A Complete Unknown

Their living quarters were little better than a prison cell in Tollia's opinion, but as far as his batch were concerned, this was luxury. He got back as quickly as he could after the trip to the infirmary.

Individual beds were a rarity among Stewards—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 like that. We bruise, we fall, we mess up—but we get up again, right? Glass half full?”

Tol shook his head slowly, voice dropping to a low whisper. “That’s the problem. That’s how they want us to think. Tools. Blessed by the gods, chosen by the Demon King. They say it like it’s a gift.”

He clenched his jaw. “But the truth is, they’ve sped up our training because they think we’re expendable. Chosen? Maybe. But only to die faster.”

Pimya’s grin faltered. “But… the Eternal March. That’s what we fight for, isn’t it? To serve the King and earn a place in the great halls one day…”

Tol let out a dry laugh, bitter. His leg shifted, curling inward, a reflex against pain—physical or otherwise. “You really believe that? That if we throw ourselves into enough fire, we’ll get a reward at the end? The March is a story. Something they tell us so we’ll keep marching.”

The Eternal March was everything they were raised on. A promise that the bravest goblins—those who died in service—would ascend to fight beside the Demon King in some final, glorious battle. Questioning it out loud could get you killed.

Pimya looked down, toe dragging through the dirt. “But if that’s not real… then why are we doing any of this?”

Tol let the silence hang for a moment.

“Because it’s not about us,” he finally said. “It never was. It’s about keeping the powerful in power. That’s all.”

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."

Silence only lasted a little while.

“By the by…”

Pimya shuffled. “Yes?”

“I think I am comfortable with the name Tollia now.”

Pimya beamed despite how tired he felt. “Good night, Tollia.”

\\

It was not often that Griznar Pol'isak found himself baffled by something he had spent years perfecting. The first two years of a goblin’s life were chaotic, yes—but calculated chaos. He had mapped it all. Every tantrum, every growth spurt, every moment when the sinew overtook the bone and a grunt became a fighter.

He knew when to start combat drills. When to break them down. When to rebuild. When to extract every last usable drop from their wiry frames. If he was worth the iron rings strung through his tusks, he had to know these rhythms like breath itself.

Their lives depended on it.

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

He fidgeted with his clawed fingers as he hunched over his desk, the thick oak scarred from years of restless thinking. Moonlight spilled through the small window behind him, casting the war maps and batch reports in a cool, silver hue. Outside, the camp simmered in a heavy hush—thick air, groaning wood, the low murmur of guards on the night shift.

And the flies. Gods, the flies.

Griznar swatted irritably at one buzzing too close, letting out a low growl under his breath.

He dropped his gaze to the parchment again. Nothing had changed. Same rows of notes, same metrics, same exhausting lack of answers. Every cough, every fight, every sparring match was documented. And yet—nothing could explain Tollia.

No special training. No covert oversight. Nothing.

And yet… strategic improvisation. Anticipation. Insight. He wasn’t just surviving—he was learning. Applying. Adapting. All at the tender age of a precious few moons.

Griznar rubbed the heel of his hand into his brow, his thoughts beginning to churn too quickly. If he could replicate it—if he could find what made Tollia different—it could change everything. A batch that thinks could turn the tide of this miserable campaign. It might even earn him an audience with the High Demon King himself. Then he can finally air out his grievances as to exactly what this army of theirs needed.

But no one else in the batch worked like that. No one even came close.

The thought slithered back again: Steward gene.

Absurd.

And yet… how else to explain him?

With a grunt, Griznar shoved back from the desk and slammed the ledger closed. He moved to snuff the lamp. The flame died, casting the room into a murky half-dark. He could still see the faint glint of the enchanted mirror—face down, as always—near the corner of the desk. A gift from his estranged brother. A political tool disguised as sentiment.

He reached for it, as if to move it away entirely… but paused.

A small shape, maybe the size of a thimble, skittered across the edge of the mirror and vanished behind a stack of scrolls.

Griznar blinked.

A beetle?

No. Not quite. Its carapace shimmered slightly, like glass catching candlelight, and its movement was too smooth—too intentional. It left no trail of dust disturbed.

He frowned and peered after it for a moment longer, but it was gone.

He exhaled through his nose, waving the thought away.

He turned back to the desk. Picked up the ledger. Tried to focus.

But behind the scrolls, the insect sat motionless. Its tiny thorax pulsed faintly with pale green light.