In the soft twilight, the butcher had cried out in a nightmare. He'd rave and froth at the mouth—all in his sleep, his waking flesh oblivious to the horrors that had crept into his psyche since the day he'd followed the axe-wielding lumberjack into the mire.

  Sludge sat slumped on a log outside. Sludge did not sleep. It never slept. But over the last few evenings, the mental trauma of the Barston folk had bubbled over the crossroads camp like the electric storm-crackle of a hot summer's evening. As they relived the horrors that they had waded through, their nightmares bubbled and panged like transmission nodes—firing off each other like a hot potato at a half-baked peasant party.

  Sludge had grown satiated by it. It could feel the trauma swirling over it like a sweat-box; steamed and stacked with spruce.

  There was an energy to it, and though Sludge did not know why it felt the way it did—the ancient slither in its deepest, darkest sludge-fold knew exactly the power of it.

  [Sludgeweaving: Soul Fragment. Currently 1/1 available. Currently 0/1 equipped.]

  [Soul Fragment charged. Equip?]

  Something clicked, though Sludge remained oblivious to what click had clicked.

  As morning broke, the old trapper coughed—his tent flap swishing as he hocked phlegm and spat it at the fire. There’d been a lot of spitting these days; even some of the Barston boys had picked up on the habit, hawking and clearing their throats like old men who’d earned the right. The fire crackled low and tired, fed with damp wood and poorer decisions, its smoke clinging to everything it touched like a bad rumour. Around it, the camp began to wake, not as a unit, but as a collection of aches and small, personal reckonings.

  The butcher sat bolt upright, eyes wide and glassy, breath sawing in and out of his chest like he’d been dragged back from deep water. He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and stared at the smear of bile and spit left behind, as if surprised it had come from him. Across from him, the woman—Mera, she’d finally said her name was, like it mattered now—was already awake, sharpening her knife with slow, methodical strokes, the sound setting several teeth on edge. One of the boys, the taller one with the crooked nose, clutched a charm he’d made from goblin teeth and twine, fingers worrying it raw. The other just stared into the embers, eyes too old for the rest of his face.

  They were not soldiers. They were not heroes. They were people who had seen what happened when Sludge went first, and decided—quietly, shamefully—that it was better to be behind that than anywhere else at all.

  Sludge absorbed it all without comment. It sat heavy on the log, axe across its knees again, its borrowed spine hunched in a way that suggested thought, though the thoughts themselves slid around like eels in a bucket; rising and roiling like unpicked bait. Trauma was loud this morning. Not screaming—never screaming—but humming, vibrating, thick enough to taste. It pooled around the camp, soaked into the dirt, clung to breath and sweat and memory. Sludge felt it press against its skin, seep through pores that were never meant to be porous, and something deep inside it stirred in appreciation.

  Not hunger. Not quite.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  [Soul Fragment charged. Equip?]

  For the second time, the prompt slid across the back of Sludge’s perception like a knife slipping between ribs. The lumberjack body did not react. It scratched at its beard. It flexed its fingers. It did not understand.

  Something else did.

  Deep beneath the meat and bone and borrowed grief, the fragment stirred—old, patient, no longer satisfied with merely riding along. It tasted the fear and resolve of the Barston mob, the shape of authority that had brushed past them yesterday, the promise of scale. Goblins were sustenance. Men were vessels. But systems—systems were engines.

  Acceptance bloomed without ceremony.

  [Soul Fragment Equipped (1/1): Gal-ghuruk, the Cold Prince]

  [Passive Effect: Deeds of conquest generate passive stacks of Notoriety]

  [New Condition Unlocked: Notoriety upsets the balance of power in a settled region. The Cold Prince craves chaos…]

  [Notoriety: 2/20]

  Sludge blinked. The world did not change. Which, somehow, was worse.

  The sound of hooves came an hour later—measured, confident, unmistakably intentional. No one panicked this time. Pitchforks were lifted. Mera slid her knife into her boot. The butcher stood, jaw set, hands shaking despite himself. They all looked to Sludge.

  Sludge looked back.

  The retinue crested the rise in better order than before. More riders this time. Fewer smiles. The same banner, freshly mended. The same man with no weapon, his boots still clean, his eyes already counting. A second cart followed, heavier, iron-rimmed, its contents shifting with a sound like coin or chains or both.

  “Good morning,” the man called, dismounting before he reached the camp, a gesture meant to look conciliatory and instead landing somewhere closer to proprietary. “I trust you’ve had time to consider.”

  Sludge stood. The log creaked in relief.

  “I hunt goblins,” it said again, because repetition felt safe.

  “Excellent,” the man replied smoothly. “Then we are aligned.”

  He gestured, and the second cart was opened. Inside lay supplies—salted meat, barrels of pitch, spearheads, arrows fletched properly instead of with whatever came to hand. Armour, too. Not enough for an army, but enough to suggest the shape of one. The Barston folk murmured despite themselves. Practicality had a way of cutting through pride.

  “This is a provisional arrangement,” the man continued, producing parchment, though he did not unroll it yet. “One that requires your utmost compliance. The green skinned scum have been a pain in my lord commanders arse for a winter too long. He has deemed it necessary to extend his hand in good faith. In return, compliance...”

  He paused for a moment. “Well—it can work two ways.”

  The old trapper spat. “And when he’s done?”

  The man smiled, thin and exact. “Then my lord will reassess the value of continued cooperation.”

  Sludge felt the words settle somewhere it couldn’t reach.

  [Conquest Detected]

  [Notoriety Increasing…]

  It did not understand the parchment. It did not understand authority. But something inside it leaned forward eagerly, tendrils pressing against the shape of the offer, already weaving it into something stronger, something binding. Power did not care where it came from, only that it accumulated.

  “Where?” Sludge asked.

  The man unrolled the parchment at last, revealing a crude map marked with circles and sigils and careful notes in a tidy hand. “Here,” he said, pointing a fat, podgy finger. “And here. And here.”

  Three warrens. Deeper. Older.

  Sludge nodded.

  Behind its eyes, something smiled without a mouth.

  [Quest accepted! Pacification of the Southern March]

  [Warning: The Cold Prince is pleased…]

  The Barston mob exhaled as one, mistaking inevitability for relief. The man with no weapon bowed slightly, already satisfied.

  “Then we are agreed,” he said.

  Sludge hefted its axe.

  “Yes,” it rumbled, not quite knowing why. Sludge had a cold ache in its lumberjack drawl.

  And beneath the borrowed flesh, the sludge rearranged itself again—not for battle, not for hunger, but for something different this time.

  [Notoriety: 4/20]

  Leverage. The game was afoot.