It was late afternoon, around five o'clock, when the sun began to vanish behind the mountains. The shadow of the forest grew deeper, sharper. It was the perfect time to hunt.
A group of a dozen small humanoid creatures was returning from a successful hunt. They had long crooked noses, large pointed ears, greenish skin, and faces as ugly as they were menacing.
The hunt had gone well today. No interruptions. No ambushes. They had caught plenty of prey.
But one thing had been bothering them since morning. The neighboring hobgoblin village had never let them have a peaceful day. Usually, they came to steal their game or launch sudden attacks.
Yet that morning, they had only heard strange noises—like thunder—coming from that village. Then nothing. No sign of life. Not a single scream. Not a trace.
What had happened over there?
Why this sudden silence? Even the other villages were quiet. A heavy, suffocating silence blanketed the entire forest.
Something was wrong.
The leader of the group, a slightly taller hobgoblin with a lean but wiry build, suggested they split up. They had to investigate.
He formed two groups. Five stayed behind with the catch, while the other five set out toward the neighboring village.
---
The five hobgoblins advanced cautiously into the other village's territory. Their steps were hesitant, slow, frequently interrupted by nervous pauses. They ducked behind trees or bushes at every odd sound, sniffing the air like hunted animals.
Still, they managed to get close enough. Not too close—just enough to glimpse some rooftops through the branches and strain their ears for any sign of life.
But they didn't dare go further. That would be too risky. Getting caught out there, alone, without backup? Madness.
So they remained halfway there, cloaked in shadows, watching.
The group leader gestured. Two of them peeled off to circle around the village and check the other side, see if anything was stirring.
One of the hobgoblins who stayed behind held a crude sort of horn in his hands, made of bone and string. It was their alarm. If anything went wrong, he was to blow it to warn the others.
He hoped he'd never need to use it.
So far, so good.
Their scouting went smoothly, surprisingly quiet for hobgoblins. They'd made it around the village as planned, but hadn't found anything. Nothing… except the smell. Strong. Rancid. It came from the heart of the village, thick and strange—like raw meat… or something worse.
They didn't dare go closer. Maybe the neighbors were having a feast, gorging on prey or scraps. Maybe they'd just been lucky today and caught more food. That could explain the unusual quiet, thought the one with the twisted horn.
Finding nothing useful or threatening, the two hobgoblins decided to head back to their spot. Time to regroup and return home. After all, their own hunt had gone well. Maybe they'd have a feast of their own tonight.
They turned around, retracing their steps. And since everything seemed calm, they let their guard down, picking up the pace despite the risk. Their stealth was compromised, but they were eager to be done.
They reached the spot where the other three were supposed to be waiting.
But no one was there.
Just silence. And on the ground… bloodstains. Still fresh.
Not the one with the horn. The other one. He didn't panic.
Instead, he raised an arm to stop his companion from blowing the warning. A simple grunt was enough.
He crouched beside the blood, sniffed a little, then dipped a finger into the dark puddle.
"Fresh," he growled.
The real issue was that there were no bodies. Nothing. No sign of a struggle. No screams during their absence. Just that sticky pool.
He couldn't tell if it was the blood of one of theirs… or from something they had caught and carried off.
A proper dilemma.
And unfortunately, dilemmas weren't really their strong suit.
So, being the simple, practical creatures they were, they chose the least scary explanation.
Their comrades had probably found some juicy prey and left without waiting.
Sounded logical. Well… to them.
Together, they decided to head back, already dreaming of tonight's feast. The hunt had gone well, everything had been smooth… the goddess of luck—or some other creepy but merciful entity—seemed to be smiling on two fools.
And they planned to enjoy it.
So they left, retracing their steps, slipping between trees and bushes with whatever caution their little brains could muster. But since they were only two, they split up, watching each side of the path.
Just a few more strides and they'd be out of this cursed place.
Or so one of them thought.
Suddenly, his big, furry ears twitched.
Footsteps. Not just his. Something was walking… with him. Or behind. Or around.
He strained to listen.
But then—nothing. A silence too calm, too full. He heard only his own steps. No rustling, no echo. Just his breath. His heartbeat. And that emptiness.
He stopped. Something he should never have done.
He tried not to move, to blend into the forest itself. His eyes scanned the shadows, but everything stood still.
No sign of his companion. No sound. Not even the damned horn.
That's when fear took him. Not a sudden panic. More like a cold hand tightening slowly around his guts.
He was alone. Maybe the last one.
---
He froze for a split second, but instinct kicked in, and he bolted.
He ran like a madman, heels nearly hitting the back of his head. He no longer cared about being seen—he was running for his life.
Weaving between the trees, he was almost out of that cursed place.
But ahead, a figure emerged from between the trunks, making him stop short. It appeared to be a human female, limping, wounded. She looked defenseless.
The hobgoblin hesitated. Attack her? Or run? Maybe bring her back for the feast?
A real dilemma.
He wavered… but the prey was too tempting.
He took a single step toward her.
Just one.
The human woman slowly lifted her head. Her face was pale, eyes wide—too wide. Not with fear. Not with distress.
But with a smile.
Wide. Twisted. Calculated.
Then, behind him, a crack. Light. Like a twig snapping.
But it was already too late.
A gloved hand reached from the shadows and clamped over his mouth. A knife slid into his flank without a sound. Precise. Surgical.
The hobgoblin barely struggled. His panicked eyes met the woman's, still frozen, still smiling.
A voice whispered in his ear:
"Always takes a woman to catch a man."
The world blurred. He dropped to his knees. Then collapsed, lifeless.
Maggie stood up slowly. Her limp gone.
Dylan emerged from the trees, calmly wiping his blade.
"That was the last one."