The first breath of life is a strange thing. For most, it is instinctual, a rush of survival, the beginning of a path paved by hunger, pain, and the drive to live. But for one, it was different...
In the depths of a dimly lit cave, where the air was thick and heavy, there was a stir in the shadows. A faint cry echoed through the cavern, quickly swallowed by the deep silence that followed.
The walls, damp with the weight of years, bore ancient markings—carvings so weathered and faint they could have been mistaken for random scratches. Yet their meaning was lost to time.
For the time being, none paid attention to these signs.
There was nothing to be learned from them—at least, not by those who lived here.
The cave floor was scattered with small bundles of dirt and tattered cloth, each one hiding a tiny, newborn.
In the dim light, the newborn green creatures lay curled in the dirt, their small forms twitching slightly in response to the rhythm of the world around them.
Their bodies were fragile, their eyes still closed, but their hunger was already fierce.
Step—!
The silence of the cave was broken by a low shuffle—soft, barely audible, yet unmistakable in its intent.
The shadows in the cave shifted, and soon, a large form loomed over the tiny, bundled figures on the ground.
Its presence was imposing, yet it was small—hunched, green, and gnarled, barely towering over the newborns
Its skin was rough and mottled, dark green with patches of brown, and its sharp, beady yellow eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.
Small, crooked tusks jutted from its lower jaw, and its hands, gnarled and calloused, moved with careful precision.
A Goblin.
The adult goblin—its form hidden in the half-light—paused for a moment, surveying the scattered and hungry infants.
There was no hurry in its movements, only a purposeful rhythm.
Gi—Gi!
Hearing the cries of hunger, the hands of the adult goblin reached down to the ground, and from the darkness, long, wriggling worms were pulled from the earth, squirming eagerly in the adult's grasp.
One by one, the adult goblin threw the worms toward the bundles of cloth.
The newborns, weak and hungry, reacted instinctively.
Their sharp, small teeth sank into the squirming creatures as they cried out in hunger, "Gi!" Their voices were high-pitched, despite their small frame, a sound of primal need.
The worms were devoured quickly, their wriggling bodies no match for the overwhelming hunger of the goblin infants.
Yet, amid the wails and cries of hunger, one newborn did not lunge toward the food.
It remained still, its tiny yellow beady eyes wide and unblinking as it stared at the wriggling worm in front of face.
Like its kin, it cried out, hunger gnawing at its tiny form.
Yet, when the worm was thrown before it, something flickered in its eyes—another hunger, deeper and unknown.
Its tiny hands twitched, but instead of lunging forward, It stared at the wriggling creature, not with mere instinct, but with curiosity, as if searching for something more.
The worm writhed, instinctively fleeing its fate—like all things that live
While its brothers and sisters devoured their food with frenzied urgency, this one simply watched, its wide, curious eyes fixed on the wriggling creature before it.
The adult goblin, noticing the strange stillness in the tiny one's gaze, paused for a moment, its eyes narrowing as it looked at the newborn who didn't move to feed.
Then, without hesitation, the adult scooped the tiny goblin up by the neck, the almost-escaping worm writhing in its other hand.
Dangling in its grasp, the newborn did not struggle, its gaze unwavering, filled with the same strange curiosity.
The tiny goblin blinked, glancing from the worm to the adult's face. Its head tilted slightly—as if trying to comprehend the strange motions of the world around it.
Go?
The sound was faint, uncertain—almost a question.
But before an answer could come—
Gup! …burp!
The adult goblin shoved the worm into the newborn's mouth.
Instinct took over. Its small teeth sank into the wriggling flesh, and in moments, it swallowed, letting out a tiny, involuntary burp.
Satisfied, the adult goblin wasted no time. It moved with brisk, practiced motions, ensuring that each newborn had eaten.
Those who had already devoured their worms whimpered softly, their small bodies twitching as the warmth of food settled in their bellies.
A yawn—then another.
One by one, the newborns' cries faded, replaced by slow, heavy breaths.
Their tiny bodies curled instinctively into the dirt, the exhaustion of birth overtaking them.
Even the strange one, the last to eat, drowsily fixed its gaze on the adult, its small fingers twitching before its heavy eyelids finally shut.
The adult let out a quiet grunt. Its work was done.
Without another word, it turned and retreated into the shadows, its heavy steps disappearing into the depths of the cave.
The dim light swallowed its form as it disappeared into the depths of the cave, leaving only the soft sound of sleeping breaths behind.
Silence returned, For now, the newborns slept.
...
Time passed quickly, especially for the infant goblins. By the fifth day, their once fragile bodies had grown to the size of children.
Goblins, though often considered weak, were feared and hunted by many—not for their strength, but for their rapid growth and overwhelming numbers.
They could be found anywhere in the realm, multiplying at an alarming rate, and in mere days, a newborn could become a child.
Gi!—Gi!
The cries that had once been driven by hunger were now filled with a new urgency—a thirst not only for food but for exploration, for play.
They were creatures eager to discover the world beyond their brooding chambers.
But on this day, the day the goblins transitioned from newborns to children, something was different.
The sharp clink of metal rang through the air, growing louder with every step.
Two goblins, towering and clad in rusted helmets, entered the cave. Their presence was imposing, and the dull gleam of their iron spears shimmered faintly in the dim light.
Behind them, a third figure followed—unlike any other goblin.
This one was draped in a tattered cloak, dark and stained, with a large cane crowned with a skull and tusks.
His eyes gleamed with an unnatural intelligence, His presence twisted the very air around him.
The elite goblins stood motionless, their gaze sharp and unyielding.
The young goblins—no longer infants, but now fully-fledged children—fell silent.
The cave itself seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the visitors' presence pressing down on everything.
The cloaked goblin moved between the two elite goblins, each step slow and deliberate, the air thickening around him.
The children felt it—how small they suddenly seemed, how fragile.
Stopping between the spear-wielding goblins, the cloaked figure finally spoke.
His voice was broken and eerie, each word deliberate as though dragged from the depths of an ancient memory.
"No... more... free... food," he rasped, his voice like the creaking of old bones.
The echo of his voice settled in the cave, his words hanging heavy in the air.
The young goblins, still confused, watched the cloaked goblin with wide, uncertain eyes.
One of the young goblins, trembling with fear-fueled aggression, bared its tiny fangs.
It growled, defiant, yellow eyes narrowed.
The elite goblins, standing like towering shadows, were quick to react, their iron spears raised in warning as they stepped forward to discipline the rebellious child.
Humph!
But before the guards could strike, a low grunt escaped the cloaked figure's lips.
His hand rose slowly, fingers outstretched. The guards froze in place, their weapons halting mid-motion.
"Wind..." the cloaked goblin muttered, his voice barely a whisper, yet it carried with an unsettling authority. His fingers pointed toward the defiant goblin.
In an instant, the air around the child warped.
Swoosh—!
A violent gust exploded from his fingers, tearing through the cave.
The wind sliced through the young goblin's frail body with brutal force—its flesh disintegrated in a flash.
Bone and blood scattered, torn apart in an instant.
The screeching, gurgling scream of the goblin filled the air for a mere moment before it was swallowed by the howling wind.
With a single, sharp slam of his cane against the ground, the cloaked figure silenced the cave.
The wind stilled immediately, leaving only the stench of blood and the deafening quiet.
His glowing eyes swept over the young goblins, fear and awe reflected in their wide eyes. His voice rumbled like thunder.
"Weak... die... Strong... hunt... eat."
Without another word, the cloaked goblin turned and began to leave, his footsteps slow and measured. The elite guards followed in his wake, their faces hidden by their helmets.
As the cloaked goblin vanished into the shadows, a heavy silence settled over the cave.
The small goblins huddled, trembling in fear, the scent of blood thick in the air and the sight of their mangled kin still fresh in their minds.
Yet, amidst the fear, one child remained unmoving. Its tiny form stood eerily still, unblinking, eyes locked on the shattered remains of its kin.
While the others cowered, the child's gaze lingered for just a moment longer, fixated on the broken body, before it turned—quietly, deliberately—toward the darkened path the cloaked figure had taken.
Then, in the suffocating silence, it spoke its first words…
"…Wind?"
...….
UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 2 - The Meaning of the Hunt.
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