The sandbar did not belong to anyone.
That was why it was chosen.
It rose from the lake like a pale scar—an uneven crescent of packed sand and silt where water grew shallow and reeds thinned. No roots broke the surface. No stones rose tall enough to serve as cover. The wind moved freely there, carrying sound in all directions.
A place where nothing could hide.
Boss Mokh stood at the edge of the Three Crowns' lowest platform and looked down at it, jaw tight. Morning mist clung to the lake, but the sandbar was already visible, damp and bare.
"Neutral," Mokh muttered. "Good place to bleed."
Vark stood beside him, spear grounded, posture calm but alert. Mogrin hovered a step behind, sling looped at his side, eyes flicking between water and reeds. He didn't fidget anymore. Didn't bounce. Confidence had settled into him like a second skin—quiet, contained.
"No fire," Mokh said again, as if repeating the rule would carve it into the world. "Weapons down. Visible."
"Yes," Vark said.
"Bogkin lie?" Mogrin asked.
Mokh snorted. "Everyone lie. But some lie less here."
They descended together, joined by a small group: two trappers carrying proof bundles, one scout positioned high above to watch for movement, and Vark and Mogrin at Mokh's sides.
No one else.
Drukk Ear-Torn watched from above, arms crossed, torn ear twitching. He didn't try to stop them. He smiled.
That worried Vark more than shouting would have.
They reached the waterline and stepped carefully onto the packed shallows, following the path Ranari's influence had made known. The lake lapped quietly at their ankles as they waded toward the sandbar.
On the opposite side, the reeds parted.
Bogkin emerged.
Not the wardens from before—these were different. Broader, slower-moving shapes with layered mud-skin and reed cloaks. Their movements were deliberate, synchronized, as if each step had been decided long ago.
At their center was Ranari.
The Mire Oracle did not sit this time. It stood half-submerged in the shallows near the sandbar's far edge, fungal crowns glowing faintly even in daylight. Its presence pressed into the air, heavy and patient.
The Bogkin stopped at the sandbar's edge.
The goblins stopped at theirs.
Between them lay open sand.
No cover. No traps. No room for tricks.
Boss Mokh planted his spear butt into the sand and let go of it. The spear remained upright, visible, reachable—but not in hand.
The Bogkin mirrored the gesture, lowering their reed-staffs and mud-blades until they rested against the water.
Ranari spoke first.
"Ground shared," the Oracle said. "No fire. No rush."
Mokh nodded. "Agreed."
Ranari's hollow face rippled slightly as its attention shifted over the goblins, lingering on Vark, then Mogrin.
"You come small," Ranari said. "That is wise."
Mokh grunted. "Big talk make big trouble."
Ranari accepted that without comment.
Silence stretched.
Wind moved across the sandbar, lifting grit and carrying the smell of wet earth and lake algae. Vark felt the Gut-Thread hum faintly—not pulling, just listening.
Ranari spoke again.
"You ask to live," it said. "State place."
"Three Crowns," Mokh replied. "High trees. We stay."
Ranari's fungal crowns pulsed once. "That ground is not sacred. You may root there."
Relief rippled subtly through the goblin side—not joy, but tension easing just enough to breathe.
"But," Ranari continued, "terms bind."
Mokh inclined his head. "Speak."
Ranari raised one thick arm, mud dripping slowly from webbed fingers.
"No raids," the Oracle said. "No step sacred mud. No foul shore."
Mokh nodded. "Agreed."
"No fire near water," Ranari continued. "No blood poured into reeds."
Mokh hesitated only a fraction of a second. "Agreed."
Vark felt the weight of that one. Fire was fear. Fire was power. Giving it up near the lake was real concession.
Ranari's arm lowered. "You share sight," it said. "Metal-men paths. Worg movement. Early sound."
Mokh's good eye flicked to Vark, then back. "Agreed."
Ranari tilted its head slightly. "Then we give."
A Bogkin stepped forward and placed a bundle onto the sandbar—fish wrapped in woven reed mats, still fresh, scales glinting. Another set down coils of thick reed rope, flexible and strong. A third placed a clay-like lump wrapped in leaf—bog-moss medicine, dark green and pungent.
"Food," Ranari said. "Binding. Healing."
Mogrin's eyes widened despite himself.
Mokh didn't reach for any of it yet.
"And paths," Ranari added. "Safe ways through mud. Marked."
Mokh exhaled slowly. "Fair."
Ranari's attention shifted again, settling on Vark.
"You carry proof," the Oracle said.
Vark stepped forward carefully, boots sinking slightly into sand. He set down a small bundle at the center of the sandbar and opened it.
Inside lay three things:
A carved tree marker—human-made, shallow but precise.A dropped iron piton, still smelling faintly of oil.A strip of leather with chalk marks—part of a mapping board.
"Metal-men mark," Vark said. "Near our trees. Paths to water."
Ranari studied the items without touching them.
"Yes," it said. "They map."
"They come back," Vark added. "With more."
Ranari's fungal crowns glowed a shade brighter. "We know."
Mokh glanced at Vark briefly—approval, restrained.
The exchange seemed complete.
Then Ranari spoke again.
"One more term," the Oracle said.
The air tightened.
"You stop splitting," Ranari said. "One voice."
Mokh's jaw clenched.
"You raid without order," Ranari continued. "Mud answers. No second warning."
Mokh knew what that meant. Drukk Ear-Torn's night raid had been noticed. Counted.
"I keep tribe in line," Mokh said slowly.
"Do," Ranari replied.
Silence settled again.
Then Ranari lowered its arm fully and stepped back into the shallows.
"Trade stands," the Oracle said. "First exchange complete."
The Bogkin began to withdraw, movements slow and unhurried, as if confident nothing would strike their backs.
Mokh waited until they were halfway back to the reeds before speaking again.
"We return same time," Mokh said. "With deer."
Ranari paused, half-turned. "Yes."
The reeds closed.
The sandbar was suddenly just sand again.
Mogrin exhaled loudly. "That… went."
"Yes," Vark said. "It went."
They gathered the bundles and turned back toward the Three Crowns, careful not to rush. The lake felt calmer—not friendly, but less hostile.
As they waded back, Vark felt something shift behind them.
Not danger.
Attention.
Ranari watched until they were gone.
The reaction at the Three Crowns was immediate.
Fish. Rope. Medicine.
Proof of trade spread faster than fear ever had.
Scavengers crowded around the bundles, eyes wide. Trappers tested the reed rope and grunted in appreciation. One goblin sniffed the bog-moss and promptly stopped bleeding from a cracked knuckle.
"Good stuff," he muttered, impressed.
Mokh let it happen for a moment.
Then he raised his hand.
"Listen," he barked.
The tribe quieted.
"We trade," Mokh announced. "Lake not enemy. But rules hard."
He listed them clearly. No raids. No fire. No stepping sacred mud. Shared warnings.
Most goblins nodded. Some looked relieved.
Some didn't.
Drukk Ear-Torn stepped forward before Mokh could continue.
"This is submission," Drukk said loudly.
The word hit like a thrown stone.
Murmurs rippled.
"We bow to mud-things," Drukk continued. "We ask permission to eat fish. We give eyes and ears like dogs."
Mokh turned slowly. "We live."
Drukk laughed sharply. "We shrink."
Kreznik Hooknose stood behind Drukk now, arms crossed, expression conflicted. A few others hovered nearby—not a full crowd, but enough.
Mogrin stiffened beside Vark.
"You trade pride for scraps," Drukk said, voice rising. "Boss forget goblin way."
Mokh stepped forward, spear still grounded but close. "Goblin way is survive."
Drukk's eyes flashed. "Then maybe new boss."
The platform went dead silent.
Vark's Gut-Thread tightened—not pulling toward violence, but toward inevitability.
Drukk turned, addressing the tribe. "Who want hide forever? Who want mud-law? Who want beg?"
A few goblins shifted.
Not many.
But enough.
Mokh's voice was iron. "You challenge."
"Yes," Drukk said. "I do."
The word hung in the air, heavy with consequences.
Mogrin looked up at Vark, eyes bright and steady now—not afraid.
Vark met his gaze and nodded once.
Whatever came next, it wouldn't be quiet.
The lake clicked softly in the distance.
And the first trade had been made—but the cost had not yet been paid.