Chapter Text
The summer morning above the Jura Forest was warm but not yet stifling— the kind of golden light that seemed to paint everything with a faint shimmer of life.
The fortress’s high battlements drank in the sun— their weathered stones softened by moss and years of reclamation— while the dense emerald canopy below rippled with birdsong and the faint hiss of cicadas beginning their daily chorus. Upon the parapet above the iron gate, the blond pair of twins stood together— one with her shoulders squared and hands resting with casual boldness on her hips, the other shifting from foot to foot as his fingers tightened around the polished length of his wooden staff.
Dark Elf Ranger leaned forward slightly, with her thumb hooking toward the distant road. “If we weren’t expecting them, Mare,” she murmured with a grin tugging at her lips, “I’d have thought they were an invading army marching straight down our throat.”
Her brother flushed lightly at her words, giving the kind of shy smile that never quite reached his eyes. He adjusted the hem of his white skirt nervously— his soft cheeks coloring as he answered in his hushed, uncertain way. “I– I don’t think it would be easy to mistake them for an army. They don’t… Carry themselves like soldiers.”
That earned him an arched brow from Dark Elf Ranger, who crossed her arms over the front of her white vest— her expression blooming into a smug challenge. “Oh yeah? Then tell me, Mare. What would you have thought, looking out from these walls, seeing that wave of thousands moving in step like that— if you didn’t know they were with the Builders’ Guild?”
Dark Elf Warden’s lips trembled as he considered— his mismatched eyes drawn again to the column of men and women winding steadily toward the fortress, with their banners rippling like streams of color among the dust. “… I would have thought…” he began, clutching his staff tighter, “that they were tradesmen hired by the King. Maybe to build better roads. Or… Perhaps even a highway.”
His sister’s laugh burst out like a bark— loud and delighted— echoing off the battlements. She slapped her thigh— her mismatched eyes glittering with amusement. “A highway?! With what money, Mare?! Uther’s still broke after that war gutted him. He can barely feed his garrison, let alone pave the middle of bum-fuck nowhere!”
Dark Elf Warden winced at her teasing but hummed softly, conceding without complaint. Yet his brow furrowed faintly as another thought slipped through. “But then… If that’s true, then how could the Mages’ Association afford to pay Ren all that money for turning in Cielle’s tesseract?” His voice carried more sincerity than defiance; spoken like a child asking a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.
Dark Elf Ranger’s grin faltered— her smug veneer cracking, as her gloved hand rose to her chin. Her mismatched gaze scanned back and forth, following the caravan’s march as though the answer might be hidden among the dust plumes.
She snapped her fingers suddenly, with her mismatched eyes brightening. “… Because the Mages’ Association has been around since the first civilization, Mare. Back when Primordials and Aboleths were tearing chunks out of each other, while Dragons set the skies on fire. And who was it that built the foundation? Us. Dark elves. While high elves were still busy hammering nails into treehouses and squabbling with mountain midgets, it was our people who were getting things done. It was us who saved the world first.”
Her brother flinched at the boast, while shifting in place— his chubby hands nervously worrying at the hem of his sleeve. “I–I think there was a lot more to it than that…” He murmured— voice trailing like a leaf on the wind.
She waved her hand dismissively, as though brushing his protest aside. “That’s not the point. The point, Mare, is that the Mages’ Association has been around for a very, very, very long time. Currency’s beneath them. They’ve got ties with every major noble house and every powerful organization in Feyrun— probably across the whole world, if we’re being realistic.”
Dark Elf Warden hesitated— chewing his lip as he considered her words. “D-Do you think they’re good people, then?” He asked softly. “Or… Do they keep dark secrets, hidden behind all that power?”
Dark Elf Ranger tilted her head— her smirk returning, as she leaned her elbow onto the crenelation. “Neither, if you ask me. They’re not saints, and they’re not demons. They’re just the kind of people who benefit themselves first and foremost. My bet? They’re more interested in keeping the status quo than anything else.”
Dark Elf Warden’s shy eyes flicked toward her, uncertain, before dropping to the ground beneath their feet. “But… Doesn’t that make them our enemy then? Because the Ashta Accord’s whole purpose is… Is to change the status quo?” His words were soft— almost swallowed by the sound of the caravan nearing the gates— yet they carried weight enough to silence her swagger.
Her grin faded— her mouth pulling into a thoughtful line as she regarded him with narrowed eyes. For once, her brother’s timid observation had cut to the heart of the matter, and she had no immediate quip to answer it.
Dark Elf Ranger let the thought linger between them before finally forcing a crooked grin— shaking her head. “Well… That’s a problem for future us, if it’s a problem at all. No sense breaking our backs over it now, is there?”
The blond tomboy then clapped her hands together sharply— the sound jolting the tension from the air. Straightening, she stretched her arms wide, then gestured toward the gate beneath them. “Come on, Mare. We’d better get this shit started before our guests wear holes in the road.”
Dark Elf Warden then followed reluctantly, staff clutched close to his chest, while she strode forward with all the brash confidence in the world, the sun gilding her golden hair as the caravan drew ever closer.
The Westmarch Highway stretched far and straight beneath the morning sun— its cobbled stones glinting faintly between the shadows of passing clouds.
On either side, the meadows rolled in soft waves of green and gold, painted with wildflowers bowing under a gentle breeze. The capital’s outer walls— Caladorn’s massive teeth of white stone— were already a pale smudge behind him, swallowed by distance.
Haru’s hooves struck in even rhythm— sparks leaping now and again as the black mare weaved deftly through wagon trains and mounted riders. Carts heavy with timber, wagons laden with sacks of wheat, and small caravans of traders gave way as Goblin Slayer urged his horse forward.
His gloved hands adjusted with practiced ease upon the reins— his posture neither proud nor boastful but balanced, intent, wholly alive in the moment.
The ashen-haired teen was clad in his set of armor— his iron helmet gleaming dully in the sun, with its red plume trailing behind with each gallop. Beneath, his black gambeson was layered over chainmail, dark leather plates strapped snug across his frame, and a high leather gorget whose collar sprouted black feathers like a crow’s mantle.
Dust curled around him as he rode, yet his movements were steady, as though he and Haru were a single creature.
From deep within his soul, a quiet hum stirred— an almost bemused sound. The Great Sage’s voice followed, monotone but faintly pleased— her even cadence as inevitable as breath.
“You are in a good mood today, Ashta.”
A small laugh touched his lips beneath the helmet, his voice in reply soft and warm, carrying the gentle mannerisms of a boy who hadn’t yet forgotten kindness. ‘Why wouldn’t I be, Cielle?’
He leaned back slightly in the saddle— reins drawn with care as Haru skirted a slow-moving hay wagon. ‘I mean, last night with Sarah? It felt right. Better than I imagined it could be.’
“I am aware.”
His laugh escaped him again, awkward but happy— his shoulders shaking beneath the weight of leather and mail. ‘Yeah, and then afterwards you told me something even better. In nine months, I’ll be a father… And that eventually I’ll have my own afterlife to give to whomever I choose.’
The thought alone made his chest swell, and he let the words linger with quiet awe. ‘That’s the best news I’ve ever heard so far, Cielle.’
Her voice, though steady, carried a trace of caution. “You must remember that you cannot enter such an afterlife yourself. Your nature is bound to higher-dimensional strata. You will not dwell there with them.”
The teen tilted his head against the wind— plume fluttering behind— his reply steady and undeterred. ‘I know. I’m half fourth-dimensional, or whatever you call it. But that doesn’t change how good it feels to know my loved ones will be insured.’
His hands tightened gently on the reins, guiding Haru as she slipped between two traders’ wagons— the mare’s muscles rippling beneath him. ‘Say, Cielle— do you think I could bring my sister there too? My family? When it’s time? They deserve more than what the gods allow.’
There was the faintest pause, not of doubt but of calculation. “It should not be difficult to transfer souls into a domain of your making. Provided, of course, you are not opposed to the possibility that it will necessitate slaying the Supreme God.”
The words hung in the air as birds scattered from a hedgerow, startled by Haru’s gallop. The teen hummed softly— contemplative rather than alarmed— his tone gentle but tinged with irony. ‘Slay Supreme God, huh?’ His voice held no bravado, only quiet curiosity. ‘It’s not like Supreme God’s ever done anything for me, has he?’
“No, he hasn’t.”
The morning stretched into afternoon as Goblin Slayer pressed onward down the Westmarch Highway— the steady rhythm of Haru’s hooves carrying him farther west with each passing league.
The sun climbed high, then softened into the long slant of early afternoon light, but the black mare showed little sign of wear. Her gait never faltered, her trot smooth and unyielding— her breath rising in a steady plume that outshone every other beast upon the road.
Traders urged their draft horses aside as she swept past— wagons creaking and groaning in her wake— while riders on palfreys and destriers alike could only marvel at her stamina. Eight hours into the journey, the mare still moved as though she had just left the capital gates— her muscles taut with tireless energy.
Yet amid that ceaseless motion, the quiet voice of the Great Sage stirred within his soul— her calm words drawing his gaze to the left, where a dirt exit path curved away from the highway’s stone.
“Ashta. Leave the road here. Dalewood lies ahead. We’ll stop there to let Haru rest.”
With a gentle tug of the reins, Goblin Slayer guided his mare away from the clamor of wagons and riders, steering her onto the narrow road that wound toward the countryside.
The lane constricted almost at once, hemmed in by hedgerows and split-rail fences, and Haru’s stride shifted to a quieter rhythm— her hooves drumming softly as the highway’s din fell away into the muted sounds of open land.
A flock of crows burst from a fallow field, black wings scattering against the pale light, while far off a shepherd’s dog barked once and fell silent.
Goblin Slayer adjusted his seat in the saddle, letting the tension of the main road slip from his shoulders as the mare carried him deeper along the rural track.
The hum of commerce and chatter faded behind him, replaced by a wide hush beneath a soft blue sky. The earth road here was firm but unassuming, worn smooth by farm carts instead of caravans.
For the next two kilometers the world resolved into gentle farmland: rows of wheat rippling like golden water, apple orchards heavy with fruit, and fields where scarecrows kept patient watch above budding beans and cabbages.
Farmers bent their backs in the soil, with their children darting between rows with laughter like sparrows’ song. Chickens scattered in puffs of dust when Haru’s hooves trotted past, and the occasional dog barked from behind wooden fences, its tail wagging despite its noise.
The air smelled of tilled earth and cut hay, mingling with the distant sweetness of honeysuckle growing wild along the ditches.
At last, the farmlands gave way, and the road broadened into the entrance of Dalewood.
The town was modest yet alive— its timber-framed houses leaning close to one another as if for warmth, and their thatched roofs peppered with moss and smoke curling from stone chimneys.
The community’s beating heart was agricultural— wagons laden with grain and produce trundled steadily in and out, bound for markets beyond, while others returned bearing barrels of salt, iron tools, and bundles of cloth.
The steady creak of wheels and the thud of hooves filled the air, mingling with the voices of merchants calling prices and farmers greeting kinfolk.
A pair of leather-clad sellswords lounged near the well with mugs of ale, their blades at rest, while another passed through the crowd with a lute strapped to his back.
Beyond the market square, the smell of hay and horseflesh thickened, and soon the town stables came into view.
The building was long and low— its timber walls dark with years of use, and its roof heavy with bundles of straw. Horses whickered softly within— the sound mingling with the clank of tack and the steady scrape of brushes.
A boy hurried forward to meet him, wiping his hands on his tunic as Goblin Slayer drew Haru to a halt before the stable doors— the mare’s breath steady as if the long ride had been no more than a morning canter.
The ashen-haired teen dismounted slowly, his boots landing on the packed earth with a soft thud, as the quiet hum of Dalewood folded gently around him.
The stable hand’s eyes lit up the moment Goblin Slayer pressed the silver into his palm. “Y–Yes, sir, I’ll take good care of her!” The boy blurted, while stroking Haru’s neck as though she were a creature from a fairy tale.
The mare nickered and lowered her head— patient and proud as the boy led her toward the stalls. Goblin Slayer lingered for a breath, while watching her swish her tail once before disappearing into the dim, hay-scented interior.
Left with empty hands and open time, the ashen-haired teen set out into the rest of Dalewood.
The town unfolded quietly around him— timber-framed houses leaning against one another like old friends. Farmers and their wives glanced up as he passed— their gazes lingering not in fear but in fascination. A child tugged at her mother’s apron, whispering about a man in armor.
“They assume you are a knight, Ashta. The helmet lends such an impression.”
His lips curved faintly beneath the visor— his thoughts answering with quiet amusement. ‘A knight, huh? I don’t think I’d play the part very well.’
“On the contrary,” she replied— her monotone carrying a thread of wryness, “you’d make a fine knight. Though I cannot picture you pledging yourself to some lord’s banner. You are far too… Willful.”
A soft chuckle left him— muffled beneath the helm. ‘Yeah. I think the first time someone ordered me to shine their boots, I’d quit on the spot.’
“That,” she said, “sounds about right.”
Their exchange followed him until the weathered sign of ‘The Golden Horseshoe’ came into view. Its letters were painted in flaking gilt— the wood creaking gently in the breeze. The tavern’s broad windows glowed with lamplight, spilling laughter and music into the street.
The doors then swung wide at his push, and the world within was warm and alive.
Sawdust lay scattered on the floorboards, catching the glow of oil lamps overhead. The scent of roasted meat, pipe smoke, and spilled ale mingled thick in the air. A broad-shouldered man worked the keys of an old organ piano near the corner— its wheeze and clatter underscoring the lilting tune of a band on the far stage.
A woman stood at the front with a battered lute strapped across her body— her voice smooth and wistful, carrying over the hum of conversation. Behind her, a pair of men picked harmonies on fiddle and drum. The name carved onto the stage backdrop read: “Silverwind Company.”
The singer’s voice floated through the tavern like smoke:
“Oh, when the river calls your name,
Do you follow, do you stay the same?
The water runs, it never waits,
It takes your sorrow, it seals your fate…”
The organ gave a low moan as the fiddle joined, weaving sorrow into sweetness. Around him, men leaned on elbows— their voices dropping as they let the song wash over them.
“In the night, when the stars all turn,
I will be the one you yearn.
Carry me— like the autumn rain,
Dreams will find you, and heal your pain…”
Goblin Slayer slowed— his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. Through the narrow visor slits, his eyes found the stage— held there by the mournful beauty of the melody.
‘I half-expected a place like this to be filled with smoke, burlesque dancers, and drunks throwing punches,’ he admitted inwardly.
“Dalewood is nothing of the sort,” The Great Sage replied. “It is family-oriented, business-oriented. Any who disturb that peace are dealt with swiftly by the militia. As you will undoubtedly come to find out.”
He hummed— a faint breath of sound. ‘That sounds rather ominous, Cielle.’
His hands rose toward the back of his neck. Leather creaked as he unfastened the buckle beneath his collar. With a soft tug, the weight of the helmet came free. He slid it off carefully, and tucked it beneath his arm.
His ashen hair spilled loose— catching the lamplight in pale strands. Conversation rippled faintly as a few men glanced up at the sight of his uncovered face, but no one challenged him.
He carried himself to the bar, each step unhurried. At the counter, he set the helmet down gently— as though it were something fragile. For a long heartbeat he stood there, fingers brushing the rim, before raising one hand in an awkward— almost shy wave to draw the bartender’s attention.
The man in question was polishing a mug with a rag that had seen better days— his mustache curling neatly at the edges, and his cap tilted in a way that seemed both casual and deliberate.
His striped shirt was rolled at the sleeves, black vest snug against his frame, apron tied neat at the waist. When he noticed the ashen-haired teen at the bar, he set the mug down, smoothed his vest, and strolled over with an easy smile.
“Well now, look at you sittin’ all quiet as a church mouse,” the Bartender said, before patting the countertop with a broad hand before leaning across it. His eyes twinkled, voice carrying a kind of practiced charm. “So, tell me, son— what can I get ya to wet yer whistle, hm?”
Goblin Slayer tilted his head slightly, staring at the man from behind his pale lashes. “… Wet my what?” He asked— the words leaving him low and puzzled, almost swallowed by the din of conversation around them.
“He means your order, Ashta,” the Great Sage explained patiently within him. “A drink. And recall Sarah’s words— no alcohol.”
The corners of his mouth curved faintly, followed by a dry little huff escaping his nose. ‘Yeah… I haven’t forgotten.’
He looked back at the Bartender, scratching at the strap under his chin. “What do you have that isn’t… Alcoholic?”
The man rocked back, rubbing his chin with the rag still in hand. “Ahh, figures,” he said, letting out a low hum as his brow lifted. “A boy your age, I wouldn’t expect you to go near the hard stuff anyhow.” He mused, as he tapped the counter with two fingers, then gestured lightly at the iron helmet sitting beside him. “Though, I gotta ask… Why ain’t you in school right now? Still look like you oughta be hittin’ the books, not hittin’ the road.”
Goblin Slayer hesitated— his gaze lowering a moment. “… My sister used to be a teacher; she’d probably ask me the same thing,” he said softly, almost absently. A shadow flickered in his eyes, though he forced it away with a small smile. “But anyway, I’m… Occupied right now. But when things are settled, I’d like to study again— go back to learning.”
“Admirable,” the Great Sage murmured with the faintest note of pride. “Speaking of which, we should establish a school in Jura once stability is secured. Reshape the youth, provide knowledge directly from me, without distortion. Until then, I will continue to teach you everything you require.”
The Bartender’s brow arched as he let out a slow whistle. He pushed up from the counter— hands settling on his hips as he regarded the boy. “Now that’s somethin’ you don’t hear every day. Can’t say I ever met a lad wantin’ books more than a life on the road.” He chuckled, shaking his head, then bent down behind the counter— shuffling through a drawer.
“… So then,” the Bartender continued— voice warm, “what’s so blasted important it’s keepin’ ya outta school, eh?” He asked, while still rifling through the drawer. “Gotta be somethin’ worth hearin’ about.”
Goblin Slayer glanced at him— quiet for a long beat.
‘Do I tell him about the Ashta Accord? About the Guild, about everything? No— that’s too much for a passing conversation.’
His fingers drummed once against the edge of the menu before he gave the simplest truth.
“… I’m trying to get rid of all the evil in the world.”
The Bartender froze halfway through pulling out a folded sheet, then barked out a laugh that rolled like a barroom piano chord. “Ho! Now that’s a tall order, son.” He grinned, before shaking his head in disbelief— though his tone carried no malice. “Reachin’ for the stars, eh? I like that spirit, even if it’s plain impossible.”
Goblin Slayer’s lips curved faintly— his voice steady but firm. “Reaching for the stars is never wasted. Even if you miss, you’ll land higher than where you started.”
The laughter faded from the Bartender’s face. He leaned an elbow on the counter— studying the boy’s crimson eyes. After a moment, he nodded slowly as he handed the ashen-haired a menu. “…That’s… Not bad. Not bad at all.” He said quietly, as a smile tugged back at his mustache. “Maybe you got somethin’ in that head after all.”
Goblin Slayer gave a small shrug, as though to brush off the compliment.
“Well, hell,” the man said, clapping his hands together. “If you’re in the business of doin’ good, maybe you’d like t’ do some of it right here in Dalewood, eh?”
That made the ashen-haired teen tilt his head. “… What do you mean?”
“One sec.” The Bartender crouched again, rummaging noisily through the drawer. “Got somethin’ else here…” Papers shuffled— wood creaked. “… Say, ya figure out what you’re drinkin’, lad?”
Goblin Slayer blinked, before staring down at the menu he hadn’t touched since being handed it. ‘Oh… Right. The drink.’
“Order the sarsaparilla. It is appropriate.”
‘What even is that?’
“A root-based tonic. You’ll like it— trust me.”
Goblin Slayer cleared his throat. “I’ll… Have a glass of sarsaparilla.”
The Bartender froze mid-rustle. His head popped up, brows climbing. Then a grin split his face. “Well, I’ll be damned… You been in Dalewood before?”
Goblin Slayer shook his head. “… No, I haven’t.”
The Bartender chuckled, before setting a poster aside and wagging a finger at him. “Then you musta heard it through word of mouth, eh? That’s my own recipe, y’see. Brewed it up myself. And lemme tell ya, once I get a proper investor, this stuff’s gonna be the next big thing from here to the coasts.”
Goblin Slayer nodded faintly, tone earnest. “Then I’m eager to try it.”
That lit the man up like a lantern. “Now that’s what I like t’ hear!” He slapped the poster onto the counter and stood— mustache twitching with pride. “One glass o’ iced sarsaparilla comin’ right up!” He boomed, before hustling off toward the back with the rag thrown over his shoulder.
Left alone, Goblin Slayer reached for the poster. He unfolded it— eyes narrowing slightly as he took it in.
Bold letters sprawled across the top: “I Want You.” The drawing beneath showed a smiling blonde in a ten-gallon hat— her ample cleavage spilling out of her top, as she pointed straight at the viewer. The words at the bottom read: “To Keep Dalewood Safe!”
“Hmm. A recruitment flyer. It is issued by the militia captain— her name is Captain Ashe Ruby, a respected woman around these parts. According to the text, they are gathering at the town hall in several hours to form a hunting party, bound for a bandit camp two hours north.”
Goblin Slayer traced the sharp lines of the woman’s smile with his eyes, mildly curious. ‘Bandits… So pretty much goblins, then?’
“Correct. The notice encourages firearms— matchlocks, muskets. It warns of five hundred armed men raiding merchants and even trained platoons. They’re well-organized, well-supplied, and dangerous. Nothing we can’t handle ourselves, truthfully.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the paper. ‘Think we’ve got time for it?’
“If Haru rests eight hours, she will easily cover another hundred kilometers before needing to rest. There is no risk of delay. Besides— coin will be required. A room for the night is not free, and we’re working with limited funds— as is.”
Goblin Slayer gave the faintest nod, fingers brushing the rim of the poster. ‘Then it looks like we’ve got something productive to fill our time with, after all.’
The Bartender then returned in a flourish— his apron swaying, with a chilled glass in his hand. He set it down with pride— dark fizz swirling over clinking ice. “One sarsaparilla! Finest drink you’ll ever put in yer belly, boy.”
Goblin Slayer raised the glass beneath his helmet and took a tentative sip. The sweetness hit hard, syrupy and sharp. His brows pinched, as he drew the cup back— almost wincing.
The Bartender barked a laugh, as he pointed at him with a thick finger. “Ha! First sip’ll knock ya sideways, sure as Godsday! But go again— trust me. She’s smoother the second time.”
The ashen-haired stared at the glass for a moment. Then, as if testing the Bartender’s faith, he lifted it once more.
The fizz touched his lips— this time softer, the sweetness carried by the cold. Another sip followed. Then another. His shoulders eased just slightly, as the corner of his mouth tugged upward.
‘Better,’ he thought, with the faintest warmth curling in his chest.
The Bartender slapped the counter, booming with delight. “Yeehaw! There it is! Knew ya had a sweet tooth, boy!”
Goblin Slayer set the glass down carefully. His crimson eyes drifted back to the poster— mind sharpening into lines of strategy. ‘… Five-hundred more souls to cleanse and claim— right, Cielle?’
By five o’clock, Dalewood’s square had become a living arsenal.
Horses stamped at the packed dirt, snorting plumes of steam into the cooling air. Harnesses creaked; powder horns clinked like muted bells.
The smell of hay, sweat, and black powder mixed with the tang of oiled steel. Muskets rested across saddles, while flintlocks glinted at men’s thighs. A hand-axe swung loose at one man’s hip; another’s vest gleamed with a row of hunting knives.
Through the noise came bootsteps— measured, and deliberate. Goblin Slayer walked the gravel path— the red plume on his iron helmet catching the dying fire of the sun.
Conversations dulled as heads turned.
“… Where’s his horse?” Someone muttered— low but sharp.
“Hell’s he s’posed to do without a mount?” Another asked, louder.
“Who even called the Guild?”
Then laughter cracked when a younger voice called from the back: “Man brought a sword t’ a gunfight! Bet he’ll be the first one to get shot!”
The sound rippled— nervous, brittle.
Goblin Slayer didn’t slow. His gait stayed steady, and his shoulders remained squared— as though their words skimmed off his armor.
At the front of the assembly, mounted high in a saddle, a woman watched him come.
Her dark skin bore the bronze of years in sun and battle; her braids, streaked black and silver, caught the breeze. Scars lined her face, each one an old story. A beige shirt clung to the muscles in her arms— sleeves rolled, and leather vest strapped overtop. The bronze star on her ample chest gleamed.
She didn’t just command attention— she demanded it.
When he stopped at the foot of the crowd, her brow arched. Her voice cracked out like a whip— smooth and sharp. “Well, well. Don’t recall sendin’ word to them pencil-pushin’ paper boys down at the Adventurers’ Guild.” Her lip curled, as her men chuckled on cue.
The ashen-haired teen then lifted his head slightly. Through the slits of his helmet, his voice came calm, polite. “… I’m Goblin Slayer.” He said, as he touched his leather-bladed chest in a small gesture. “And I’m not part of the Adventurers’ Guild.”
She cocked her head, with one corner of her mouth lifting in a slow, appraising smile. “Mmhm. Then whose flag you flyin’ under, boy? Don’t recognize no helmet-wearin’ wannabe knight struttin’ ’round my town.”
Goblin Slayer kept his voice level— soft enough to be a conversation rather than a challenge. “The kind of flag that isn’t stitched yet.” He said before pausing. “I lead a faction called the Ashta Accord. Our goal is simple: replace evil with good. I intend to do some of that tonight, if you’ll have me.”
A ripple ran through the riders— half skepticism, half amusement. One man barked a laugh; another muttered about preachers and high talk of good and evil.
The captain’s dark eyes flattened on him— the slits of his helmet catching her gaze like a mirror. “You sound like every starry-eyed fool I’ve seen buried in our cemetery,” she said— each word clipped. “That kind of optimism puts suckers in the ground.”
“It hasn’t killed me yet, ma’am.”
A muscle moved in her jaw. “Maybe you just ain’t been tested right.” She challenged, as she leaned forward in the saddle until the leather creaked. “All this talk about a faction— you even got people with you, or you just wandered in thinkin’ your little blade makes you hot shit?”
He considered the question for a heartbeat— the pause deliberate and unfussy. “I do have people,” he said. “Two of them are at my fortress. They’re the only ones fully outfitted for battle right now; the builders started renovations there this morning. Truthfully, Dalewood was only meant to be a stop on my way to Mirthal Hall.”
A low murmur threaded the ranks behind her. She tipped her head— audible skepticism tugging at one corner of her mouth. “So you waltz in here jawin’ about replacin’ evil with good, then tell me you weren’t even plannin’ to be here? We were just convenient for your schedule?” She asked— her voice mixed incredulity with amusement.
The ashen-haired teen met her with an unhurried look. “If that’s how you want to put it, yes. I’m offering to help because it fits my plans. I don’t expect coin. Any spoils we take from the bandits will be sufficient recompense.”
Silence fell for a moment— only the soft creak of harnesses and the horses’ breath filled the square.
Then she barked a laugh that turned into an eye-roll. “So all that ‘replacin’ evil with good’ talk was just noble fluff. You’re in it for yourself, eh?” She retorted, before flicking a hand like she was brushing a fly away. “Whatever. Don’t much matter why you’re here.”
She then leaned in— reins creaking under her grip— and her gaze sharpened until it pinned him. “Now tell me, Goblin Slayer— are you ridin’ with us or you gonna keep yammerin’ and wastin’ my time?”
His answer was immediate and plain, the soft certainty of someone who’d already decided. “I came to help annihilate that bandit camp on the poster.”
“Uh-huh,” she drawled— brown eyes narrowing with a glint like a whetted blade. “Then do me a favor, sugar— tell me where the hell your piece is at.”
Goblin Slayer tilted his head a fraction, the iron plume shifting. “… My piece?”
“She means a firearm.”
A beat of silence passed before he answered plainly. “I… I don’t have one.”
The pause that followed hit heavier than a gunshot.
Mutters rippled through the men; one spat into the dirt. The captain repeated the words slowly— like tasting something sour. “… You don’t have a piece.” Her braids swayed as she leaned in again over her saddle. “Alright then— do you even have a horse to your name?”
“My mare’s in the stable,” Goblin Slayer replied— voice even, though weariness pressed at its edge. “She’ll be fit by eleven tonight.”
That drew another bark of laughter from her— sharp enough to sting. “Boy, how in the gods’ hot sand you plan to ride north without a horse under you?! You walking the whole damn way?!”
His reply came steady— almost mild— yet direct enough to cut through their chuckles. “… Maybe you can give me a ride.”
That shattered the crowd. Hoots and hollers burst out; men doubled over with laughter, while the dark-skinned woman just stared at him— jaw gone slack.
Then her voice cracked like a whip: “BITCH— what makes you think I’d let some half-armed stranger saddle up behind me?! You tryin’ to slow me down, or make me a bigger target?!”
Goblin Slayer raised a gloved hand— the gesture quiet, almost soothing. “Then let me off before the camp,” he said, with certainty in his calm voice. “I’ll move ahead and draw their fire. While they’re focused on me, you and your men can advance unseen. They won’t have time to mount a defense.”
That stalled her. For the first time her laughter died, and her mouth pressed into a hard line.
Murmurs rolled through the ranks— skeptical, but not dismissive. She shifted in her saddle— muttering under her breath, half to herself: “… I wanted to try that… But I didn’t have the grit to order one of my boys to walk into certain death…”
Then she snapped her gaze back to him— eyes sharp but thoughtful. “But you?! You ain’t one of my boys! If you get lit the fuck up, that’s just time bought for the rest of us!”
Her laugh returned— bright and cheery— ringing across the square. She then thrust out a scarred hand. “Welcome to the hunting party, boy! Hope your affairs are in order!”
Goblin Slayer clasped her hand without hesitation— his grip firm but measured. With one smooth yank she hauled him up into the saddle behind her. He settled into place with precise control— his armor’s weight shifting without jostling her seat.
The captain snorted and glanced back over her shoulder— a smile as dangerous as a blade slicing across her face. “And don’t you even get clever back there,” she warned— her voice low and playful with threat. “If I feel your dick pokin’ me where it shouldn’t, I’ll put a hole right through that cheap-ass helmet myself!”
Goblin Slayer’s body tensed for a heartbeat, then relaxed. “… That won’t be an issue, Captain Ruby.”
“Good.” She replied firmly, before turning forward— the bronze star at her large breast catching the last of the light.
Her gaze swept the hundred riders gathered beneath her like a tide smoothed by command, and the restless murmurs fell into a focused hush. She drew breath and let her voice roll through the square like a drumbeat.
“… Alright, listen up!” She called— every syllable a snapped rope. “We ride north on Earlsworth Road until the fork at Red Lock Canyon. From there, we cut Timberwolf Cut— keep the hills at our left. We take Hollow Spur Trail to put us above the canyon floor. By seven, we circle Crimson Mesa and wait.” Her gloved finger jabbed toward the dark smudge of hills on the horizon— precise and final.
Riders shifted in their saddles— checking flintlocks and tightening bandoliers. Powder horns caught the dusk and chimed like dull bells.
She then tilted her head toward the ashen-haired teen— her graying braids brushing her collarbone. “Change o’ plans too,” she announced, with her voice sharpening. “Y’all see this boy ridin’ wit’ me? This here’s Goblin Slayer. He gets close to the camp while we sit half a klick from the entrance. When he makes his move—” she paused— letting the weight of it sink in, “— that’s when you run like hell and storm their lines.”
A jeer rose from somewhere, quick and cutting. “Or he’ll die tryin’!” A voice snickered.
She arched one brow and let a rueful laugh out. “Ain’t that the damn truth,” she said, but steel threaded the amusement. “Whether he gets the job done or goes belly-up, the moment you hear shots, that’s your cue! Ride hard! Don’t dither! Break them gates!”
Her tone turned hot— each word hammered clean. “They been pickin’ off our merchants, burnin’ wagons, shootin’ the king’s boys and slippin’ off into the hills! I’ve been waitin’ on that fat bastard sittin’ his throne to lift a finger— guess that shit’s on me!” She spat into the dust and the sound clipped the air. “But Dalewood’s never been saved by no crown! We feed this kingdom— we plow its fields and fill its granaries— and what do we get?! Thieves at our doorstep and silence from those above!”
A rumble of agreement ran through the militia. She then began pointing at the men one by one— eyes bright in the dim. “If nobody’s gonna save us, we do it ourselves— the way our folks always did…” Her voice softened for barely a beat, then rose into a hymn that was half prayer, half threat. “So who the fuck’s with me tonight?!”
The answer came like thunder— whoops, hollers, the clang of spurs as the hundred riders answered her with a roar that rattled the hall’s windows. Horses pawed and reared— the crowd’s energy snapping into a single living thing. The captain then threw her head back and laughed full and fierce— the sound raw with triumph.
“Hell yeah! That’s what I like to hear, boys!” She barked, while sweeping an arm out in a broad, commanding arc. “Buck up and follow my lead!”
She dug her heels in; her mount surged forward, iron shoes striking sparks from the packed stones. Goblin Slayer moved with the jolt— settling his hands on her hips to steady himself behind her.
The column followed— muskets glinting, powder horns swinging, leather and steel forging a river of motion down the lane.
They cut through Dalewood’s north end beneath cheery faces and waving hands. Merchants, children, and old women lined the street— raising hats and kerchiefs— calling blessings and clapping as they passed.
The sunset rimmed the scene in fire— the captain’s bronze star flashing, the red plume at the stranger’s helm bright in the last light— so for a breath the ragged hunting party looked like something out of a storybook: a ragged army with a fierce heart, pounding north into a gathering dark.
To Be Continued…