The roar rolled through the cavern like thunder, shaking the stone beneath Xavier's boots. It was not the shriek of a goblin, nor the chant of their shamans—it was deeper, heavier, a sound that carried weight and command. The swarm froze mid‑charge, their frenzy collapsing into silence. Even the drums faltered, their rhythm breaking as fear rippled through the horde.
"I don't like where this is going," Lyra muttered, as she knew what was about to happen.
The goblins parted, their yellow eyes turning toward the deeper tunnel. Shadows shifted, firelight flickered, and then he appeared.
The Goblin Warlord stepped into the chamber, towering above his kin. His armor was grotesque, forged from the bones of fallen adventurers, lashed together with iron and sinew. Skulls hung from his shoulders, their hollow eyes staring, their jaws clattering faintly with each step. His weapon was a jagged cleaver, rusted and stained, its edge chipped but deadly.
