They came back heavy.
Not wounded-heavy, not fleeing-heavy—but full.
Vark climbed the last reinforced root path toward the Three Crowns with Barkhorn meat slung across his back, hide folded and tied tight, antler shards clinking softly at his belt. His legs ached in the good way, the way that said he had spent strength instead of fear.
Mogrin came up right behind him, breathing hard but grinning, his new sling hanging proudly across his chest and a strip of cured hide strapped around his torso like real armor.
The first goblin to notice them froze mid-task.
Then he shouted.
"MEAT!"
The word hit the platforms like a spark.
Heads snapped around. Conversations died. Goblins leaned over railings and branches, eyes widening as they took in the haul—thick red slabs wrapped in leaf bundles, the dark ridged hide, the unmistakable curve of Barkhorn antler.
"Big hunt," someone muttered.
"Two goblins," another whispered. "Only two."
Mogrin puffed up like he might float away. He raised his sling slightly, as if to say yes, look at this.
Vark ignored the attention and moved straight toward the central platform where Boss Mokh stood overseeing a trap repair. Mokh turned as they approached, his good eye flicking over the meat first, then the gear.
"Barkhorn," Mokh said.
"Yes," Vark replied.
Mokh nodded once. Approval, simple and heavy.
Behind them, the murmurs grew louder.
"Good hide.""Thick.""Antler sharp.""They run it down?""Two goblins?"
A trapper reached out and thumped the hide experimentally. "Strong," he said with grudging respect.
A scavenger eyed Mogrin's sling. "That sling… better."
Mogrin beamed. "Mogrin hit twice. Not miss."
That earned a few surprised laughs.
Even Drukk Ear-Torn stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the gear. He didn't sneer immediately. That alone was notable.
"You hunt good," Drukk said finally, voice rough. "Bring meat. Tribe eat."
It wasn't praise.
But it wasn't poison either.
Vark inclined his head slightly. He didn't trust the shift—but he noted it.
Boss Mokh clapped his spear butt once. "We eat tonight."
That was all it took.
The platforms erupted into motion. Scavengers moved to butcher. Fires were lit high, small and controlled, smoke broken up by leaf screens so it wouldn't trail upward like a signal. Fat hissed on stone. The smell of cooked meat rolled through the Three Crowns, heavy and intoxicating.
A feast.
Not celebration. Survival.
Goblins gathered with bowls and bones, teeth tearing into meat with greedy focus. Laughter came easier tonight—sharp, crude, alive. Someone started banging on a hollow branch in a terrible rhythm. Someone else danced until they slipped and nearly fell, earning jeers.
Mogrin sat beside Vark, chewing noisily, eyes shining.
"Good night," Mogrin said through a mouthful.
"Yes," Vark agreed.
For a while, he let himself enjoy it.
The warmth. The full belly. The feeling that for one night at least, the tribe wasn't counting losses.
Even Drukk drank fermented sap and laughed at a stupid joke about a goblin mistaking a tortoise for a hill.
But Vark didn't forget.
When the plates were bare and the fires burned low, he leaned close to Mogrin.
"After," he murmured.
Mogrin nodded, serious again.
They found Boss Mokh alone near the upper platform edge, watching the dark forest beyond the lake. The reed totem clicked faintly in the night breeze.
"Boss," Vark said quietly. "Metal-men near."
Mokh didn't turn. "You smell them?"
"Yes," Vark said. "Human scraps near Three Crowns."
Mogrin added, "Mogrin see shiny bit in mud. Metal-man thing."
Mokh's jaw tightened. "They circle."
"Yes," Vark said. "And they learn."
Mokh was silent for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. "We hide better."
That was how the discussion started.
Not shouting. Not panic.
Planning.
By the time the night deepened, trappers were already sketching ideas in the dirt—leaf screens, shadow breaks, false paths. Scouts suggested which branches caught moonlight wrong. Scavengers volunteered to dull bone and resin that reflected too much.
Drukk listened without interrupting, arms crossed.
When Mokh finally dismissed them, the plan was simple:
Tomorrow, they would camouflage Three Crowns properly.
Sleep came easier after meat.
Vark woke before dawn.
Not to a sound—but to the absence of one.
Birdsong paused. Insects thinned. The forest drew in a breath.
He sat up slowly, letting the Gut-Thread stretch.
It tugged.
Not sharply.
Directionally.
Mogrin stirred beside him. "Vark?"
"Quiet," Vark whispered.
They moved into position as the tribe woke, working fast and silent. Leaf screens were woven in, breaking straight lines. Platforms were smeared with mud and moss. Rope lashings were darkened. Bone chimes were wrapped or removed.
From below, Three Crowns stopped looking like a structure.
It became forest.
By mid-morning, scouts signaled movement.
Vark and Mogrin took a high perch with a clear view of the slope leading toward the lake's drainage path.
Humans emerged.
Four again.
Same formation.
Same calm.
Vark's stomach sank.
The pest captain walked among them, cloak dulled, eyes sharp. One human examined the ground while another carved shallow symbols into bark. A third laid out monster parts—fresh this time—and recorded something on a wooden board.
"They map," Mogrin whispered.
"Yes," Vark said. "Routes."
He watched the captain crouch, touch the soil, then look toward the lake.
"Pressure point," the captain said quietly. "If we control water access, everything else breaks."
Vark felt the words like a knife.
The humans talked openly—not loudly, but clearly enough.
"Guild wants confirmation of the kills.""Bogkin are worth more than goblins. Do you think we can find any?"
The captain gestured toward the lake. "Settlement nearby."
Vark's breath caught.
"They know," Mogrin whispered.
"Not yet," Vark said. "But close."
Then the Gut-Thread yanked.
Hard.
Vark's head snapped toward the base of the Three Crowns.
Mogrin froze.
"There," Mogrin breathed. "One metal-man."
A scout.
Moving alone. Careful. Too careful.
He crept close, inspecting bark, touching soil. His eyes tracked upward, narrowing.
Too close.
Vark's mind raced.
If the scout shouted, the map would be complete.
If they killed him, the return would be violent.
Vark picked up a pebble and tossed it away from the scout—into the brush to the left.
The scout spun instantly.
Mogrin fired.
The stone struck true.
The scout collapsed.
Silence.
Vark's heart thundered.
They moved fast, binding and hiding the unconscious scout beneath roots, far from the main paths.
Boss Mokh arrived moments later.
He took it in with one look.
"They come again," Mokh said.
"Yes," Vark replied.
Mokh stared out into the forest. "Then we learn faster."
Above them, Three Crowns vanished into shadow and leaf.
Below, the lake waited.
And somewhere beyond the trees, a map was being drawn—with goblins on it.