Chapter 42 Tragic Family Reunion

We hadn’t been walking long through the muddy paths of the breeding farm when the air shifted. The guards’ sneers faded into background noise, Lyn's poised presence melted away from my awareness. All I could hear was the faintest gasp—a squeaky breath, a tiny hiccup—then the frantic slap-slap-slap of bare feet on dirt.

And then—

“DADAAAA!!!”

A squeal so pure, so impossibly small, tore through the rot-stenched air. Before I could even turn fully, seven tiny, grime-covered bodies launched at my legs with all the force their twig-sized arms could muster.

I nearly fell over from the impact.

They clung to my legs, around waist, all of them sobbing and squeaking with joy. Not one of them stood taller than my knobbly knees. Their skin was dull from hunger, their ribs like little fences under their thin bellies, and yet their eyes… their eyes shone with something impossible in a place like this—pure, overflowing love.

“Dada! You came back! You came back!” one hiccupped through tears.

I froze.

Tears welled up and spilled from my filthy face before I could stop them. I reached down with shaking hands and scooped up the nearest hatchlings, clutching them to my chest like I was afraid the world would snatch them away.

“I thought... I thought I never see you again,” I choked, falling to my knees in the muck, not caring for the filth.

“I been good! I didn’t cry when they yelled! I didn’t even eat the rat, I saved it for you!” squeaked one, offering a squished, moldy rodent from a tattered leaf.

I let out a wheezing laugh between sobs and held them tighter.

Lyn stood nearby, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. For the first time, the full horror of this place weighed on her shoulders. But also... the beauty of that one fragile thing the goblins had managed to hold on to.

Love.

Real love. In the middle of all this ruin and pain, my tiny, broken family still loved me with their whole hearts.

They wiped my tears with their dirty fingers, kissed my cheek, and tucked their tiny heads under my arms like they never wanted to let go.

And neither did I.

Three more hatchlings barreled through the muck toward me, their tiny, skeletal limbs trembling as they ran—if it could even be called that. One limped on a twisted ankle, dragging his foot behind him; another wheezed with every breath, his chest sunken and raw; the smallest stumbled forward with one eye swollen shut, purple and crusted. Each of them bore bruises like medals, their skin patchy with infection and welts from beatings. And yet, they came running—sobbing, shrieking, wailing for their father.

I didn’t move. My legs gave out before they even reached me, and I collapsed into the filth as their tiny arms wrapped around my legs, my neck, whatever they could grab. They clung to me like I was the only light left in a world that had tried its best to snuff them out.

“Dada! You came back,” one whimpered into my chest, “I thought... some said you was dead… no more...”

“I—I’m here. I’m here now.”

“Dada! I didn’t sleep,” the limping one mumbled, voice tiny and cracking. 

“Every night... spiders came. Big ones. Tried to eat me. I screamed but no one came, so I hid under the buckets. It smelled, but it was dark... and the spiders didn’t find me...”

Another hatchling tugged at my arm.

 “They made us fight, Dada. Made us bite each other ‘cause we was too slow gathering sticks. They laughed when I cried, beat us when we didn't do as told. Then they kicked me. Here—look—look!” 

He yanked up the filthy leaf around his ribs, revealing a gaping purple bruise that stretched from his ribs to his back.

I choked, my hands fluttering uselessly over their wounds. I wanted to fix it—wrap them, hold them, make it all go away—but I couldn't. I could only cry with them, holding them as tightly as their beaten bodies would allow.

“I tried to protect the egg,” the smallest one murmured, sniffling hard.

 “The one that didn’t hatch yet... I tried to hide it when the big goblins came. But they stomped it. I held it and they laughed... they laughed, Dada...”

I howled.

A raw, broken noise tore from my throat as I crushed them all against my chest, tears dripping down onto their filthy skin. They didn’t flinch—didn’t move—just pressed into me tighter, tiny hearts hammering against my chest.

Lyn stood just a few feet away, her tail still, ears folded back. She didn’t smile. She didn’t joke. She knelt slowly, quietly beside them. And for the first time, she truly saw it—not just the filth and horror of the goblin camps, but the love too. The impossible love that somehow survived in this pit of nightmares.

One hatchling peeked up at her, blinking his one good eye.

“Is... she nice? Or is she gonna hurt us too?”

Lyn blinked quickly, then shook her head, gently reaching out a hand.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m here ‘cause your Dada fought the world to get back to you.”

The smallest hatchling, no bigger than a small loaf of bread, peeked up at her with wide, watery eyes.

“…Do cat people eat goblins?” he asked in a tiny voice.

Lyn blinked.

 “No. We don't eat goblins. Not hatchlings. Not anyone.”

Another one—missing two fingers—tugged at Lyn’s sleeve, his hand shaking.

“Then why you nice? Why you not like them?”

 “Like who?”

The hatchling looked away, biting his lip.

“The evil goblins…” he whispered.

 “The ones with armor. They come and… and grab us. Hold us down. They don’t care if we cry. They think it’s funny…”

The first one spoke again, voice shaking, eyes still on the ground.

 “One time… I licked a bone. Not much! Just a bit… And they made me kneel in hot coals. For a whole long time. I still got the burn…” He hesitated, then lifted his leg to show a blackened, crusted scar along his calf. It twitched as the wind touched it.

Another chimed in, so soft Lyn had to lean in to hear.

“They made me eat... poop. Their stinking poop. They cooked it on a stick. Said waste not… And then they made me eat… pushed it all down my tiny mow. And then... then... they slapped me across the face to swallow it.”

I shuddered violently, and Lyn reached out without thinking, her fingers gently resting on the hatchling’s back.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

 “You should never have gone through any of that.”

The last hatchling—the one with the bruised ribs—looked up at her suddenly, eyes wide with quiet desperation.

“You’re gonna help us, right?” he asked, voice cracking.

 “You won’t let them take us again? You won’t let them chain Dada again?”

Lyn’s eyes stung, and she nodded.

“No one is ever going to hurt you again,” she said.

 “Not while I’m breathing.”

And something changed in the air. The little hatchlings didn’t smile—didn’t know how anymore—but one of them inched a little closer and pressed his filthy hand to her arm.

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, burying his face into my side again.

And Lyn… Lyn smiled.

Not her usual smug grin. A small, warm one.

The hatchlings clung to my legs, their little bodies trembling with sobs too big for their chests. Their voices were shaky, cracked from crying too long, too often. One of them—a scrawny little thing with a split ear and bruises covering his arms—looked up at me, his face smeared with dirt and dried blood.

“My friend…” he whimpered.

 “They took him. Said he was too weak… said he was useless. They made the others watch when they—when they threw him into the pit, for the hounds.”

My heart felt like it was being torn in two. Another hatchling, barely the size of a large potato, clung tightly to my side and muttered, “They threw us in the small box, the little dark one. Said it was punishment ‘cause we spilled the water. We couldn’t breathe… we scratched and scratched at the walls, but they didn’t open the door ‘til morning.”

Another, missing two fingers, whimpered, “The big one with the bent tusk… he came at night. Said if we made noise, he’d feed us to the rats. But the rats came anyway. They chewed on Brim while he was sleeping… I—I tried to help, Dada. I did. I tried. But they bit me too and I couldn’t…”

He held up his little hand, the pink skin still healing where the rats had torn at him.

“We missed you, Papa…” one of them whispered.

 “We thought you left forever. Thought they killed you too.”

As I knelt to embrace them, my hatchlings clung to me like moss to stone — not letting go, not even for a breath. Their tiny, clawed fingers gripped my skin, burying their snotty, tear-streaked faces into my chest.

Their ribs poked through their soft green skin, eyes sunken with sleepless nights, bruises still fresh and swollen.

“Papa…” the youngest, whimpered, barely louder than a wheeze.

  “They made me clean the spit pit again… the one with the bones… they said I will go on a spit next if I don't.”

He rubbed his face against my shoulder.

  “But it was so hot, burning. My legs stopped working, Papa. I crawled in the dirt like a bug.”

My throat tightened. I kissed the hatchling’s head, barely able to hold back my own tears.

The next one clutched my side. He looked up at me with eyes too old for his age.

  “One night, the big rats came in through the hole. No one helped us. We tried to hide in the straw but one of ‘em bit Littlest. On the foot. He screamed and screamed, and the guards just laughed and threw a boot at us. Littlest doesn’t walk good anymore.”

The third, the oldest — barely knee-height — stepped back, trying to be strong. But his lower lip quivered, betraying his pain. 

“They made me help with the cage pit, Papa,” he muttered. 

“There was another hatchling down there. They said he cried too much. I had to drag him out. He was all soft… like his bones weren’t there anymore… beaten so much.”

I pulled them closer, arms shaking, my breath shallow.