Dylan accepted her words like a dagger plunged into the heart. His gaze remained fixed on Élisa's back, following her mechanical steps as the stench of death, now far behind them, slowly faded.
He murmured, almost without realizing it:
"That woman… she's been through hell."
Not that he didn't know what hell looked like. He'd had a taste of it too. But Dylan had that deeply human habit of downplaying his own pain to better carry the weight of others'.
He'd seen his world collapse. Literally. Continents pulverized, oceans blackened, skies ripped apart by war. Billions of innocents swept away like dry leaves in a storm. All because of stupid conflicts, started by hands once friendly. A war born of fear, fed by pride, and fueled by hatred that didn't even need enemies to survive.
And he—caught in the middle.
Lost.
Shattered.
But alive.
So yeah, he knew what it meant to suffer. But what that woman had been through… that was a different category. Another type of nightmare. More intimate. More visceral.
He lowered his gaze, his boots crunching wet leaves.
"I guess that means I'm still human."
"Anyway," said Élisa, turning her head toward Maggie, who was walking in silence. "What now?"
The commander barely lifted her eyes, focused on the path ahead.
"I already gave you several possible routes," Élisa continued. "And none of them are safe. The path to the hobgoblin village is the only one I'd recommend… but we'll have to fight to get through."
Dylan let out a low growl. "No way to bypass that damn village?"
She slowly shook her head, expression neutral—almost fatalistic.
"Believe me, I would've suggested it if there was. These creatures live in packs, and they're smart enough to divide roles: sentries, trackers, scouts… They attack anything that gets near their territory. No exceptions."
Silence fell again—heavy, oppressive. Until Maggie, quiet until now, finally spoke with a deep, almost hoarse voice:
"How many?"
Élisa's eyes locked on hers. Her instinct didn't fail her—Maggie was the one in charge here. So she answered plainly:
"About fifty. Maybe a bit more. Most are males of fighting age. The females don't go out—they're just used for breeding."
She paused for a second, eyes widening like a sudden thought had struck her.
"Oh, and… they can't be more than that. It's their way of survival. When they come of age, the weak are exiled. And the old males—even the strongest—are taken out once they're no longer useful."
A cold wind stirred the branches above them, making the leaves rustle like a whisper of menace.
Dylan frowned. "Charming… A real progressive society."
Élisa gave a bitter smile but didn't answer.
They didn't even have time to debate.
A harsh crack in the underbrush froze them in place. Not the snap of a dry twig by accident—no. This was heavy, hurried steps, coming straight at them.
Élisa stopped dead, eyes fixed on the sound's direction.
"Shit…"
Too late.
A group of hobgoblins burst through the trees, carrying the mutilated corpse of a half-eaten deer. One of them raised a javelin, already agitated. There were seven—maybe eight hunters. And the moment they spotted the trio, they dropped their kill and let out a guttural war cry.
"Shit! Run!" Maggie yelled, already bolting.
They fled without question, tearing through brush and damp roots. The hobgoblins howled behind them, their heavy steps pounding the earth. Dylan tripped once, barely catching himself before pushing forward.
Then—suddenly—silence.
As they crossed the marshy border Élisa had called "L'Hystrix's territory," their sprint came to an abrupt halt. No one was chasing them anymore.
Maggie stopped first, panting, glancing behind.
"Why'd they stop?" Dylan gasped.
Élisa crouched, scanning the woods.
"The Hystrix nest. They won't go near it. Not even for us."
In the distance, the hobgoblins were reclaiming their dropped kill, heading back, their snarls fading into the damp forest air.
Maggie didn't wait. She stabbed a knife into the ground and kneeled.
"We'll have to cross anyway. But not like this."
She pulled out a chalk stone and drew a rough map into the dirt.
"If we skirt the edge of the nest—keep close but not too close—and stay clear of the village, we might find a way through. But we move at nightfall. They'll be less active. Slower to react."
She looked up at them both, face grim.
"Until then, we stay hidden. No light. No sound."
Élisa nodded slowly. Dylan, still half breathless, said nothing.
They had escaped one ambush… only to dive headfirst into a more unstable terrain.
"So, what's the plan?" he finally asked, already guessing the answer.
---
A central fire crackled, surrounded by soot-covered stones and scraps of smoked meat. Thick figures moved between crude huts made of wood and stretched skins. At the center, near the blaze, a larger hobgoblin was crushing the bones of a rabbit with his bare hands. His face bore a long scar, and his eyes never blinked.
The hunt chief.
Around him, the others reported their failure. Guttural sounds, interrupted by growls and crude laughter. One of them traced stick figures into the dirt with a charred bone, probably mocking the intruders' retreat. Others mentioned the Nest, their voices dropping to a murmur whenever the word came up.
The chief devoured meat voraciously. His jaw bulged under the rough skin of his face. He feasted with the calm certainty of a king.
In his mind, one rule: more muscle, more meat; more meat, more status; more status, more females.
And he had them. Five—"won" through hunts and duels. Five, whose names he barely remembered, because that wasn't their role.
A filthy grin split his thick lips. He stood and left the fire, two hunters following him. They entered the largest hut—his den.
Inside, the air reeked of musk, dried sweat, and tanned hide. Torches cast dancing shadows on the walls. Furs covered the floor.
His females waited, lying down, eyes lowered.
He licked his lips and let out a satisfied grunt, like a beast about to enjoy a well-earned meal.
Mid-act—while nothing else existed but the violent rhythm of his hips and the raw sound of his breath bouncing off the hut walls—he felt a hand gently slide around his neck. A gesture he knew, one he answered with a pleased grunt.
He shouldn't have.
It was his biggest mistake.
A second hand—firmer, surer—emerged from the shadows, holding a short blade. A military dagger with a worn leather hilt.
It didn't tremble.
The blade sank deep into the side of his neck—where the skin is thin, where life pulses strongest.
His groan turned to a gurgle, eyes bulging as he tried to rise, but the weight on his back grew heavier, pinning him into the stained bedding.
Hot blood sprayed across the furs.
A voice whispered cold as steel in his ear:
"Thanks for the free porn."