Chapter 7:
Even If It Kills Me
Another day in the training hall. Another day to forget.
They improved, sure—better form, cleaner counters, tighter coordination—but it was never enough. Not against the Hobfolk. They simply had more meat on their bone.
It didn’t make sense why they fought them either. Weren’t hobgoblins just evolved goblins? Weren’t they cousins, maybe even kin? Why were they sparring against each other like enemy factions in a war?
The instructors gave no answer. He only replied that they were Heretics. Very precise, guys.
He kicked a stone along the dry path. Pimya jumped.
“Sorry,” Tollia muttered.
Pimya gave a quick nod, eyes on the stone. Neither said a word as they kept walking.
Still, today hadn’t been a total wash in the Simulated Training Grounds. They had managed to take down two Hobfolk—cripple them, really—and kill another pair during the first clash. One of them had screamed until his throat collapsed. The other never even made a sound.
But that was the problem. They still lost. Overwhelmed by coordination at every turn.
He was well-aware he walked a fine line between becoming too important and not important enough—all the while in spite of walking on eggshells they haven’t broken yet.
They were already under a microscope; if they let them believe that Batch Thirteen was a simple fluke for just a second… if they wanted to keep their head down, that ship has well and truly sailed.
Only way Tollia could tell the time was how many full moons had passed. Between the endless cycle of fieldwork, training, and the meagre sustenance milked from the Breasts, there was little left in the day for anything but sleep. Sleep was particularly important. Sleep was when your flesh gained mass, and you became more useful.
Overall, life for his Batch had been cyclical. That was, until the day right after the ninth full moon had passed, and two since he pleaded Griznar for parlay.
So Griznar made good on his word after all…
The program had clearly changed. Though goblinkind were, by and large, morphological—when you saw the same faces day in, day out, it was easy to spot newcomers regardless.
One became some, some became many. Soon enough, he counted thousands upon thousands of his kind in the same courtyard.
Tol hadn’t meant to drift. He just… ended up there. Wandering off from the usual routes, his legs dragging beneath him, muscles still sore from the failed sim. Something tugged at his gut—call it curiosity, call it stupid goblin instinct—but it led him to the far edge of the barracks where the other batches mingled between drills.
That’s where he saw her. Sharp posture. Scar across her nose. Eyes that made you feel like you’d done something wrong just by existing near her. She didn’t bark orders, didn’t puff up her chest like the other self-proclaimed "alphas" did. But they listened. When she moved, the others followed. When she stopped, so did they.
A leader, no doubt about it.
Tol approached slow. No sudden movements. His gait uneven, still favouring the leg he’d banged in the trees. She clocked him instantly.
“What do you want?” The voice hit him like a stone wall.
“I just…” Tol gestured vaguely. “Wanted to talk.”
“You’re Tollia.”
Not a question. A fact.
He nodded anyway. “Yeah.”
She scoffed and turned her back on him. “Then I really don’t want to talk.”
“Wait—”
“I don’t do messiahs.”
He blinked.
She turned again, facing him full-on now. “You think they haven’t been watching? You think the moment someone shows the tiniest edge, they won’t throw us all into the grinder just to see what sticks?”
Tol stared.
“I’m not asking anyone to die for me.”
“Don’t matter. You just being here’s enough.” She leaned in, words quiet now. “Word’s spreading. About the Steward talk.”
“I wish they stopped.”
“Then you aren’t trying hard enough.”
“You think I am doing this on purpose?”
“You can start by shutting up more. Stop winning.”
“I can’t do—”
“What can’t you do, huh? Tell me. I’d like to know what’s so hard about keeping your head down.”
"The expectations."
She rolled her eyes. "What expectations? From who? Orcs looking to take credit for your talent?"
"It’s not like I had a choice. An elf’s taken interest in me—if I fail her now, I’m done. My batch is done."
"So be it. Meanwhile, whole other batches are being marched into a war they can’t win. All because of they are next to a wonderboy by proxy." She sneered. "There’s always a choice. And whether you like it or not, whether you want to keep lying to yourself—you want to make friends with the people upstairs. That’s your mistake."
"And you know everyone’s intentions now? Oh, worldly sage. Tell me, how much have you actually seen…?"
He paused. The muscle tone. The slightly too-long ear. She was older than him.
"What’s someone like you doing back here? Care to expand?"
At that, she looked away. "I was born early. Undercooked. Had to grow out of it. So I am still here. That’s all."
But it wasn’t, clearly. He could hear it in the way she clipped her tone. She was lying, or at least hiding something. Spy? Maybe. But if so—why sink this low? Unless…
"That’s besides the point," she cut in, slicing through his thoughts, "you realize there are goblins trying to copy you? They’re dying, tortured, punished. Dropping like flies because of—"
"I know!"
It was obvious to him as any what the trade-off was when he started doing his antics, back when the epidemic was spreading. But people were—
“—going to die!”
She flinched. Even in the chaos of the clearing, quite a few stared at the scene.
That’s when Pimya stepped in. Panting. He’d clearly been running. His chest rose and fell quickly, sweat beading his brow. His eyes darted between the two of them.
"I finally found you!" he blurted, placing himself between them instinctively. "Don’t yell at him—he didn’t wander off to cause trouble!"
He turned his head to Tollia, speaking a little softer. "You just disappeared. Again. I was worried."
Tollia didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at the dirt between his bare feet.
Pimya planted his feet wider, lifting his chin toward Rika with more bravery than sense. "He trying his best. More than most."
Rika looked at the little goblin. Blinked. Then let out a dry chuckle—cold and bitter.
"Let’s see how many of us they can kill now, huh?" she muttered, already walking away. “Just remember you can’t have things both ways.”
He was about to reply with something equally scathing when a voice bellow in front of them.
"ATTENTION!!"
In all the mingling, Tollia was too short to realize a stage had been erected in the court.
And who else but Griznar to step up to the fray to give the speech. More high-ranking looking officials stepped up to the plate as well.
"FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, FOR A SELECT FEW OF YOU, THINGS WILL CHANGE. SOME OF YOU MAY THINK IT IS TOO MUCH. SOME MAY BURN. AND INDEED, YOU WILL BURN—BUT YOU WILL BURN VERY BRIGHTLY."
Then just as suddenly—orcs.
Flanking the crowd from all sides. Closing in faster and faster, some pushing goblins so harshly they fell onto the wet mud.
Squawking filled the air.
Sweat started to beat on Tollia's forehead. Pimya made to grab his head.
This was getting out of control.
What was Griznar doing?!
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