A Stab in the Dark

The air in the goblin cave still hung thick with the stench of damp earth and something far less pleasant – the coppery tang of blood. Our wounds, thankfully, were mostly superficial, a testament to Roric’s gruff but effective training and Lyra’s surprisingly nimble healing skills. Even so, the exhaustion was a lead weight in my bones. We’d stumbled out of the goblin’s lair, battered but alive, into the pale, unforgiving light of dawn.

Bowen, ever the pragmatist, was already checking the straps on his axe, his brow furrowed with a familiar blend of worry and determination. Lyra, her dark hair a tangled mess, was tending to a shallow gash on my arm, her touch gentle as a butterfly’s wing. Hope, her bow slung across her back, stood a little apart, her green eyes scanning the surrounding woods with an almost unnerving intensity. She looked like a watchful doe, beautiful and yet ready to bolt at the slightest disturbance.

Roric, leaning heavily on his hammer, grunted, his gaze fixed on Keal. The mysterious boy, usually so contained, seemed to vibrate with an unsettling energy. His daggers, usually sheathed with an almost obsessive neatness, were now clutched loosely in his hands, his knuckles white. He hadn’t said a word since we’d escaped the goblins, his silence more unnerving than any outburst.