Vraz leaned over the stone counter, knife sliding through celery in a swift flash of steel. Preparing his ingredients for the meal. He let the dungeon’s agitation from the night before slide off him. Between Strum’s current unconscious state, and the revelation of Wort’s earth mana, Regis had quite a lot on his mind.

  Personally? Vraz didn’t care. So what if Wort used earth mana, did it matter if the lug refused to use it to anyone else’s benefit? Selfish hobgoblins only looked out for themselves. That was the way of the goblin, and contrary to the dungeon’s expectations, Wort held no interest in developing his ‘hidden’ talent for the kitchen. No amount of yelling changed that. 

  Though Wort having access to earth magic put things in perspective, now Vraz suspected that the lazy goblin had been abusing it for quite some time. Using it while farming to allow for more naps. How Wort managed the farm mostly alone never made much sense to Vraz, considering every time he swung by the toad was asleep. It was better if the dungeon focused on Wort for now. 

  The wrapped nightshade cap tucked away in his clothes felt heavy. 

  He let himself sink into the simple act of cutting celery. First, he broke the ribs from the stalk, then a quick chop of top and bottom. Dunking it into a tub of water to clean the dirt, then flipped it onto his cutting board. Then came his favorite part, a nice clean slit down its entire length; he bisected it in one smooth pull of the knife. Another angled cut, to halve the bisected rib. Beautiful.

  A quick toss and the cleaned celery joined the pile. It was a simple garnish for his cooked hare, which he'd get to sear after finishing this task. They weren't making a complicated dish —just thyme and buttered hare. 

  Regis hovered over his shoulder, offering pointers every so often. Vraz knew the dungeon was far more concerned with Strum—emphasized with how often he declared the manager would awake and walk into the kitchen at any moment, despite their current task. Did the dungeon feel the same towards him? If he’d been the one knocked unconscious by Regis’s cooking, would it have the same reaction?

  Before he knew it, Vraz finished the series of dishes and set them on a heated stone. At this point, he’d grown used to lone meal service. Sure, Wort helped now and again, but the majority of the time this responsibility sat squarely on him. 

  Vraz left the kitchen, headed to the janky wooden stall at the entrance to the dungeon's domain. He set a couple of plates down, a quick snort at the crowd of goblins. Like clockwork they arrived, their keen noses picking out when food was coming. As long as Vraz wasn’t busy, they got two meals a day. This dedicated schedule slowly earned more wealth for Regis.

  Change was in the air. Soon they'd make enough essence so that Vraz never had to personally peddle food again. Suited him fine. He’d spent enough of his life watching drooling Shadow-Axe tribe members. It stoked his hate that they craved his food, even if customers enjoying his meals pleased him. He enjoyed bringing pleasure. Hated to bring it to those who’d made his tribe suffer.

  Damn them.

  The stall was rapidly covered with plates, some spilling onto piles on the floor, too many for part of the floor filled with the remaining servings. Vraz sighed, and secured his red bandanna around his head; a warrior prepared for battle. Stern took in the large crowd of goblins. “Come, get your food!” his arms went wide. They didn’t hesitate, pushing forward in a tide of green and ruddy brown flesh. A scrawny one managed to slink to the head of the group, his grubby hand reached for the essence-collecting crystal.

  His customer paid, swaying away on unsteady feet. Losing your essence was a bitch, but without fail, these goblins gladly paid the price. Vraz watched as three bulky hobgoblins halted his customer twenty feet away. He didn’t hear their conversation—far too busy getting another serving ready for his second customer—but he did see the hobgoblins shove the goblin down, and take the food. Vraz clicked his tongue. Not much he could do about that. Bad luck, buddy.

  Strength ruled above all. In this tribe, if a goblin couldn't protect their belongings, then they didn't belong to that goblin. 

  Another goblin served, this one paid with gems, probably stolen from another goblin. The crooked-nosed thief swaggered away, hands full with two plates, seemed crime did pay. Goblin economics at their finest.

  Before this one managed to get very far, he received a similar fate—those brutes jumped out of the shadows and shoved the crooked-nosed goblin to the ground. Yanking his food away, then ran back into hiding. Vraz paused while handing off the essence crystal. Awful hungry today, huh

  The third customer befell the same fate. Mugged. His fourth, fifth—each robbed. They even began to try sprinting different ways after their purchase, only to be run down by the trio of goblins, then jacked of their food. 

  What pissed Vraz off wasn’t watching this shitty tribe take advantage of one another. He expected that. No, what rubbed him the wrong way was watching the hobgoblins not even eating his precious food. They littered the cavern floor, stomping the seared hair into the dirt. Any desperate that tried to eat the dirty meat had their face bashed in. A disgusting display. Worse, his customers slowed after witnessing the continuous beatdowns. Eventually, they refused to buy food. He still had twenty plates now growing cold. 

  These bastards! If not for them, Vraz would already be hauling dishes back to the kitchen—not to mention watching them trash his meals. Vraz frowned. There wasn’t any way around it. 

  He flew into the kitchen—grabbing his chef knife, and ignoring the dungeon’s questioning. Vraz returned to the sight of an empty stall. Broken plates and more food polluted the cavern floor. Many of the goblins that crowded a minute ago dispersed. The three thugs remained, laughing with one another next to a pile of ruined food and broken ceramic. With a jerk, Vraz jabbed the chef knife into the wooden stall. 

  The hobgoblins paid him no mind as he untied the red bandanna from his forehead, taking a second to appreciate it—one of the Rust Moon's colors—before wrapping it around his right hand.

  He yanked the chef knife free, then stalked over to the group of thugs, clearing his throat. “The fuck is the big idea?!” 

  They ceased laughing, their stupid big faces scrunched. Like they didn’t expect a scrawny goblin to confront them. Let alone, a single one to the three of them. But to Vraz—well, it felt invigorating, releasing that pent-up hate. They were bullies used to getting their way, slowly they spread around Vraz. Dumb confusion turned to anger. There was only so much shit Vraz could tolerate from this disgrace of a tribe before he started handing out lessons.

  “Aint supposed to be our job to care about ya.” One of them snorted. “Scrawny little dungeon clinger. Outsider. Go back and cry to ya crystal, before we teach ya a lesson. Tell that mad dungeon ya are done selling.” A fat hobgoblin leaned forward, face inches from Vraz. 

  “What do you get from this? You get a kick outta fucking up my food? Wasting it like that? Is that it? Is this fucking funny to you?”  Vraz asked. They exchanged a look, clearly expecting him to back down. One of them looped behind—blocking the way to the kitchen. As if he’d run. No, there were times a goblin showed their steel. Vraz wasn’t about to let those scumbags walk over him.

  “Rurk said ya need a reminder why ya are here, and who lets ya sell. Now, we were making our point but then ya decided to go and be rude. So, we’ll make sure that ya really understand your lesson. Crawl back to your dungeon, make sure to tell it that you’re closed. As for you outsider? If ya beg Rurk real nice, maybe he’ll get ya a real job after this—something fitting—shit shoveling, maybe. Or just put ya down like the rest of you Rust-Moon corpses.” 

  Vraz nodded his head. Wasn’t exactly the most surprising revelation for who put them up to this. With all the important details noted, there wasn’t any time like the present.

  The wrapped fist snapped forward, crashing into the hobgoblin’s kidney. Despite the difference in size, the viciousness and cheap shot gave Vraz a momentary advantage. They’d expected him to curl up and take a beating. Hell, most goblins did when confronted with Rurk’s brutes. But Vraz? No. 

  Screw with his food, and insult the dead? They needed to pay. Two closed in behind, Vraz shifted grip on the knife. His yellow eyes were wide. A wicked grin painted his face, eager to taste their blood. Come get some, fuckers.

  Strum fully recovered in two days. Waking up to an odd sensation of warmth on his side—shuffling to find Jilde had curled up to him in the cave, somehow carrying him back in after his collapse. Everything felt sore, but the foul taint of the Ward was now gone. Even more, he felt the mana coursing through him. Either his senses perked up, or his body now produced more mana than before. Did those cookies advance his mana generation?

  There wasn't any way for him to know, and the work on the table made it a small priority. He took a couple of minutes to enjoy the feeling of another goblin pressed against him, before leaning over to wake her. A quick conversation and she agreed to watch Yrx and Pox. They both knew Regis needed him, both to attend to outstanding issues, and to take stock of the situation. Then, track down that mirror.

  The way home was peaceful, albeit lonely. He found himself wishing Jilde could be at his side as he returned. Leaving anyone else with those prisoners was counterproductive. Not a single goblin in the tribe was more trustworthy than her.

  When he arrived at the cavern, it felt oddly empty. Not the usual assortment of goblins at the entrance. Still, nothing to worry about, if something major happened, Regis would have harassed him over their bond. Since awakening, their bond felt painfully present, for better or worse he now felt the baseline emotions running through Regis. Currently, it was in a state of annoyance, which didn’t seem out of place. 

  So, rounding the corner to the kitchen caught him by surprise. There was a large crowd of screaming goblins. Strum shoved his way past to see what in the name of the Ground-Father got them so riled.

  A hobgoblin locked Vraz in place from behind, while a second rained blows into his unprotected stomach. Another hobgoblin lay on the ground in a puddle of blood, a chef’s knife stabbed in his gut. Far off to the side, two hobgoblins played a game of chicken with Gikx. The Hero stalked around, trying to slip past them—his obsidian sword-swinging haphazardly, trying to make an opening to Vraz, while they kept getting in his way but refusing to get close to the edge of the blade.

  What in the name of the Ground-Father?!

  The crowd cried for blood. They loved a good power struggle, and most knew that this scuffle meant far more than a simple brawl. Regis and Rurk waged a war of influence—word of whoever won this fight would spread all across the tribe, swaying the opinion of the common goblin. 

  If I’d waited any longer…

  Strum shoved goblins aside, two hobgoblins blocking Gikx shouted in alarm. One raced over to block him. Annoying. How dare they attempt to block me? Strum blinked in sudden shock at that thought. That… wasn’t him? He shook his head, pushing outward and letting that new sensation of mana flow from his core to his fingertips. Much easier to direct, now. A gout of flame splashed into the air—causing the goblins around him to scramble over each other to flee. The hobgoblin that had been heading his way got caught by a lick of flame, it screamed and rolled on the floor as its leather armor caught aflame.  

  The idiot holding Vraz warned his fist flinging, partner. Too slow. Strum leaped across the ground, his fingers catching the hobgoblin brute’s shoulder.

  Power flooded him, intoxicating. How different was he now, with this transformation? How had it taken so long to realize? With lackluster effort, Strum shoved the brute, causing him to fly away.

  The hobgoblin tumbled over the ground, smashing across the cavern floor with a shriek. Strum raised an eyebrow at the hobgoblin holding Vraz. “Gather your friends, and run, impudent fool.” Strum jerked his head towards the hobgoblin bleeding out on the ground.

  With wide eyes, the fool dropped Vraz, then ran off, not bothering to help the bleeder. “Fucker,” Vraz spat out at the retreating form. Pushing himself up.

  Gikx forced his way past the remaining guard, a loud scream and a swipe cleaving into the last hobgoblin’s ear—then that one left too, leaving three wounded on the ground. 

  “Grab Vraz, drag him to the kitchen,” Strum commanded Gikx, eyes darting to the gathered crowd of goblins, they shouted for fire and blood.

  “Gikx bring to dungeon!” Gikx grabbed Vraz roughly, shoving him to his feet and offering support with his shoulder, the two limped away. Leaving Strum with the three wounded hobgoblins and the crowd. He set his chin higher, taking in the Shadow-Axe tribe, listening to the retreating steps of his allies.

  Once they were gone, Strum’s hands shot out, fingertips spread. Mana rampaged through his veins, loosening as much as he dared. Gouts of red hot flame pillared away from his fingertips, a flash of light and heat enough to sear flesh. “This is real power!” he screamed, watching goblins gasp and shy away. They would remember this, Strum felt certain. 

  Without looking on the pathetic goblins anymore—or bothering to deal with Rurk’s wounded troops, he turned on his heel and walked towards the kitchen. 

  He marveled over his thoughts, a sickening feeling in his gut. Was this really the best route? Had he been a fool to challenge the chieftain with pure power? Sure, goblins bowed to the powerful. Rurk rose in that way. But such methods, they weren’t him. What drove him to act so rashly, so heated?