The sky was gray with dawn, the kind of light that hung between two worlds. Not quite night. Not fully day. Neither warm nor cold. Neither bright nor dim.
The goblin village was still.
No hammering. No drills. Not even the wind stirred the leaves.
Lumberling sat alone beneath the old tree that overlooked the edge of the crop fields. His legs were crossed, spine resting against the coarse bark. His spear lay beside him, untouched. His eyes were dull, shadowed by sleepless nights. For days now, his mind had been restless, haunted by foreign instincts, unnatural urges, fractured memories that weren't his.
No amount of sparring, planning, or quiet strategy dulled it. Silence, he'd learned, only made it louder.
Skitz had stayed with him some nights, offering ideas, even trying to joke the darkness away. But nothing worked. And the look in Skitz's eyes last night said what neither of them wanted to admit.
Even his most loyal warrior couldn't help him.
