A Complete Unknown

"Just what are you…?"

It was not often that Grisnar Pol'isak found himself baffled by something he had spent years perfecting. The first two years of a goblin's life were a chaotic mess, but Grisnar had it all meticulously noted.

When to begin their combat drills, how to break them down and build them back up, when to squeeze every ounce of potential from their small, wiry bodies. If he was worth the iron rings he bore on his tusks, he had to know the intricacies of goblin life.

Their lives depended on it.

So when something—someone—disrupted that rhythm, Grisnar paid attention.

He fidgeted with his thick, clawed fingers, the surface of his oak desk scarred with gouges from restless moments like this. Leaning back in his chair, he cast a glance at the window. The moon hung low in the summer sky, bathing the camp in pale silver light. The air was warm, thick, and heavy with the drone of flies.

Grisnar swatted irritably at one buzzing too close to his face, muttering under his breath.

His eyes returned to the parchment spread across his desk, though he already knew it held no answers. His frustration only deepened as he skimmed the rows of meticulously tracked notes. Every minute detail of this batch’s lives had been recorded, yet nowhere could he find an explanation for Tollia. 

No record of special training. No sign of anything that could explain his uncanny ability to anticipate chaos before it struck. He had no prior experience in any real battles at all.

Huffing, Grisnar rubbed his swollen eyelids.

If he could replicate whatever made Tollia tick, he might finally whip this batch into shape. Perhaps even enough to earn the begrudging respect of the High Demon King.

But nobody else worked like Tollia. 

Critical thinking, snap decisions, strategic improvisation—these were not traits expected from goblins. They weren’t trained for it, and the gods certainly hadn’t blessed their kind with such gifts. Goblins were meant to be fodder, sent charging into the fray with little more than desperation and the faint hope of catching someone off guard.

So where did it come from? This intuition? This cleverness?

Grisnar grunted. He didn’t want to acknowledge the thought that had crept into his mind, but it lingered nonetheless. Tollia’s peculiarities were too pronounced to ignore.

Could he be a Messenger?

The idea was laughable. Yet the evidence gnawed at him.

With a sharp motion, Grisnar slammed the ledger shut. He rose from his chair, snuffing the flickering flame of the oil lamp beside him. The room plunged into dim twilight, and the warlord exhaled heavily. He didn’t have time for more questions, least of all for the pestering of his own doubts.

His gaze caught on a small enchanted mirror resting on the far side of the desk. Its polished surface gleamed faintly, a gift from his estranged kin. His lips curled into a grimace, and with a curt motion, he turned it face down.

"Tomorrow," he muttered to himself. "Tomorrow, I’ll figure it out."

\\

Their living quarters were little better than a prison cell in Marcus' opinion, but as far as his batch were concerned, this was luxury. 

Individual beds were a rarity among goblin soldiers—usually reserved for the good soldiers, the elite, or simply those favored by the priests of the High Demon King.

Tonight, though, the air felt constricting. Dust danced in the dim glow of enchanted crystals embedded in the walls, a constant reminder of their position within the Demon King’s dominion.

The others shuffled to their beds with heavy steps, exhaustion etched into every movement. They murmured softly among themselves, voices hushed but tinged with an odd mix of pride and anxiety. Their batch’s combat average had outperformed others—a rarity for their kind. It was an achievement, even if it had come at a cost.

The lingering sting of defeat against the Hobfolk hadn’t yet faded. Though they had fought valiantly, the Hobfolk had outmaneuvered them at every turn. By all accounts however, it was an achievement they were all proud of.

For Pimya, though, the mood was hard to celebrate. It was difficult to feel triumphant when his best friend sat slumped in a corner, murmuring to himself with that distant, haunted look. The pressure on Tollia was unbearable. Outmatching three Hobfolk trainees on his own had turned him into something of a legend among the batch—but also a target.

Pimya approached cautiously, brushing his calloused hand over Tol’s arm. The other goblin flinched slightly but turned, his weary eyes meeting Pim’s. Despite the fatigue, there was still something in Pim’s gaze—oh, this was no good.

"Thinking again?"

Tol crossed his arms, his expression grim. "When don’t I?"

"You can tell me. Please tell me."

Pimya slid onto the edge of Tol’s bed, gently stroking his friend’s back. The dejected goblin finally looked at him.

"Was thinking how I screwed up. Big time."

Pimya recoiled slightly. "What? How? We kicked their butts!"

"By giving the commanders a reason to shove us into training we aren’t ready for," Tol muttered. "Don’t you get it? They’re watching us now. Every move, every fight. And it’s not just me—it’s everyone. They’re expecting us to perform miracles, and not everyone is built for that."

Pimya tilted his head. "Don’t think that way. We bruise. We hurt. We mess up. And yet we keep going. 'Glass half full,' right?"

Tol shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That’s exactly it. That’s how they see us. Tools. Blessed by the gods, they say. A gift from the High Demon King, and the Great Gods." His voice turned bitter, teeth gritting. "They’ve accelerated our training because they see us as the chosen. But the gods don’t care what happens to us. We’re fodder in their war—nothing more."

Pimya frowned, his optimism faltering. "But… the Eternal March—isn’t that what we fighting for? To serve the Demon King, to join in eternal halls when we prove ourselves?"

Tol scoffed, his bad leg curling instinctively as if shielding itself from unseen pain. "You really believe that, Pim? That if we charge into the fire long enough, we’ll somehow earn a place beside him? The March is a lie. A pretty lie they tell us to keep us moving forward."

The Eternal March was the core of their faith—the promise that the bravest goblins, those who gave their lives in service to the Demon King, would ascend to his halls and fight beside him in the final war to claim the mortal realm. To question it was heresy, punishable by death.

Pimya shuffled uncomfortably. "But if that’s true… then what’s the point of all this?"

Tol sighed. "That’s the thing, Pim. There isn’t a point. It’s all about power. For them. Not for us."

For a moment, there was silence between them, the weight of Tol’s words hanging in the air. Then Pimya leaned closer, his voice trembling but resolute.

"Then tell me what this is. What you thinking."

Tol hesitated, his fingers twitching nervously. "You’re going to think that I’m crazy."

"I already think you crazy," Pimya replied, smiling faintly. "What’s one more story?"

Tol turned away, his voice barely audible. "Just… leave it, Pim. Please."

Pimya sighed, pulling away reluctantly. The bed creaked under his weight as he stood, casting one last glance at his friend.

"Alright. But you owe me story tomorrow."

Almost like flipping a switch, Tol smiled faintly, his expression softening for the first time in hours.

"Sure."