---Jada, Citadel Assassin POV

Many thoughts and ideas ran through my mind after gaining my wonderful gift. Instead of charging off to the Citadel with joy in my heart to announce my discovery or tracking down the home of Lord Klar’s wives, I trained and refined my body. The Citadel would eventually miss me and my partner. They would send a couple of assassins to backtrack our travels to find us or determine what became of us. I trained well away from our trail to avoid them. When I was ready, I would return, and not before.

That was many ten days ago. Now, I am scurrying across the roof of the second-tallest building in the Citadel. The solid split wood lengths underfoot are a comfort and a guarantee. I kneel when close and listen. At a steady pace, soft footfalls are ahead, approaching the balcony of the tallest building in the Citadel.

I wait for them to fade and sprint towards the balcony when I believe the timing is perfect. I leap, and my fingers grab at the eaves of the roof of the tallest building. One of my fellow assassins, now serving as a guard, returns to the balcony from the interior of the building. I am hanging by my hands above the balcony. My muscles hardly fatigue while I wait. When he is ideally in place below me, I release my grip. My soft leather boots land perfectly on either side of his head, and, in the same movement, my dagger arcs down and penetrates his right eye. I leap and somersault about-face and grab the hilt of the dagger. I slow his collapse until his corpse is prone. Not a worrying sound escapes his mouth.

The upper floor layout is a mystery to most, including myself, but I am confident I will find the Grandmasters. I listen. Shortly after, my ears pick up the footfalls of a second guard. He or she mirrors the route of the first sentry, ending at a balcony on the other side of the building. They are supposed to vary their patrol, but habits always develop.

I choose an optimal location and strike from the dark with complete surprise. I deal with the two other guards patrolling the opposite direction with equal caution. A rare few have activated their nanorobots. While I believe mine are now superior, it would be these few who could spoil my plan.

There is only one door left I haven’t opened. I drip oil on the hinges and into the lock. My hearing confirms at least two are breathing on the other side of the door. One of them breathes regularly, and footfalls accompany the other. As I turn the lock with my picking tool, my hearing is such that I believe I have made too much noise.

Neither of them changes their breathing.

I ease the door handle down until it is free of the catch. I edge the door open when I believe the one pacing is furthest away. Slipping through, I close the door and quickly duck behind a heavy tapestry. If he is alert, he will notice, but I chose near dawn for a reason.

He turns about, and I pad silently after him. My vision is perfect, as the soft light from the fireplace is ample. My dagger leads. Nothing fancy. I stab his neck from the side. He tries to breathe. I stab again. This time, into his ear canal to destroy his brain. I catch his falling body and soundlessly lower it to the floor. The other is sleeping, yet I assume nothing. I am sure I heard him move, so I waited in hiding.

Pre-dawn arrives. He has been patient and now is careful. The upper half of his body rises slowly from the lounge, only enough for his eyes to peer over the backrest. His eyes fly wide open as he spots the stiff corpse of his companion. He cups his wide-open mouth and fills his lungs with air. Into that wide open cavity, my dart flies. Immediately after, he is busy coughing and sticking his fingers down his throat. I close the distance between us, approaching from his blind side. He gave me plenty of time to reposition while he pretended to sleep. The fool. I counted on the corpse of his companion to distract him.

He is inspecting the dart in his fingers when I slash my dagger across his throat. He gurgles, and I lay his soon-to-be corpse along the length of the lounge.

I sniff and confirm his water bottle contains water and drain the contents. I do the same with his companion. Water is the key to everything.

The final room remains. The tall, ornate double door to their bedroom stands between me and them. They will both have activated nanorobots; otherwise, they wouldn’t be Guildmaster rank. I carefully reload my blowpipe and pad my way to the imposing doors. I listen. Steady breathing from both. I oil the lock and test the handle. Again, I need to pick the lock.

Once done, I hold the handle down and push the door open. One wakes slowly, the other with more urgency. The blowpipe is to my lips, and the dart is away. I sprint towards them. The alert one swings a pillow around into the path of the dart. A perfect catch. Disappointing, but I am at the foot of their bed.

I grab a foot of the one still waking and heave him towards me. When in range, I stab a dart into his thigh and then duck as the other throws a dagger at me.

“Who are you, you insignificant bug?” she screams.

“Gg…” is all she gets to say as I leap on her. My grip on her upper arms is cruel, and her face twists in pain. Once I have her, I roll us both off the bed. Drawing her arms towards me, I headbutt her as we land on the floor, her first. The timing of my headbutt smacks the back of her head against the stone floor. She is woozy. I release an arm to grab another dart and stab her in the chest between her pert breasts.

Rolling her over, I bind her wrists behind her back, then her ankles and, with a third length, draw the two bindings together behind her back.

I hear him mutter under his breath. He must be looking about while recovering from the poison. I spring towards the bed and lift. He rolls away and off the bed, as I thought. I chase him with the bed. Still recovering from his poisoning, my move surprises him further, and all he can do is scramble.

Hounding him with the bed doesn’t give him time to think, which allows me to corral him against a wall. I slam the edge of the bed into his thighs with as much strength as my nanorobots can generate into my muscles. He groans with pain. I draw the bed back to allow him to collapse and then slam the edge of the bed into him again. His chest this time. Ribs crack. His breathing is in fits and starts. I draw back the bed and slam the edge into his chest again. Another one or two ribs crack. Air bubbles of blood dribble out of his mouth.

I tie him up like her and drag him over and wait. I observe their rate of healing. There is no contest. I am confident mine is faster. He is struggling though, so I assist by stuffing his mouth with a bedsheet and separate his ribs. Once his screams die down, I remove the bedsheet. I prepare the room while they recover.

She is the first to regain any awareness. When she opens her mouth. I wiggle the point of my dagger under her nose.

“Do you acknowledge I can kill you both?”

I accept her sad nod for them both.

“Do you accept I am your Guildmaster?”

She hesitates, frowning. Weighing up her options. Dawn is about to break, and perhaps she believes the change of guard will come to her rescue. She only needs to delay me.

I flick my dagger point and slash the side of her nose wide open. She screams. Perhaps they haven’t yet trained their nanorobots to block pain?

Her smile is bloody from the nosebleed as we both hear her rescuers bashing at their bedroom door. I have used their time to recover and position all their furniture against the doors, which push inwards. We are in the centre of the room because I await the sneak attack from the concealed door.

Their bedroom has no windows, being in the centre of the building. One primary and obvious entrance, so there must be an escape tunnel.

I place the tip of my dagger at her throat. “Do you accept I am your Guildmaster?”

She swallows and checks the doors. They aren’t moving, but the noise is only to cover the genuine attack, anyway.

“Last chance. Your death is a yes, but I would rather you live to serve.”

She sighs. “I acknowledge you are the Grandmaster and, given he cannot speak, I concede on his behalf as well.”

“Good. Now tell them.” I wave my dagger over my shoulder toward the three assassins, sneaking into the room using the concealed door.

---Solgia, Lord Klar’s Scribe and Wife POV

I am guessing dawn is still a way off when I wake to the shaking of my arm. I blink several times because no one is yelling, so I convince myself I have the time to get ready.

A lantern casts light on their faces. Tigliga and Shiliga, my two young scribes, hover over me. As I sit up, they back off and squat on their ankles.

“This couldn’t wait until morning?” I grouse.

“No. We have a secret, and there are too many ears in the day,” whispers Shiliga.

“Well, spill.” I try to keep my tone even, but I am grumpy.

“In turn, we cared for Izga. Bringing her food, feeding her. She would accept no others,” says Tigliga.

“It wasn’t a bother,” adds Tigliga quickly. The nervousness in her voice worries me.

“I know she appreciated your care. She told me and many others. I am certain she would have told you as well.”

“Yes, Chief Scribe, that isn’t it. There was dust,” says Tigliga.

Shiliga entwines her fingers. “Yes, special dust, in fact, and we have been, erm, eating it. Only a pinch at a time, but we feel wonderful afterwards. So how can it be wrong?”

“Where did this dust come from?” I ask.

They both swallow and hold hands. After bowing their heads, Tigliga raises her head until we are face to face.

“The bigger pile was Klaria’s dust. The smaller pile was Izga’s arms,” she squeaks, her voice breaking with fear. “When rain fell on the piles, they didn’t wash away. The scent they radiated, though, was pleasant, teasing. So, we swept the dust into two bags, one for Izga’s and the other for Klaria’s.”

I am upright and alert in an instant. Tears roll down Tigliga’s face. I catch Shiliga’s head rising.

“We hid the bags in two different places. We finished Izga’s bag first, and when we went to eat Klaria’s dust, the bag was gone after the third or fourth time.” They are both sobbing now.

I call to Klaria, and when she responds, I retell their tale. Her laughter is not what I expect.

---

“Hello, Mistress Scribe. What brings you to the nursery?”

“A mystery,” I say.

Her soft shoulders and vibrant green breasts are in plain sight. A firm dark green nipple tops the left one, which curves from emptiness. Lord Klar’s baby son is busy suckling and furiously draining the other to make the right match the left.

“Oh?” She pushes her finger between her breast and the baby’s lips. Shortly after, two firm, dark green nipples greet me. I notice a dribble of white milk running away, and she tut-tuts to herself. Her breasts sway and then hang as she bends over to place Lord Klar’s son in his small bed. His two brothers sleep beside him.

She excuses herself to fuss with her shirt and drains a full water skin by drawing several long gulps. She hangs the water skin on a hook near her rocking chair when she finishes.

“I need water to make more milk, and I cannot delay. Now, how can I help?”

“Do you know anything about a bag of dust? It appears to be missing.”

“Oh yes, Mistress.” She reaches beneath the babe’s small bed and produces a soft leather bag. She doesn’t hand the bag over, nestling it in her lap instead as she slides back into her rocking chair.

“The bag isn’t yours,” I say with authority.

“Well. It isn’t yours either. What’s more, I believe I have the greater need.” She clears her throat. “Because of a misunderstanding, I lost Yalorila, and she was a terrific milk wife. She ate the dust slowly like we agreed and then, thinking herself safe, consumed several days of dust at once, all alone and in secret. When I found her, she became a dust heap under a pile of her clothes.”

She rocks back and forth in her chair, sniffs, and continues. “I lost Qileia first, of course. She spied on the young scribes because she dreamed of learning to read and write. She told us they ate dust from a bag of all things. We didn’t understand at first, but as each day passed, we noticed several improvements. Skin colour, complexion, and energy, for example.”

She grabs another water skin and sips. Only then do I notice a roundness returning to her breasts. “These little ones drain the three of us of milk the moment they smell it, and if the dust could lift the scribes, perhaps it would do the same for us. Qileia didn’t know how much to take. Before our eyes, she turned to dust, and we felt helpless.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“If you could only take a pinch at a time, why didn’t you keep doing that? Why take the entire bag now?”

She cackles with absolute confidence. “You see, I think I have worked it out. Yalorila and I would pray to Lord Klug for them to stop draining us of water and instead make milk. This took a lot of prayer time and water. But with the last lot I took, I simply got cross because I was alone now and desperate. With the babies crying, I had no time to waste, so I demanded the dust behave itself and make my teats produce more milk. They obeyed in a flash.”

She slaps her thighs and leans forward in her rocking chair. “So, my plan is to take the bag of dust to the river and sit in the water. Then, swallow a mouthful at a time. There is only me now, and I can’t produce enough milk. With Yalorila and Qileia mysteriously disappearing, no other milk wives wish to help, so I am desperate but confident.”

“Let her be Solgia. She may surprise us and live. If so, Lord Klar’s sons will live. If not, we will probably have to send the babes away as none will nurse them here when they find out all three milk wives have disappeared.”

“Thank you for your help in tracking down your dust. I agree. The milk wife has the greater need.”

Somehow, I would need to explain this to my young scribes.

---

My bodyguards watch from the riverbank like I do as milk wife Mora squats and then lowers herself fully into the river. The bag rests in one palm. She waves at us with her spoon and then takes a scoop of dust and swallows. She lowers her mouth while holding the bag high until the river water flows quickly into her mouth. After several repeats, she upends the near-empty bag into her mouth and drinks as much water as she can for as long as she can.

Her face falls as she wades towards us. She is fighting the river and losing! I climb to my feet and rush towards her. With my help and support, she reaches the shallows. With a smile, she lays in the river and allows the water to flow around her body. The chill of the water seems to help as a happy resignation settles across her face.

After a while, I leave one of my bodyguards to stand watch, with instructions to take turns and the one who is relieved to update me. I tell them I will wait in the nursery. Not long after arriving, I regret my decision.

I have too much time to think and remember while alone with the babies. Or smell and realise what I have lost. My hand caresses my belly. I didn’t know, and I am certain Lord Klug didn’t know. So, what is done is done. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I spring to my feet, determined to leave.

One glance at them, and I know they will be helpless if left alone. What could become of them? I fall back into Mora’s rocking chair in defeat as the trauma of those past days comes back to haunt me. Only after several days, maybe ten days, did I feel the life growing in me wither. The next day, bleeding and then something green, black, and bloody came out. When Lord Klug captured my spirit and made me his wife, unknown to both of us, the ceremony slew my baby. I had successfully buried my grief deep, beyond the light of day, yet now, in this nursery, denial of my grief is impossible.

I sob.

---

Mid-afternoon, I ran out of tears, and shortly after, one of my bodyguards told me I must go to the river. She will guard the babies. They are awake but strangely don’t demand to be fed. Do they know something on a deeper level, or do they simply accept that they can’t smell any milk in our breasts?

When I reach the river, I can easily see why she urged me to visit. A black ooze is sludging off the milk wife’s skin.

“How long has this been happening?” I ask.

“A while,” replies my bodyguard, not telling me anything. I sigh. Typical Hazovorga.

Mora rises as if waking up for the first time. Her movements are crisp and to the point. She strides out of the water, full of purpose, energy, and determination. Her full, round, possibly larger breasts lead the way. Their additional burden is nothing as she climbs the low riverbank with ease. It is clear she intends to head back to the fort. We follow. She doesn’t notice or care, but the black ooze has stained her soaked-through clothes. With each step, though, her clothes become drier.

Once inside the nursery, she strips out of her clothes. Her bright green, bulbous breasts have multiple spider web-like dark veins running through them. From each firm, erect nipple, glossy white milk dribbles. The noses on the babes target them, their faces tracking her every move. I struggle to drag my gaze away. The scent is intoxicating.

Mona places a babe on each teat and cradles the third confidently, who remarkably waits in silence. With her nipples claimed, I return to my senses. Grabbing a water skin, she slides her bare bottom into the rocking chair. This smooth motion draws me to observe her body shape. Tightened up? Is that the correct description? The wobbly flesh on her upper arms and thighs has gone to her breasts, or should I say, mainly migrated.

I need to nudge my bodyguards out of the cottage. We shut the nursery door and leave her alone with her duty.

“I will check on her occasionally,” says Klaria.

---Lord Torngul Heartsplitter POV

“You are the last of my ‘sacks’ to return. What is the latest news of Lord Klar?”

She rises. “Lord father, he hasn’t returned. But Clan Head Jarlgren has made no direct moves.”

I didn’t think young Zinia would survive to report back. Although not my true daughter, she is the daughter of the real Lord Torngul and deserves my fatherly concern. The other sacks I sent thought her wits would balance some of their sword arms. I didn’t expect her to be left to return on her own. My wife must sense my ill ease as her hand snakes down to warm my wrist, which rests on the arm of my throne. This is her hint for me to stay seated.

I rush from the throne and bear hug my youngest daughter into the air. “I am glad you have returned.”

She struggles, attempting release, and after another heartbeat of torment, I do so.

“Lord Torngul, I am glad we are in private. I wish to prove I deserve your favour, nothing less. To that end, I confess I arrived some days ago.”

My hands fall on her shoulders, and I avoid squeezing them by the barest of margins. How could she sneak back without me knowing, without telling me? My emotions boil. I release her and swiftly return to the safety of my throne. Distance, I need distance. She seems so frail, yet her stance is one of confidence. I wave at her to continue.

“The Runner Clan Head is missing, and while the clan is trying to suggest otherwise, most believe Durlarg died while worshipping at the Klugite Temple. His wife and his most trusted bodyguards are also missing.”

I glance at my wife. Clan Head Durlarg, a secret Klugite worshipper? His clan did trade throughout the plains. Did he fall into their worship on one of his many trips?

“You may go while I ponder this news.”

I don’t hear her retreat from my presence and look up.

“Lord, take over his clan. You fritted away Sakvorpa’s, and if the rumours of this Klugite Temple are true, their numbers grow daily. It seems all who believed in High Priestess Rexa are gathering there since the Valley of Lord Farmer Hob is now denied to them.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Fritted away?”

My daughter has the good sense to nervous swallow. Although knowing her, it is probably an act. My wife’s hand squeezes mine.

“Alright, speak,” I say.

“His clan trades across the plains. They can secure whatever you need. The other clan heads can’t each have a portion. What his clan did was an all-or-nothing. And you have already given away one clan to them.”

I tap my chin. “Not all of one clan. I kept the goblins.”

She twists her face. “No one wanted the slaves. They are hardly something to boast about.”

For a moment, I forgot about the prejudice. Perhaps I still have much goblin in me.

“Not as they are, no. But arm them with bows, train them and promise them freedom.”

She advances a step towards me. “Father, you can’t! All would turn against you!”

“Maybe, but they will change their mind when I explain Hobgoblin Town has no walls or standing army. We now have a threat gathering at our valley entrance. Would they prefer goblins dying to protect them or take up weapons themselves?”

She shakes her head. “The Klugites have no army. They are refugees, survivors of a calamity. How can they be a threat?”

I push myself out of my throne and stand tall before my daughter.

“They have no army now. You are too young to know about the founding of Hobgoblin Town, so I will explain.” While the archives stored in the manor aren’t extensive, the founding and the supposed explanation received many pages of description. I can also add my memory of High Priestess Rexa’s methods.

“We will be kind and call the Klugite raiders by another name. Teachers of Lord Klug worship.” I wave my finger at my daughter.

“They would invite themselves into a valley and prepare the way by shouting from the highest hill about the glory of Klug. They would leave in peace if that didn’t gather a favourable response. After many days, they would return by stealth and kidnap any leaders or their families as hostages. These were to bargain with, and if those methods failed, they would put to the sword all non-believers.”

“The short version of the story, husband.”

I clear my throat and continue. “Then the priestesses visited and converted any left to worship Klug. Many fled as far as their legs could take them. Those who escaped founded Hobgoblin Town. The heavy forest at the valley entrance was a deterrent. The grass plains provided the town with plenty of warning. In fact, it was mentioned that an army would take more than a day to cross. The residents of Hobgoblin Town could either ambush the invaders or set the plains on fire if the winds were favourable.”

Colour drains from her face. “Where are these raiders now?”

“Hopefully, they are battling to force their way into Lord Farmer Hob Valley, but more likely, they find out that High Priestess Rexa has died. Do they wander off in dismay? Attack hoping to elevate their choice for High Priestess or swear loyalty to the new High Priestess. Unfortunately, I think the new High Priestess of the Klugites has probably sent spies north to intercept any returning raiders to enlighten them about the alternative.”

Zina turns a chair at the long table around and slumps into it. Her frown is deep.

“How much time, father?”

“Best we ask another.” I bellow my following words. “Enter Klugak!”

The throne room double doors swing open. Klugak and his son, my son-in-law, Kreldak, enter. Once they cross the threshold, my honour guards close the doors.

“Lord, I must report some challenging news.” His hand rests on his son’s shoulder. “Some of which only came to light because of my son’s bravery.”

“First things first.” I eye Kreldak. “Is my daughter well, son-in-law?”

He stutters. “Y… yes, Lord. She has been unhappy during my absence in your service, but I intend to console her once our business concludes.”

Klugak mutters under his breath. His bitterness overcomes his good sense, a serious lapse on his part, being the professional groveler.

“And Klugak, I share your pain. The disappearance of my Thalgora, losing your Klaria while under Lord Klar’s protection, is harrowing to accept when other lessor wives and concubines of his still draw breath.”

His spittle flies free. “He has lost more, Lord. Rumour suggests his vicious pet, the killer Duzsia and the wanton slut Izga are no more. But unlike me, Lord, you still hope Thalgora will return. After all, they say none have sighted Lord Klar for many ten days, and his Chief Scribe commands in his stead. I have yet to see a scribe defeat a blade, yet there you have it.”

Daughters have no value until they do, it seems. My grovelling ally may no longer be an ally. I must reconsider my plan.

“Yes, several unfortunate events have befallen Lord Klar, but enough of him. What can you tell me about your diplomatic mission?”

He bows his head. “They are in shambles for now. The planning of the town, though, is immaculate. A plot of land for every service, future wards and even an allowance for the future construction of outside and internal walls. They say three thousand can live there behind walls when finished. Then there is the Temple. We couldn’t get close and needed to depend on gossip. Grandiose. Especially if the quantity of quarried stone is any sign. Many of the faithful have grown food in vegetable plots near their houses, but the cold is against them, of course.” He pauses and thrusts out a hand towards Zinia, his fingers wiggling.

She glances at me, and I flash her a brief nod.

“Loyal Klugak, please partake of Lord Torngul’s hospitality.” She hands him a tankard of mead, although he needs to stretch slightly to reach it, earning her a dark look.

He takes a swig and continues. “They all work for a High Priestess, a beauty beyond imagination. My son and I swear this is true. She was polite, but questioning us as much as we questioned her, each trying to trade lessor information for more valuable missives.”

I lean forward on my throne. “You haven’t mentioned their food supply? Surely vegetable plots can’t keep them all fed this time of year?”

“No, Lord.” He steps back and places his hand on his son’s shoulder, and I am confident he motions him forward. “I ordered my son to remain behind to spy on them from afar.”

“L … Lord. We observed from across the river, well hidden, for days. After a time, we didn’t see the beautiful High Priestess. Another, much younger, either commanded the Klugites in her name or her own. She ducked their heads in the water, and they changed once she brought them back. They hung on her every word, redouble their efforts at their tasks.”

I murmur, “This is bad. The Klugite ritual is in our valley.” After too long, I realise my words have silenced the room. “Anything else?”

He tells me about the carts carrying food from the nearby goblin village and confirms that wouldn’t be enough. Trade or intimidation, he couldn’t confirm. Then he told us about the goblins spying on the Klugites. They ambushed a group of Klugites at the ford, heading, he thought, towards Hobgoblin Town. More remarkable were the goblins, who needed to drag the hobgoblins out of the water, behead them, and burn the bodies and heads separately. They also took a hostage with them. Most of these goblins, he thought, left the valley with the hostage. Some remained to spy on the town from the exact spot he did, across the river from the town.

“Loyal Klugak and Kreldak, please leave with my thanks, as I need some time to consider a suitable reward for your efforts.”

They both bow and leave, although Klugak’s jealous glance at Zinia hints at his true feelings.

Once the doors close, Tinia jumps from her chair and races to stand before me, waving her fists. “Kreldak can’t scout, let alone survive for long away from servants meeting his every need! Klugak, not much better. That was a farce.”

I spread my hands wide before her. “But daughter, I know awarding Klugak Clan Head of The Runner Clan would be folly. Kreldak impressed me, and I believe he deserves a reward.”

“What game are you playing with me?”

“How do you explain their report?”

“The father would have represented you while the son stayed hidden and safe in Hobgoblin Town. Klugak wouldn’t risk him, but he needed to disappear if he suddenly became a master spy. How is that for a start?”

“Yes, and I will make the second part easier for you.” Her hands rest on her hips. So challenging. “When I kept Sakvorpa’s goblins, I did so, thinking that her goblin spies would take refuge amongst them. Lie low until the Clans settled. I think I have had some success, but not as much as I thought.”

“You think Klugak, or his son, secured one or more of them somehow?”

I raise my index finger high. “Yes! He reported like trying to remember a report, not as an eyewitness. There must have been more than one, though. One would always have to watch the town. It would be madness not to.”

“Do you think they watch the Klugites even now?” asks my wife.

“Yes. Several probably, as they would need to spare one occasionally to report back.”

“Which means, husband, the other group of goblins have lost the few they left behind to watch the town.”

I rub my chin. “Yes. But what to do now?”

Zinia’s mischievous giggles draw our attention. “You could award The Runner Clan Head to Kreldak, as you suggested, to see if he would remain loyal to his father, but at the very least, they would keep each other occupied.”

Trela leans over, rubbing her shoulder on mine. “He would, at the very least, feel obligated to report to you, given your generosity. In the meantime, you can try to fish out the goblin spies you have hiding amongst your slaves. I will begin warming Hobgoblin Town up to the idea of arming the goblins to defend and possibly die instead of them.”

“Wonderful!”

“Father…” Zinia bats her eyelids. I am in shock! What happened to proving herself? “I would like to find the goblin spies.”

I frown. “You despise goblins?”

“Yes. But if I am to lead them in defence of Hobgoblin Town. I will need to get to know them.”

Trela and I share a glance and then a chuckle.

Zinia’s fists rest on her hips. “Why not, father? I am not stupid enough to fight in the front line, but I should be clever enough to organise goblins in battle. How hard can it be?”

“Yes, daughter, how hard could it be?” I lean back into my throne. “They are yours to find. Depending on how that goes, I will consider the other.”

“Thank you, father. I will rest as I have a long night ahead of me.”

---

“Why did you encourage her husband?”

“It will keep her busy and in Hobgoblin Town. Plus, she needs to grow. She recognised that someone would need to command and organise them but not lead them into battle. I hope.”

“They are such fickle creatures, so I will watch her.” There is a motherly tone in his voice, entirely unexpected.

“Yes, dear. Now I must ask the son back to reward him and provoke his father to jealousy.”

P.S. If you are not reading this chapter for free on Royal Road or Scribble Hub, then the website you are on has stolen my story.