With newfound freedom, Wort defied all expectations. The toad awoke from his nap before the bread finished its proofing in order to add fuel to the oven. Even mumbling off a quick, “Work good?” to the dungeon before returning to sleep. Occasionally his heavy-lidded eye would prop open and scan the bread.

Regis hardly noticed Vraz's absence, transfixed as Wort pulled himself up on his thick legs at a near-perfect time to score the bread with a lame. A simple razor-sharp blade at the end of a handle made bread craft much simpler and thus was essential for any bakery. At higher levels of baking, it allowed for beautiful designs. For now, the three diagonal slashes in the oblong dough were plenty enough.

They weren’t beautiful, their space ununiform and the depth varied between shallow scratch to an inch deep. For a creature that had thus far sung about half nude goblin women and his muscles? Well, Regis didn’t carry high expectations.

In silence, Regis observed. He answered the hobgoblin when it grumbled a question but otherwise removed his influence from the situation.

After scoring the loaf, Wort swiftly scrubbed the oven of any remaining embers. Wasting as short of a time as possible, he shoved the ruddy brown lump of dough in. Then collapsed into a pile near in cozy warmth generated by the oven. His snores conquered the kitchen in short order.

The smell of roasting sour dough slumped outward from the oven. It was a clean and homely note that mingled with the heat of the oven to conjure images of a quaint bakery tucked in the middle of a populated city. An almost private affair—something about baking held an inherent mixture of both sorrow and intimacy to the dungeon. Worts snores grew louder as the situation lulled him into a deeper slumber.

Ah, so the oaf is going to burn it. Well. Well, not surprised in the least. I shouldn’t have let this curiosity possess common sense. Never entrust belief in fools. I’ll wake him and force its removal. Wasting ingredients when they could be peddled to those damnable goblins is a ludicrous proposition. Dumb donkey, to draw so close yet—

Wort lurched to his feet, with a burp and stumbled to the oven. Using the thin metal sheet of a crude oven spatula, he removed the loaf with near-perfect timing. The dark brown crust of the loaf sat on the light gray countertop in short order. He rubbed his belly. “Smell right. Wort hungry. Done waiting.”

He licked his lips, then reached for the wrong knife to slice it open. “Halt,” Regis floated between him and the knife. Wort’s fingers quivered as drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. “How were you able to succeed where Vraz continuously failed?”

“Wort hear say again and again. Make Wort head hurt. Not hard. Wort eat?!” the hobgoblin lurched forward, hand attempting to bypass the crystal. Regis slickly flowed into the space before the oaf’s mitts to rebuff the attempt, Wort gave a sad frown. Perhaps this bumbling fool can be of use after all. A hallmark of an efficient kitchen resided in the delegation of responsibility.

Regis pictured himself striding confidently down the line, his eagle eyes examining staff busy with their tasks. As head chef, it was his responsibility to catch mistakes and correct them. After which, he'd make his way to the pass and scream at a server to run a dish that was two minutes from becoming freezing-fucking cold. His vision shook for a minute, the sense of domain blurring.

What in the name of hell? Where— Wort let out a belch, centering Regis back in the tiny stone kitchen. He was in the depths of a goblin cave, cooking with three-foot-tall creatures, then, in turn, feeding the same ruddy green savages that served as staff. A small psyche ache haunted him. I… Must have expended too much essence, I require more. My restaurant will thrive and grow quickly. Focus on what matters. Display to these pitiful creatures who rules above all in the culinary world!

“It would be a dreadful understatement to declare that you desire this bread.” Wort nodded, the line of drool reaching his chin. Disgusting. This fool would have to undergo an extensive hygiene course. But, any chef worth their salt made do. Any night held within it many unexpected challenges, like a hero of legends a good chef rose to the challenge. Still, he felt regret over his next offer.

“In exchange for a singular meal each shift worked, I make a conditional offer for your employment. Should you decide to accept the position of temporary apprentice baker, you must agree to heed my directions to the word and perform your duties to the letter. You shall not question my command, nor will you obstruct other staff members as they conduct their jobs.” Regis hummed, spinning around Wort’s head. Despite the offer of employment, the hobgoblin’s attention remained on the loaf. “…accept these terms and you may consume that bread as payment for your first shift.”

“Wort do what want!” the idiot dived for the bread, only aware of a third of what the dungeon said.

“…What have I done?”

Vraz took a leisurely stroll outside of the cavern. Sometimes it surprised him how the tribe's treatment of him shifted since he began working with Regis. Where once they mocked him, they now held their distance. Whispers of the dungeon’s temperamental nature and vast power caused them to regard anyone in association undue scrutiny. They gave him squinted eyes and spoke in back-cave discussions, sure. However, there was no harassment.

Both fear and hunger splashed vivid color on the painting of their perception of the dungeon and those it commanded.

None batted an eye as he left, hands tucked behind his head and face towards the sky. Cooking bread for the past two days left his brain a mush. Measuring things as if such small differences mattered? Laughable. Where did he get to experiment? To truly create? Regis was overbearing in his pursuit to correct any deviation in normal cooking. He gave specific instructions and double-checked portions, even with a regular dish. But when Vraz threw a wolf steak on his pan, it was him cooking it. Not the dungeon.

Baking took that all away. Might as well use a dwarven golem.

Long ago Vraz vowed to drag himself forward despite the painful loss of his tribe. The moon lurked high in the night sky. Extended time within the kitchen caused a loss in awareness for the time of day. Goblins didn’t keep schedules, even so, continuous shifts and withholding the ability to get fresh air and see the sun or moon wore him away. His eyes roamed the barren area nearby. If I ran, they wouldn’t realize it for a day, two at most. Strum is busy with Yrx and Pox. Not a single goblin to pull him back or ask uncomfortable questions.

Then he’d be gone. Another goblin fleeing from the scarlet flames of the kitchen. Even if he continued cooking alone, would he reach the same heights he saw now? Regis acted like a royal ass. But the dungeon also shielded him, nurtured him.

What kind of goblin walked away from that? The Shadow-Axe tribe were a bunch of savages, but within that were those who cared.

And if he left? Vraz reached into his pocket and pulled out the cloth-wrapped nightshade cap. Such a delicate thing, its pure azure gills reflected the color of the sun submitting to the night, life succumbing to darkness.

A knife could dice it up in an instant. Its victim would collapse to the ground gripping their throat minutes after consumption.

His fist clenched as he thought of his parents, siblings, and chieftain. The Rust-Moon tribe slaughtered with cold glee at the behest of Rurk. Leaving nothing but headless corpses. When he’d first stabbed that chef's knife into the direwolf, he hadn’t seen the fur-ridden beast, his eyes saw the bastard responsible for taking away all he cared about. Walking away now meant ignoring the ghosts wailing for vengeance.

Vraz shook in the cold, breath quick. Eyes glued to the mushroom resting delicately in his open palm.

A soft wind rattled the sparse tree branches. Fall approached, and soon food would grow scarce in the region. Evergreens populated the majority of the forest. Winter was a time of death in the cycle of life. Eventually, all the life would lay still under a blanket of white.

Vraz carefully wrapped the nightshade cap. Tucking it among his clothing. He’d been nervous that Regis would question him about it, yet the dungeon never asked. The announcement of the Dark Lord’s approach had driven the dungeon into a state of madness, and the distraction kept its attention.

The Rust-Moon tribe had an expression, “Full moon or empty moon. Does it matter to the ground?” He wouldn’t question things better left unasked. If Regis never mentioned it then there was no need for a lie.

It took thirty more minutes to arrive at the temporary headquarters. A lonely, yet welcome walk. The unassuming maw more like a hidden crack in the hill than a typical goblin cave entrance. Easily missed by an unassuming passerby, and therefore a perfect place to settle in if a goblin wanted to evade roaming Shadow-Axe scouts.

Vraz pressed his way into the mouth of the cave, slipping into its shadow-infested depths. Nature limited his sight to roughly fifty feet as he went from star-laced darkness to pure lack of light. Goblins had improved vision within the dark, but creatures with far better darkvision existed. A dank mold-ridden scent haunted this place. Stale air hung in the air, marking this as a place where life did not bother to bloom. Yet as he pressed further, ash and smoke tainted the otherwise dead air.

Light bowed outward from a torch-lit interior cavern. “Maybe-we-can-ask-the-dwaves…” Jilde’s rushed voice spilled out. Of course. Unless specifically sent away on a task by Strum, the goblinette spent very little time away from Strum. For obvious reasons.

“I suppose we can uh, try. They’ll be delivering another shipment in two days. I’d have to go with you to retrieve it, but someone has to help Gikx watch these two. I’m just worried about their questions. The last thing we need is more attention in this region.” Strum trailed off as Vraz rounded the corner.

“Gikx watch fine. Strum go,” replied Gikx, as he crossed his arms.

Yrx and Pox struggled together in ropes at the far end of the cave, Jilde, Strum, and Gikx were seated around a flat stone littered with cups and wooden bowls. Gikx stood upon seeing Vraz’s form, letting out a war cry and rearing back for a charge.

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down hero,” Vraz called out, stepping into the light. He held his hands out in the open, revealing a lack of weapons. Gikx snorted and returned to his seat.

“Gikx think should say who is when walk in.” The goblin hero reached forward and grabbed a mug, then took a deep chug. “If slower, Gikx kill.”

“If I did, where’d be the surprise?” Vraz shot back, snaking over to the table. Strum gave him an appraising look, eyebrows furrowed. His coworker, Jilde, flicked her gaze over him then returned it to the boss, dismissing him like one would a boring stone. Well, whatever. Nice to see you too Jilde. He sighed, and joined their powwow, tucking his slim hands behind his head while taking a seat. “Looking for a goblin sitter? They spill anything?”

Strum massaged his temple, “They uh, well… they refuse to cooperate. What they said isn’t useful. Mostly just uh, accusations about us facing eternal entombment in the ground on behalf of the ground-father.” The hobgoblin frowned and tapped his fingers on the stone table. Jilde bit her lip then moved to settle his nervous hand.

As soon as her fingers brushed his, Strum retracted his hand from the table and gave her an apologetic look. Ground-father below, I’m about to spew. Vraz gave a small glance at Gikx, hoping to find a kindred soul that suffered from watching them skirt around the writing on the cave wall.

Unfortunately, Gikx was preoccupied with digging for wax. His long slender finger shoved into an ear hole. Maybe, just maybe, despite having spent days in the company of them, the hero remained completely oblivious to the obvious.

“Vraz-can-stay!” Jilde lept to her feet, paying attention to Vraz for the first time. “Besides, he’s clever! Maybe-he-can-trick them into revealing something-they-don’t-realize is important!” Her pointed fingernail jabbed at him. From this angle, it looked eerily like a claw. That almost predatory fanged smile of hers didn’t help. Vraz shivered. Out of any goblin in the Shadow-Axe tribe, she sat at the top of his don’t fuck-around-with list.

“Regis wouldn’t uh, allow it. He’s demanding. And when he gets worried he throws himself and everyone around him into work.” Strum shook his head.

Vraz gave a playful hum, tilting his head back and forth. Watching Strum’s scrunched face morph into suspicion. Fine, I’ll lay cards on the table. No need for thanks, old man. You two can finally stop playing house and go on a proper date. “I’ll convince Regis. I’m sure if I phrase it the right way, he’ll realize this is for the best.” Besides, a vacation sounds great. “What are you planning on doing with those two anyway? Once all this is over?”

“Gikx stab. No need watch.” Gikx stood up and grabbed his obsidian sword, his ears now evidently clean.

Strum managed to intercept the hero with surprising speed. Faster than any goblin should have managed. “How many times—no, uh, Gikx. Don’t kill them. They’re more useful alive. Besides… I have a plan.” Strum said as he set his hand on the sword arm to prevent the stubborn donkey from pushing forward.

“Fine. Gikx listen. Strum smart.”