CHAPTER 147: OUTNUMBERED

The forest was no longer whole. Broken trunks jutted out like bones from the earth, the remnants of once-proud trees now reduced to splinters and shattered bark. The path Steve and Fiona followed was marked by devastation—deep gouges in the soil, heavy footprints, and signs of large bodies trampling through. Goblin tracks.

Steve moved ahead with tense shoulders and clenched fists, his eyes darting restlessly from tree to tree, bush to bush. His grip on his blade was white-knuckled, as though the very air around them might burst into violence. Fiona followed close behind, each of her steps measured, careful not to snap twigs or rustle the foliage too loudly. Both knew: the goblin clan could be anywhere.

They kept moving, deeper into the ruined woods. Lake Renfrew loomed in the distance, its elevated waters catching the glint of daylight. The farther they went, the more surreal it felt—as if the trail had no end, winding endlessly through the forest like some cursed loop. Still, they pressed on. This wasn’t just a pursuit. It was reconnaissance. They needed to understand their enemy—to see where the goblins were going, what they were planning. A head-on clash without knowledge would be suicide.

Hours passed.

The sun dipped slowly behind the canopy, casting the trail in long, shifting shadows. Their boots padded softly against the dirt, nearly silent, yet every sound seemed deafening to their straining ears. The eerie stillness of the woods crept into their bones. Every broken branch, every whisper of wind sounded like a warning.

Fiona’s voice finally broke the silence. A low, uncertain murmur.

"Steve?"

He glanced at her, eyes sharp but tired.

"I don’t think we’re getting anywhere," she muttered. "This trail... it just keeps going. I mean, don’t you think we should take a break? We’ve been walking for hours."

Steve didn’t stop. "We can’t afford to rest. They could be close."

"You said that a while ago too," she countered, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "But look around. The trail’s fresh, yeah, but I doubt they’re still nearby. They’ve probably moved on. Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking."

He hesitated. His jaw tightened. His eyes scanned the darkening woods again.

"I’d rather we keep going," he muttered. "It’s safer. We’re too exposed out here. If we slow down, fine. But stopping is—"

"Steve," she said, stepping in front of him. "You’re exhausted. I can see it. Just give yourself a moment. You’re no good to anyone if you collapse from fatigue."

He groaned, low and reluctant. "Fine. Just a little bit. Then we move."

Fiona smiled faintly and walked over to a massive, moss-covered root, easing herself down onto it with a tired sigh. She leaned back against the tree, letting her muscles finally relax. Steve, however, remained standing. His stance was rigid, alert. Even as he allowed himself a breath, his gaze continued to sweep the treeline, searching for movement—any sign of danger.

After a minute, they reached into their packs, unwrapping a few strips of salted venison—rations from the refugee camp. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to calm the pang in their stomachs. They ate quietly, chewing slowly, listening to the sounds of the forest—or the absence of them.

Time slipped by.

When they were done, Fiona leaned back with her eyes closed, soaking in the moment of peace. But Steve remained restless. He turned and walked a few paces away, crouching beside a broken stump. His fingers brushed the splinters. His eyes narrowed.

So many trees, felled. Dozens—maybe hundreds—toppled like dominos. The devastation stretched farther than he could see. And yet... the area had remained quiet. Unnaturally so. No cries of alarm from nearby outposts. No smoke signals. No refugees reporting sightings.

It didn’t make sense.

His mind raced. Where were they going? The goblins didn’t just destroy for sport. This was controlled, deliberate. And hidden. For them to have kept this level of movement away from the eyes of the camps and scouts meant they were up to something far more organized than he’d imagined.

He stared deeper into the woods, heart thudding with unease.

’Why here? Why now?’

There was, of course, a simple answer. But simplicity rarely survived scrutiny.

The Veil—they had all heard of it. A mysterious shroud cloaking this part of the woods, keeping eyes and ears from piercing too deep. Steve had been thinking about it for hours now, ever since they began tailing the goblin tracks. It was clear that some kind of magic was at work... but the goblins they had seen so far—primitive, savage things—they hadn’t demonstrated any real aptitude for spellcraft. No arcane sigils. No ritual sites. No talismans of power.

The only magical ability they had shown was rudimentary at best—a crude form of cloaking, a way to bend light around their bodies and vanish into shadow. But the Veil? That was something far more advanced. Powerful. Controlled.

Steve’s brow furrowed.

If the goblins didn’t erect the Veil... then who did?

It had to mean something else was at play. Someone else. Perhaps the goblins weren’t alone out here. Perhaps they had an ally. A mage? A summoner? Whatever the answer was, it only raised more questions. But there was one certainty—if they kept following the trail, they’d find what they needed. Answers, or enemies.

Maybe both.

---

Steve Thornton Woodley had just completed a wide circle around their resting spot. Satisfied—for now—that the perimeter was secure, he returned quietly through the broken underbrush. The fading sun left long shadows clawing at the forest floor, and the breeze was still, as if the woods were holding its breath.

He stepped back into the small clearing where he had left Fiona—beneath that old, gnarled tree with its roots twisted like reaching fingers.

Only... she wasn’t there.

He stopped cold.

No movement. No silhouette. No Fiona.

He blinked, frowned, then took a few cautious steps forward. Was this the right spot? He scanned the surroundings. Same moss-covered root. Same pile of dried leaves she had brushed away before sitting.

Yes. This was it.

But the place was empty.

His chest tightened.

"Fiona?" he whispered.

Silence.

His voice was low, barely a breath, not daring to rise above a whisper. He couldn’t risk drawing attention. Not now. Not with enemies possibly nearby. He moved closer to the tree, looking around as he muttered again. "Fiona?"

Still nothing.

His instincts screamed that something was wrong. She wouldn’t just wander off without telling him. She wasn’t that reckless. Especially not here, this deep in hostile territory. He took another step, heart beginning to pound, eyes scanning the brush, the roots, the thick wall of trees all around.

And then he moved.

Swiftly now, weaving between the felled trunks and thick vegetation, he searched—his eyes scanning left, right, left again. Every rustle made his pulse spike. Every shadow seemed to shift. But he didn’t stop.

He dropped to one knee, brushing his fingers over the ground.

There.

Fresh prints.

The goblin tracks were everywhere, a chaotic scattering of clawed feet that crushed the undergrowth with reckless abandon. But just beside them—half-overlapping—was something else.

A footprint.

Delicate. Lighter. Booted. Human.

Female.

His breath caught. Fiona.

The track was fresh. Still pressed firm in the soft earth. She had gone this way—and not long ago.

Why? he thought. Why would she leave the tree? What happened?

He looked again at the goblin prints. Some of them were newer too. Had they circled around? Found her? Taken her?

His grip tightened around the hilt of his blade.

No time to wonder. No time to rest.

He rose and set off into the forest at a sprint, following the trail—each step thudding softly on the forest floor, each breath measured, controlled. The trail was narrow, winding, but he kept his eyes sharp.

Steve pressed onward, legs pumping beneath him as he tore through the underbrush, his breath shallow, controlled. His eyes were locked on the trail—faint but unmistakable impressions in the forest floor, light and narrow. Fiona’s tracks. Still fresh. Still leading forward.

Branches lashed against his arms. Twigs snapped underfoot despite his effort to stay light. Bushes clawed at his legs, trying to slow him down. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His heart thundered against his ribs, not from exhaustion, but from something colder—fear.

The tracks continued in a straight line, no detours, no turns. Fiona hadn’t hesitated. She had either seen something... or been taken.

He pushed harder.

The forest began to close in, darker now, the canopy thickening overhead. Then, ahead—dense shrubs, tall and unyielding. The trail vanished beneath them.

Steve narrowed his eyes, crouched low, and pushed through.

Leaves scraped against his face. Thorns tugged at his clothes. And then—

He stopped.

His body seized up.

What he saw on the other side froze the breath in his throat.

A clearing.

And in it—goblins.

Dozens at first glance. But no, there were more. Hundreds.

They filled the open space like insects spilling from a cracked hive. Clusters of them sat hunched over fire pits, gnawing on bones with jagged teeth. Others wandered, snarling and growling, scratching at their mottled green skin, twitching with nervous energy. Many were thin—malnourished and feral-looking—but their eyes burned with hunger, not weakness.

Weapons were scattered everywhere—crude, brutal things made of bone, rusted metal, and blackened wood. Spears, cleavers, axes. Some goblins clutched them tightly. Others had them strapped to their backs. Not a single one wore armor. Most were naked, their bodies covered in welts, old scars, and dried blood. The air stank of rot and filth.

Steve didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He remained crouched in the shadows, his breath held tight, the shrubs barely concealing him. One step forward, one misplaced sound, and they’d be on him. Tearing. Ripping. Devouring.

His hand drifted slowly toward the hilt of his sword. Not to draw it. Not yet. But just to feel the steel. It grounded him. Reminded him that he wasn’t helpless. Just outnumbered. Terribly outnumbered.