Movement.
Figures appeared at the entrance. The first optio came out, dragging a wounded legionary with another man's arm over his shoulder. More followed, some coughing, others grim. Bodies were dragged out, but mostly alive.
And then came the adventurers — streaked with blood, grinning like lunatics, one of them waving a bent spear with something massive and hairy impaled on it.
"We killed it!" one of them shouted. "Gods, it was huge — bigger than a truck! But we burned it, and it died! Perks, too — a couple of us got one!"
Cheers broke out in the staging line. Legionaries clapped each other's shoulders. Optios let out tired, relieved laughs. Even Carter gave a slight nod.
Harold stepped forward to one of the Optios, eyes searching.
"Any casualties?"
"Three dead. One badly injured, we need to get him back to camp," came the reply. "But everyone else is mostly walking out."
He nodded, "Take this potion and give it to him. I have some on me if we need it."
Harold moved deeper into the den, boots scraping against scorched stone and blood-slick gravel. The air was thick with smoke, the reek of burned flesh, and the copper sting of blood. Shadows danced across the walls, where torches flickered in iron brackets hastily hammered into the stone.
He stepped into the den's central chamber.
The troll's body lay sprawled across the far end of the cavern — a hulking, blackened mass. Its head was gone. The wound smoked where its thick neck had been severed, and fire-blackened bones poked out from cauterized stumps where limbs had been hacked off or burned away.
Standing over it was Sarah, her blade still drawn, shoulders squared. Mira and Theo stood just behind her, dirty, bruised, but alive — and alert. Jace was crouched by the wall, wiping soot from a throwing spear and muttering something under his breath about stupid goblin traps.
They looked triumphant.
Hale stood nearby, hunched slightly, hands on his knees. Sweat streaked down his face, cutting clean lines through the ash and blood. His armor was scratched, and his shield split down the middle, but he was still on his feet. Barely.
Evan was beside him, one hand gesturing as he talked. Harold caught the end of it as he stepped closer.
"—came in just in time," Evan said. "Your boys were holding the line, but it was turning. This space is too tight. Too many bodies in the way. When we came up from the rear, it split its focus. That gave your front line enough room to work."
Hale straightened slowly, nodding. His voice was low and hoarse. "Thanks. We would've lost a squad in there without your push. Your teams saved them. I won't forget that."
Harold stepped into the torchlight. "Neither will I."
They turned as he approached. Hale gave a short nod. Sarah flicked the blood off her sword and sheathed it. She didn't smile — but she didn't have to. Her team stood taller in that moment than they ever had.
Harold looked down at the corpse.
The troll was even bigger up close, nearly the size of a carriage, with knotted limbs and skin like tree bark. The stench was choking, scorched hair and seared muscle filling the air. But the worst was the silence, the sheer weight of it, now that the roar was gone. Harold bent down, his eyes catching something half-buried in the ground: a shard of its burnt tooth. He picked it up, its edges still warm, and slipped it into his pocket, a small reminder of the price they had paid.
"Well done," Harold said.
Hale didn't answer at first. He just looked at the body, then at his split shield.
Then he muttered, "Next time, I want more fire. Or a bigger sword."
Harold stared down at the troll's body a moment longer, then turned to Hale and Evan.
"Loot everything we can from this place; the rewards should be substantial," he said, voice flat. "Troll parts sell and craft well, too. If it's not nailed down, we're taking it."
Evan gave a quick nod, but as he looked at Harold, a flicker of concern crossed his face. The relief of survival was tempered by the command's ruthlessness. One of the adventurers groaned at the idea, voicing a rare moment of dissent. Most got to work with grim efficiency, their motives diverging as the spoils would soon reveal.
Harold turned next to Hale.
"You know what to do better than I could tell you, good work."
Hale didn't even argue. Just gave a tired nod and started moving toward the remaining legionaries, already barking new orders as he passed.