Even though the sun had only barely peeked over the horizon, the camp of our warband was as alive─and as angry─ as an anthill being stepped on by a careless boot.


    Everywhere you looked the nimble shapes of goblins scurried between the unwashed, flea-ridden bodies of orcs and gnolls, darting under hanging weapons and squeezing through half-collapsed tents. Some were lugging freshly forged blades, still searing to the touch, while others were barely visible behind piles of ragged scraps of clothing in desperate need of washing.


    And then there were the lucky ones─entire packs working in unison to remove the night’s unfortunates, hauling the bodies from whatever ditch they had been dumped into to have them put to better use.


    Accidental death by a slit throat or a crushed skull was a common night-time risk in a war camp of this size. And despite the frequent and brutal loss of life the warband never seemed to shrink─there were always more Defiled drawn to our warchief’s banner, ready to devote their sometimes drastically short lives to his service.


    Everywhere, fights broke out─some to show strength, others out of boredom or pure malice. Any goblin worth their skin had learned the hard way how to spot trouble before it started, and the best would quickly find detours through the shifting corridors of crudely pitched tents, reeking latrine ditches and the massive, snoring hulks of drunken ogres to get their jobs done without hassle.


    Of course, there was no escaping dumb luck─ more than a few times I had been forced to witness a hapless runt suddenly ripped apart between the steel jaws of an ornery gnoll, or used as an impromptu target practice by hobgoblin archers desperate for entertainment, all the while thinking to myself how lucky I was that it hadn’t been me.


    Once you gathered thousands of Defiled together in one place, it didn’t matter how much they hated each other''s guts─under a strong enough leader, they would form into something terrifying: a rotting, writhing mass of sharp steel and pure hatred, moving forward until they finally crashed upon the walls of the Chosen.


    And then, as always, some hero’s blade would cut clean through the warchief’s neck and we would all fall into disarray, taking years to recover from the inevitable bloodshed and infighting for the title of warchief that was soon to follow… after which the cycle would begin anew.


    And maybe that was just the way of things.


    Addrahk was not my first warchief. Gods willing, he would not be my last. This was the only world I had ever known─this endless, ravenous and self-consuming cycle of hatred and bloodshed.


    Yet…


    One day I would learn that it didn’t have to be this way.


    At the moment, however, these things were far from my mind. I was following behind Gakk and the others of my pack as our leader steered us towards the warboss’ encampment, snaking a path between crowds of greenskins, hound-like gnolls and the odd mercenary party─ looking possibly even more out of place and more uncomfortable than us goblins ─ trying to avoid unwanted attention.


    I lagged behind, still trying to make sense of it. Just like Mokhtan, I had seen something in Frink’s eyes. Another person. And I knew—without a doubt—that it was her. Just as the suit-wearing man and the orc had been one and the same. It had been just a flash, what could only amount to a few seconds, but the image had burned itself onto my retinas.


    I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How had it happened, and why me? Had someone done something to me? A curse, a hex, a trick of the gods? Was I unknowingly triggering something each time I met someone''s gaze? It made the most sense, but I couldn’t see why they’d do it. I was just V?rt, one of thousands of worthless little goblins serving one of hundreds of warbands across the world. I was nothing special. I had no blessings, no birthrights, no fate. There was nothing I owned that was worth stealing. Just another faceless runt alive only through sheer luck.


    Why had Frink not confronted me about it? It was obvious I’d scared her, but she hadn’t said a word to me after it happened. Did she not remember? Mokhtan had, clearly, but Frink seemed to have forgotten whatever she had experienced, now busy chatting with the twins.


    The ice-cold grip on my mind had faded, but a creeping dread took its place. Would these visions keep coming—until I lost myself in someone else’s long-forgotten life?


    But if Mokhtan, that despicable orc, had been human, and if Frink had as well… then what about me?


    Had I also lived as a human once?


    The thought was absurd and I wanted to dismiss it outright; I had only rarely met their kind, but at least I was more familiar with them than elves or dwarfs; after all, they were more plentiful, and more easily captured. But no matter which way you cut it, I couldn’t even begin to imagine myself having been one of those pale-skinned, tall and short-eared creatures.


    …But the world I had seen─nothing about it was like this one, so then…


    …What did that make me?


    A tide of anxiety welled up inside me, and I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep it from quivering. This wasn’t where my mind should be—I couldn’t afford to get distracted when we were about to make a sneaky grab for safety in the upcoming feast and its bloody aftermath. If I couldn’t pull my weight, I had a growing feeling my pack would eventually decide I was more trouble than I was worth. Gakk had already saved me once, and that alone was unusual. Expecting him to do it again? That would be asking for a miracle.


    <hr>


    Caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t even notice when the others stopped in front of me—until I bumped into Frink, who muttered a hushed curse at me. She barely turned her head to do so, and following her line of sight, I realized why.


    Ahead of us, a small procession of hobgoblins and orcs were entering the encampment, one of the many scouting parties dispatched to ensure that no enemy forces would ambush us ahead of time. A few of the warriors were wounded, wearing their blood-oozing cuts and scrapes with pride. Behind them, a cart carried at least half a dozen bodies—Defiled and Chosen alike—unceremoniously dumped into a pile.


    But that wasn’t what had made my pack go quiet.


    Trailing behind the cart, tied together by a long rope wound around their necks and prodded by gleeful greenskins, were four beaten and broken Chosen.


    Adventurers, judging from their clothes and the large rucksacks piled next to the corpses. Two were male, two female… or so I assumed; three of them hung their heads low in defeat, their features hidden beneath matted hair stiff with dried blood and dirt.


    The fourth, however, left no doubt—she was an elf.


    An elf. Her grace and pride were barely diminished despite her battered state. Her left arm hung uselessly at her side, twisted at a painful angle, and a swollen welt had shut one of her eyes completely. A rag had been stuffed into her mouth and tied tightly around her head—a crude but effective way to silence spellcasters.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Even as an orc kicked her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling onto her broken arm, she did not submit—her one good eye, an icy blue, burning with undisguised contempt. I found myself frozen in place, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before me. Despite everything, I felt a sense of… envy for her. For her strength. And for her beauty.


    The vials of potions and salves tied to her belt shattered as she staggered upright. Her robes—rich dark red with golden embroidery and purple trims—grew even darker as the expensive draughts bled into the fabric.


    I watched as the prisoners were dragged toward the same direction we were heading until they were swallowed by the crowd of ecstatic onlookers who spat and jeered at the fallen heroes. I felt no pity for them, but you must understand that neither did anyone else in that encampment.


    From the day I was born, I had been taught about the Chosen. No matter how much the orcs beat me, no matter how many of my kind were killed for sport by creatures bigger and meaner than us, the Chosen would always be the blood enemies of all green skin.


    I didn’t hate them—not the way some goblins did. Watching them was like seeing a swan led to the butcher’s block. Beautiful, otherworldly… but in the end, it would be plucked, gutted, and boiled into something unrecognizable.


    Seeing them enter our camp, even in the state they were in, was like watching beings from another world where even their suffering was beautiful and more noble than ours—but that didn’t change who they were to us. They were Chosen, our blood enemies. And in this world, there was no mercy between us. Not for them. Not for us. Had they caught any of us, the most mercy we could hope for would be a quick death.


    Yet I couldn''t stop thinking about her. The way she held herself, unbroken. The way she stared down her fate as if daring it to blink first. I had done the same. And for the first time, I wondered—if I had been born different, would I have been standing in her place?


    "V?rt!" Frink snapped her clawed fingers in front of my face and I stumbled back, baring my fangs in surprise. "What’s wrong with V?rt? Been acting weird!" The look on her face was similar to what I had seen on Gakk’s last night. Worry. For a second I thought it was genuine concern, but I knew better; among goblins, there’s a fair bit of leeway when it comes to crazy; everyone copes with the harshness of our reality in whatever ways they can but there’s unstable… and then there’s unreliable. Or worse: untrustworthy.


    I tried forcing a disarming smile as I spit on the ground roughly in the direction of where the Chosen prisoners had been taken. "V?rt is fine. Just tired from beating yesterday."


    I shot a furtive glance at Gakk, knowing I was skirting the events of yesterday, but he was busy explaining to Sodd and Modd what they were going to do to the prisoners. Frink, however, noticed my glance at Gakk and lowered her voice:


    "V?rt and Gakk act weird all morning. Frink notices things." She pressed a claw against my collarbone, slow enough that I could feel it bite into my skin. "V?rt better stop being weird… or maybe another goblin gets a chance to serve food at the feast."


    I waited for the second shoe to drop… but it never came, so I nodded slowly, feeling a trickle of cold sweat down my spine. I had seen what Frink could do to those she didn’t like and I had no wish to add my teeth to her collection.


    For a few seconds, she just stared, her expression unreadable—but even without meeting her gaze, I could feel the weight of it, measuring, weighing. When her shoulders finally relaxed, I wasn’t sure if she was satisfied… or just disappointed she wouldn’t be getting another couple of molars.


    "Don’t fall behind, V?rt. Not again." There was a sudden, slight smirk on her lips, but even though I had known her for years now, I had no idea what was going on inside her mind.


    I didn’t question it. I just nodded and hurried to catch up with the others..


    <hr>


    "For the last time Gakk," Harrad grumbled as he hefted a massive pot of boiling stew off the crude fireplace and onto an oaken bench, charred black from years of use in the field kitchens. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty rag, the old dwarf shoved the one-eyed goblin out of the way as he continued his work. "If Addrahk finds out I’m playing favorites with his goblins, the next time one of his patrols go out they’ll come back with a new cook who’ll be serving dwarf stew."


    Despite being a Chosen, Harrad had spent enough time as a slave that he’d learned the harsh, biting language of the greenskins, not to mention the pecking order. Gakk could hiss and spit and threaten as much as he wanted, but the dwarf knew that a Chosen slave was far more valuable than some wrinkled little runt with a chip on his shoulder.


    "Gakk not asking much… just little favor between friends, eh?" our pack leader tried, changing the tune of his voice into a more pleading one, "...Dwarf know Gakk is good on word, yes? Remember? Gakk got dwarf new knife!"


    "You sure did," Harrad bit back, "and I spent an entire afternoon polishing the rust off," he nodded to the bench where a knife barely big enough to peel grapes lay unused and abandoned. "And it’s Harrad, goblin."


    The two stared at each other at an impasse, neither side wanting to budge. I could see it─Gakk was losing him. If we wanted this job, we’d need more than rusty knives and empty favors. And then─an idea hit me.


    "Sodd? Modd?" I said loud enough for the dwarf to hear me, but not too loud for it to be obvious I was speaking to everyone. The twins’ ears immediately perked up as they both spun on their heels to look at me.


    "Did Sodd and Modd not say that dire wolf keeper was cooking meat with special spice?" My mind was racing to come up with a good enough lie that would catch the dwarf’s attention and I felt my pulse quicken, my heart thumping against my ribs. I had no idea how smart this Chosen was, but what I did know was that Gakk had no more tricks up his sleeve─and we couldn’t lose this chance.


    For a moment there was a very awkward silence before Sodd’s confused face turned to look at Modd, his mouth opening─


    "Yes!" Frink suddenly cut in, stepping forward before either could ruin it as smooth as if she’d planned this lie all along. Her confidence was enough to distract Harrad from catching on to the fact that the twins had no idea what was going on. "Frink remember! Modd and Sodd so full they roll back to camp! Orc say spice make even wolf turds taste great, yes?"


    Modd froze mid-though, his expression still halfway to saying ''What?'' but Frink wasn’t looking at him─her eyes were locked on Harrad.


    The dwarf pretended not to listen, his hands deep in a bucket of water as he washed and scrubbed some beets for the warchief’s lunch. He wasn’t looking at us, but the beet in his hand had been scrubbed raw with no sign of the dwarf stopping.


    "Yes yes!" I continued, shooting a thankful glance at Frink, my heart racing as I kept building on the lie. "Saw where orc keeps spice too," we had the fish hooked, despite our meager bait, but now we had to reel it in. I lowered my voice slightly, as if I only now realized that the dwarf might be listening in, "Tied it high up in tent, yes? Means it important. Orc trust Sodd and Modd because they so good at cleaning, always do what told. If we get spice…" I hesitated and shot a glance over at Harrad─


    ─who immediately resumed scrubbing the beet,


    "...we give to other Chosen─someone who gets us in warchief’s tent."


    I let the words hang in the air.


    Tension coiled in Harrad’s shoulders, his brow furrowing in inner conflict. The beets lay forgotten in the bucket. Gakk was silent, licking his lips nervously as he glanced from us to the dwarf, worried the plan would fail.


    Just one more push…


    "Gakk, we go." Frink muttered, turning as if she were done with the whole thing. Her voice was curt, frustrated─like she was giving up. "Come."


    And the fish was in the bucket.


    "Now that I think about it…"


    Harrad’s voice came slow, deliberate. He stood up, running his wett hands through his brown, tangled beard. His beady eyes glared at me from beneath two bushy, beetle-like eyebrows─and I could tell he knew he was being played. But he also knew a good deal when he heard one.


    "Gorma’s pack has been showing up late and hung over one too many times and I’ve been meaning to kick them out of helping me." He tapped his fingers against his belt, pretending like he was still weighing his decision. "You can take their place, but if they come complaining─" his eyes narrowed, "I’ll tell them it was you lot who took their jobs."


    Gorma. Not the worst enemy to have in the camp, but far from the best. Despite the laziness of her pack, she had a reputation to uphold and years of working in the kitchens meant she was closely familiar with all the knives and forks you’d find in there. Not to mention that she knew the warchief’s slaves and servants well. There was no way she wouldn’t find out before the feast.


    Gakk held out his hand as if to shake on it, but Harrad didn’t even look at him. He was already back to scrubbing his beets, as if the conversation had never happened.


    We had our job.


    Now we just had to survive it.