Aester quickly looked behind her, expecting to see some beast stalking her.

  Instead, all she found was a weird-looking child.

  Still, she put distance between them—she didn’t plan to let anyone near her until she was comfortable. Once far enough, she stood her ground. In the army, she’d learned that standing tall often sent a stronger message than standing ready for a fight.

  "She might lead to civilization," said Pride, with survival alone in mind. Ever since Aester arrived in this hellish land, she’d found nothing but trouble and abominations.

  This child was likely one of them—child? Was it even a child?

  It had a humanoid form, small, only half Aester’s size. But its skin was green, and its ears were longer than her hand. Its clothes looked like some blend of straw and cow leather, and skinny, malnourished arms stuck out awkwardly.

  Its eyes were the most disturbing—pitch black. No whites, no irises. Just two black pearls.

  It held a small satchel stuffed with green plants.

  "Hello there, and what would your name be?" Aester asked in a low, careful voice, aiming to sound curious—not hostile.

  "Mizzle’s name is Mizzle," it said in a raspy voice. It spoke in third person?

  "Are you lost?"

  "No. Mizzle searches for green flower," the child replied, raising the satchel.

  Aester could spot a few dandelion greens, nettles, and one strange purple flower.

  "And what do you need them for?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to show curiosity without lowering her guard.

  "Mizzle’s sister," came the reply—too quickly.

  Why would a child trust a stranger so easily? Maybe she’d never been taught to be wary. Or maybe… she was just dumb.

  That would make sense. She was just a child, after all.

  "Ask to examine the items," Greed suggested.

  "The only thing you can’t recognize is the purple flower. What do you think examining it will do?" Pride countered.

  "Ask if she needs anything," said Love, the softest of Aester’s voices. A voice full of longing and vulnerability.

  "Who knows? Maybe she can lead us to a settlement."

  That was rare—Love rarely spoke.

  "Are you in need of help?" Aester asked gently, still keeping her distance. Kids were dangerous. If this one had a hidden bomb strapped to her, it wouldn’t be the first time Aester had seen such a thing.

  "Umm… Mizzle actually isn’t in need. Her sister is," the child said.

  "Aww, look at it. It’s so innocent and cute," Love cooed.

  It was. Too innocent. Wide, dark eyes. Small frame. Large ears. A perfect image of harmlessness.

  But Aester noticed something else.

  The face was forward-facing.

  Predators had those.

  Wolves. Hawks. Humans.

  Aester kept her distance, watching carefully.

  "And that bag you're holding—is that medicine? For your sister?"

  The child’s expression dimmed.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "No. It’s to set sister free. She likes this green plant, but the firefoam one is for burning. Maybe human join the ritual? Elder says the more people who pray, the less pain Mizzle’s sister goes through."

  This was moving too fast for Aester’s comfort.

  She barely knew this creature. And she was already being invited to a ritual?

  Definitely a trap.

  Or the child was incredibly stupid.

  As Aester weighed her options, Greed snapped:

  "ABSOLUTELY NOT. This is a trap. And even if it’s not—what does this child mean to you? You gain nothing."

  "It’s just a child," Love whispered.

  "She’s doing what you would have done for your own sister... or at least what you wish someone had done for you."

  That one hit harder than Aester expected.

  Love had appeared during her lowest days—those nights alone in her Detroit apartment, exiled by her family and forgotten by friends.

  Love was the youngest voice. The quietest. The weakest. But sometimes, it struck true.

  Aester’s expression didn’t change, but her grip on the cane—her makeshift weapon—did.

  "Where is your sister?" she asked coldly.

  "You’ll help? Yay!" Mizzle clapped her tiny hands.

  "That depends," Aester replied flatly. She still didn’t trust this green thing. She wasn’t in her prime anymore—her body had long since betrayed her. Years in the Middle East had turned her from an athlete to a cane-walker. And now she was in her mid-thirties.

  She needed more information.

  "Tell me—what is this ritual about?"

  "To free the village priestess and Mizzle’s sister."

  Free? From what?

  Fire. Straw clothes. Priestess. A "ritual."

  This wasn’t just healing. This was a cleansing.

  "And why do you need to free her? Did she do something?"

  "No! Never! Big sister Terra would never do anything wrong. She was perfect. Too perfect. The gods didn’t like that. So they marked her."

  A god’s mark? That meant a burning.

  Definitely a witch-burning.

  Aester paused.

  "Sure. I’ll pray with you. Lead the way," she said, gripping her cane just a little tighter.

  The creature smiled and began to walk. Aester followed, realizing with annoyance that this meant a lot more walking.

  Along the path, Mizzle kept picking more of the purple flowers—firefoam.

  The name said it all. A fuel.

  Probably flammable.

  ---

  After a couple of long, painful minutes of walking,

  they finally reached an end as the little child stopped mid-step.

  Beyond her stretched what looked like an array of camps, covering about a quarter of the meadow—nineteen tents, roughly, with a closer count.

  All the tents were clearly of the nomadic type—something you could pack up quickly.

  Power slowly commented on the sight.

  “It’s low profile. Efficient. Packs up fast and moves even faster. That’s the kind of shelter you use when you never plan to settle… or when someone else won’t let you.”

  In the middle of the camp stood two larger tents overlooking the rest. They were barely any bigger, but Aester’s sharp eyes picked out their uniqueness by shape alone.

  “That’s Mizzle’s village,” the little goblin said, a touch of sadness in her voice.

  Pride found it necessary to comment:

  “A village that packs up and runs every season isn’t a village—it’s a unit on the move. And every unit needs a reason to move. Fear? Hunger? Or someone pulling the strings?”

  Aester had seen villages like this during her time in the Middle East—small groups who had lost everything, wandering from place to place. They often had one leader—either the oldest or the strongest.

  Now the question lingered in her mind: What is chasing you?

  Or is it that running is all you’ve ever known—taught by doctrine, etched into culture?

  “Nomads are easy to win over. They’re often just lost. Lead the way even a little and they’ll follow you—because they have no one else,” Pride noted.

  But that was only the case if the group had been driven out and had no proper leader to trust.

  If they lived like this by choice, or already had a trusted leader, then it wouldn’t be so simple.

  “Slow down, you. My legs aren’t as young as yours,” Aester told the little green child, who she’d come to know was exceptionally nimble.

  As the two of them approached the village, Aester spotted two more green creatures standing guard with crude wooden spears—not even tipped with stone.

  Just sharpened sticks a child could make.

  The two goblins looked nearly identical to Mizzle, though a bit older. One had a small, trimmed beard. The other was missing his right eye.

  The bearded one was asleep. The one-eyed goblin stayed alert—until he spotted Aester, at which point he immediately shook his comrade awake.

  “Ohhhh, Mizzles, you’ve done it this time. Chief Gorm’s gonna spank you,” said the older goblin in a raspy voice similar to Mizzle’s, but deeper—befitting his age.

  Mizzle stopped dead in her tracks and spoke up in worry.

  “Why?”

  It didn’t take long for Aester to realize she wasn’t welcome here.

  She had hoped the rest of Mizzle’s people would be as kind as she was.

  The poorly crafted—but still sharp—spear in the guard’s hands proved otherwise.

  “Human is no good. They hunt us goblins—and now you bring one to us?” said the bearded goblin, worry clear in his voice.

  Goblins—that’s what your kind is called, Aester noted.

  Three of Aester’s four inner voices stirred with comments and reactions:

  Pride: Don’t lower your stance. They’ll smell weakness.

  Love: Mizzle trusted you. Don’t make her regret it.

  Power: [Silent but watchful.]

  Aester narrowed her gaze, grip tightening on her only weapon.

  “These your people, Mizzles?” she asked, using the question to show she stood with Mizzle, not apart.

  Whenever Aester was unsure of what to do, she had two options: brainstorm… or find newer, better information.

  “Umm… yes. Mizzle’s have many people.”

  “Well then...” Aester turned her eyes to the two guards. Her stare was sharp and unflinching.

  She had learned the technique from her old drill sergeant thirteen years ago—Sergeant McStare (rest in peace).

  The name had been fitting. He didn’t need to scream like other DIs. His eyes—cold, black, and unblinking—were enough to make even the toughest recruits piss themselves.

  “Aren’t you going to let me and Mizzle in?” Aester asked.

  “I thought even your kind knew how to treat a guest. Or was I wrong?” she asked, leaning into the cultural assumption. Most human civilizations had such customs, but these weren’t humans.

  The one-eyed guard glanced at his companion, clearly shaken by her stare. Aester saw it in the way he quickly looked away.

  The bearded one bowed first, followed by the one-eyed guard.

  “Umm... please don’t cause any trouble—and welcome to our little village.”

  Mizzle was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone, but her small mind couldn’t quite grasp why it had happened. She smiled and happily entered the wall-less village.

  Aester followed, gripping her cane tightly in case it was all a trap.

  Greed: “Count the weapons. Count the exits.”

  To Aester if this was a whole village with intent to ambush her, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  ---

  The place itself was quite—humble, to say the least.

  It didn’t seem to house many people. At most, five per tent and two at minimum, putting the population somewhere between 38 and 95.

  Still, a very small village.

  Every now and then, she caught glimpses of goblins—green-skinned and wide-eyed—who would either gasp and drop what they were carrying or run to hide.

  Those who saw Mizzle leading her gasped even louder—this time in disappointment.

  Eventually, Aester reached the center of the village. There stood the two larger tents.

  One had a simple design, decorated in green and yellow.

  The other was more colorfull, covered in white, yellow, and a sandy color that poorly mimicked gold. Several totems stood planted in front of it.

  “WHAT IN THE NAME OF MOAB IS A HUMAN DOING IN OUR VILLAGE?!”

  A booming voice thundered from inside the first tent.

  An older-looking goblin with a long white beard soon stepped out and scanned her up and down.

  Behind him, Aester spotted a small group of goblins—familiar faces that had glanced at her earlier. No doubt they’d brought complaints.

  “I come in peace,” Aester said calmly. “I mean no harm. I’m simply here to pray with you… I believe you are freeing someone?”

  She could only hope freeing was the right word, since that was what Mizzle had told her.

  “Your kind aren’t allowed to pray… not with us,”

  another voice answered, this one coming from the white tent.

  A priest, dressed in robes and wearing a tall hat- taller then his head, his large ears poking from underneath it

  Exactly what Aester needed—another radical religious zealot.

  As if she hadn’t seen enough of them in her past life.