After being scolded—no, furiously reprimanded—by Chancellor Lazalit, the dwarven assassins had been forced into high gear. Their search for Mimi was no longer methodical or discreet. It was desperate. Urgent.
Officially, they were members of the Royal Palace’s elite covert unit. Unofficially, they were assassins, professionals trained to carry out the kingdom’s darkest commands, no matter how dirty or morally gray. Orders from above were never questioned. Not aloud.
“This is definitely where Kuusha fell,” said Linden, the unit’s captain, crouched near a patch of dried blood in the forest underbrush.
The current team consisted of five operatives. Each one had been handpicked, not just from among the special forces but from within the elite. They were the best of the best.
“Judging by the trail,” Linden continued, pointing through the trees, “they went that way.”
“Captain…”
The voice came from behind him. It was quiet, hesitant.
Linden turned his head. “What is it, Rumalus?”
Rumalus stood a few paces back, shoulders tense, face troubled.
“I just… I still can’t bring myself to accept this mission,” he said, eyes fixed on the ground. “Lady Mimi hasn’t done anything wrong. Nothing. And yet… we’re supposed to kill her? The chancellor says the kingdom will suffer calamity even if she’s outside our borders, but… is that really true?”
Linden exhaled through his nose. “You’re not the only one who’s reluctant. None of us is happy about this. But we don’t have a choice.”
“Why not?” Rumalus shot back. “Can’t we just say we tried? Lie a little? Say we killed her but couldn’t recover the body?”
Linden’s expression darkened. “You’re still young,” he said quietly. “You don’t understand what that man is really like.”
“You mean the chancellor? I know he’s intimidating, but… what do you mean, really like?”
“There’s no lying to him. None. If he even suspects you’ve deceived him, we’re dead. Doesn’t matter how long we’ve served the kingdom or how loyal we’ve been. He’ll have us executed without hesitation. And not just us, Rumalus. Our families, too. Women. Children. No one’s off limits.”
His voice dropped lower, colder.
“If you want to keep breathing, and if you want your loved ones to stay safe, then you do the job. No matter how distasteful it is. You do the job. Or are you telling me you’re ready to die for your principles?”
“N-No, that’s not what I meant,” Rumalus stammered, visibly paling.
“Then don’t say another word,” Linden snapped, his glare cutting deep.
Chastened, Rumalus looked away, shoulders slumped, shame flickering across his face. He said nothing further, but the doubt still lingered in his eyes.
Though faint, the traces of Kuusha’s blood were still there: subtle smears and specks clinging to roots and undergrowth. The elite dwarven unit pressed on, following every thread of evidence with an almost terrifying precision.
Then, suddenly—
“What is this?”
Linden halted. His voice was quiet and cautious.
Before them, deep in the forest, stood a wall. Not a natural formation; it was unmistakably created by someone. A defensive structure. A perimeter.
None of them had ever heard of a town existing in this part of the forest. No maps listed it. No rumors even hinted at it. And it wasn’t clear whether the place was inhabited or abandoned.
As they watched from the cover of the trees, movement caught their eye: figures patrolling the top of the wall. Goblins.
“Is this… a goblin town?” Linden muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice.
“There’s no way they built something like that on their own,” one of the others said, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” another corrected, “look closer. They’re Hobgoblins. Evolved. In that state, their intelligence is much higher. They could build something like this. They might even be capable of forming a society.”
The sight of the town changed everything. Up until now, they’d assumed Mimi was dead. Realistically, it had seemed the most likely outcome. But now? After discovering a fortified settlement in the middle of the forest, guarded by evolved goblins? The possibility that their target had survived suddenly didn’t seem so far-fetched.
In dwarven society, the image of goblins wasn’t quite as vicious as it was in human culture. While they were still considered dangerous monsters, there was less of a blanket assumption that they were incapable of reason. It wasn’t unthinkable that intelligent goblins might have taken Mimi in.
“But if that’s the case,” Rumalus said, stepping forward, “we’ve got a real problem. Just look at the size of that wall. That kind of structure couldn’t be built by a small group. There must be a sizable population inside. There are only five of us; we can’t take this place by force.”
Despite the grim words, a faint note of hope colored his voice.
“This isn’t the time to be happy,” Linden said sharply. “If Mimi is being sheltered in there, and we return to say the mission’s impossible… what do you think happens next?”
“What do you mean? I mean, if it’s not possible, then surely they’ll understand…” Rumalus said, his voice rising slightly, clinging to a sliver of hope he already knew was foolish.
“They won’t,” Linden cut in coldly, his eyes like flint. “Failure equals death. That’s how we’re supposed to think. So, start thinking that way.”
The color drained from every face.
“But I wonder if there’s any way for us to make this work,” Linden said, his tone dropping to something more measured. “We’ll talk. Think it through. There has to be a solution.”
With that, the elite dwarven operatives gathered in a tight circle beneath the trees, their expressions tense as they began to exchange ideas, desperately seeking a way to fulfill the mission without digging their own graves. Any reckless plans involving a suicidal charge were immediately rejected. Rumalus, still clinging to hesitation, once again suggested they simply report that Mimi had died, but that too was dismissed. Lying would never work. The chancellor would find out. He always did.
Then, cautiously, one of the soldiers raised a hand…
“What if the goblins inside actually helped Lady Mimi? If that’s the case… wouldn’t they be at least somewhat willing to treat us peacefully as well?” he said, his voice quiet and thoughtful, as if trying to balance hope against the weight of their grim reality.
All eyes turned to him as he laid out the idea. If these goblins had gone so far as to protect Mimi, they might be open to receiving others, especially if those others didn’t pose a threat. They wouldn’t reveal their true identities as assassins, of course. That would be suicide. Instead, they would pose as knights sent to rescue her. Injuries could be faked to add credibility. If they played the part well enough, they might be allowed inside.
Fortunately, members of the royal special forces were trained in multiple languages. Among the five operatives here, not all were fluent, but one—Linden—could speak goblin well enough to hold a convincing conversation. That was all they needed. Once inside, they’d wait for the right moment, eliminate Mimi, retrieve her magicite, and escape.
“But what if the goblins kill dwarves on sight?” one of them asked grimly. “That’s a real possibility. This could be suicide.”
“We’ll have to accept a certain level of risk,” another said. “We’re trained for this. If things go wrong, we’re capable of retreating. And if they are hostile to dwarves, then Mimi’s likely already dead. That’s valuable intel too.”
Linden narrowed his eyes. “We wouldn’t be able to prove it. Even if hostility suggests she’s been killed, we’ll need more than an assumption. We have to be absolutely certain of her death before we return.”
“I understand that,” the soldier replied. “But at the very least, we need to confirm if she’s in there. If things fall apart, we improvise from there.”
Linden fell silent, considering the strategy. He didn’t like it. Too many unknowns. Too many ways it could go wrong. But the truth was, he didn’t have a better plan.
This one wasn’t foolproof. But it was something.
“All right,” he said finally, voice resolute. “Let’s do it.”
And with that, the mission shifted from execution to infiltration.
“If we show up with someone who’s injured, it might earn their sympathy and get us through the gate,” one of the soldiers suggested, voice measured, “but the downside is obvious: if the goblins turn hostile, it’ll be harder to retreat.”
“In other words,” Linden replied, crossing his arms, “whoever plays the wounded one has to be ready to be used as bait.”
“Preferably someone fast enough to escape even while injured,” another added.
A beat of silence. Then—
“So that means me, doesn’t it?” Rumalus muttered, his shoulders sagging as he let out a quiet sigh, already regretting where this conversation was going. Among the five of them, he was unquestionably the fastest. Even by special forces standards, his speed was exceptional, an entire tier above the rest. That gift now painted a target on him.
Of course, he hated it.
He already had reservations about the mission. Doubts. Regrets. Now he was being asked to play the role most likely to get him killed. He’d always known a soldier in the special forces wouldn’t die peacefully, but this? This felt particularly cruel.
Still… an order was an order.
“Rumalus,” Linden said calmly. “You’ll be the one to take the wound.”
“Understood,” Rumalus said quietly, his jaw clenched as he swallowed his protests, burying the fear beneath a soldier’s mask of obedience. He wanted to say no. Desperately. But he resisted, opting instead for forced composure.
“The wound has to be convincing,” Linden continued. “Too light, and they’ll suspect a trap once we’re inside. But too deep, and you’ll bleed out before we can move. We’ll go for a clean hit to the abdomen, not the legs. You’ll need your mobility.”
“Leave it to me,” said one of the others, already drawing his knife.
The dwarves of the special forces were trained not just in assassination and infiltration, but also in torture and field medicine. They knew exactly how deep to cut, how much blood to draw, how much pain a dwarf could take without compromising the mission.
The blade slashed across Rumalus’s lower abdomen. Blood welled up immediately. It was deep enough that any onlooker would be convinced, but it was not fatal.
It was, however, a wound that would send most writhing in agony, maybe even fainting from shock. Rumalus, on the other hand, merely grimaced. His brow twitched and his breath caught, but he didn’t cry out. He had been trained to endure far worse. To resist pain. Never to break under interrogation or torture. Like every elite in the unit, his tolerance was unnatural.
“All right,” Linden said quietly. “Let’s move.”
Without another word, the group began its approach toward the fortified gate.