Steve stood motionless.
The wind didn't move. The trees didn't rustle. Only his heartbeat echoed in his skull like a war drum, pounding against his ribcage.
His gaze remained locked on the goblins.
They were everywhere—squatting in the open clearing like grotesque dolls forgotten by time. A sea of them, their small bodies hunched and twitching, leathery skin catching the pale glow of moonlight. His breath hitched. Fear strangled his throat, anchoring him in place.
This is too many. Way too many…
Then he saw it.
Fine strands—almost invisible—glinted in the moonlight, stretching down from above and attaching to the heads of some of the goblins.
Strings.
Like those of a puppeteer.
Steve's stomach turned.
From that alone, he understood. This wasn't just a gathering—it was control. Some unseen force was pulling the strings, literally. His eyes widened. Outnumbered… outmatched… I shouldn't be here.
But then—something strange.
