The third one drops like a curse.
The two behind it don't wait. They skitter low and fast, limbs scraping stone, eyes nonexistent, mouths probably full of spite and bone shards.
We're outnumbered.
I am officially out of ideas.
The hoarder's still bleeding from the first hit. He's breathing fast, too fast, panic spiraling in circles like the blood at his feet. The female's got a shard in each hand now, one already chipped. She doesn't flinch, but her stance is too tight. Coiled. Reckless.
The old kobold—tall, heavy-footed, all quiet weight—moves.
He doesn't run.
He steps in.
No roar. No pose. He just swings the same bone club he used earlier, wide and low, like he's been doing it since birth. The nearest Reaver-Spine catches it with one leg. It bends. Snaps. Not the club—the leg.
The thing shrieks without sound again, head twitching like it's buffering rage.
[Target Crippled – Escape Chance Lowered]
[Enemy Count Remaining: 4]
[Group Condition: Critical – One Incapacitated, One Wounded]
Great odds.
The female rushes the flanked one. Goes high. Her shard glances off the side. Useless.
I move to intercept before she gets torn in half.
The sigil's still humming in my grip. I don't know what it's doing. But it's doing something. I drag it across the floor. Sparks kick up. The noise cuts through the Reavers like bad static—they stutter mid-motion, jerking back as if burned by noise alone.
That buys me seconds.
Which is just enough time to shove one into the broken edge of a pillar.
It doesn't die clean. Nothing down here does.
Later—I mean, assuming there is a later—I'll probably feel something about this. Guilt, fear, pride, trauma, all the stuff people in stories get to reflect on once the blood dries.
Right now?
I'm just trying not to die in a room that smells like wet stone and twitching meat.
The hoarder screams something—not words. A warning, probably.
I turn. Too slow.
The fourth one's above me.
Then the old kobold tackles it out of the air.
They hit the floor together. His club breaks. The thing sinks a claw into his side. Deep.
He doesn't scream. Just hisses through his teeth and holds it in place long enough for the female to stab it in the neck. Once. Twice.
It dies.
Eventually.
The last one hesitates.
First time I've ever seen hesitation in a monster without eyes.
Then it skitters back into the tunnel it came from.
Gone.
[Combat Ended – Survival Confirmed]
[Injury Report: 2 Moderate, 1 Severe]
[System Thread Recognition: Symbolic Kill Registered]
[Firekeeper Role Advancement: 46%]
I fall against the wall.
Hard.
My arms shake. My lungs feel like someone wrung them out.
But I'm still breathing.
We all are.
Except the floor is now coated in monster bits and kobold blood and I think the hoarder's trying not to throw up.
So, you know.
Victory?
We sit in the wreckage for a long time.
No words. Just breath and blood.
The old kobold leans against the wall, pressing a chunk of Reaver-Spine chitin to his ribs. His wrapcloth's dark with blood. Every breath rattles like stone dragged over teeth. He's not dead. Just too stubborn to die properly.
The female crouches beside him. Not gentle, but efficient. Rips a strip of her own cloth and ties it around his middle. Not tight enough. He grunts. She makes it tighter.
The hoarder's curled in a corner, clutching his scratched arm like it might detach if he blinks wrong. Still has one of the bug legs in his pouch. Still hasn't dropped it.
Me? I'm staring at the sigil shard in my hand.
It's dim now.
Like it used itself up.
Or maybe like it's waiting again.
I don't feel strong.
I don't feel anything.
Just the cold, and the twitching of my left thumb, and the smell of acid blood drying into the stone.
System pings again. Soft this time. Almost… respectful.
[Monster Part Acquired: Reaver-Spine Fang (Shaped)]
[Kill-Trophy Thread Triggered: Firekeeper Sign]
[Node Stability: Conditional – Proof Must Be Seen]
Of course.
I can't just survive.
I have to prove it.
I get up.
Walk to the nearest corpse and wrench a fang out of its jaw.
It cracks free with a snap and a squish.
I gag a little.
Hold it up.
The others watch me.
I don't say a word.
I just wrap it in cloth and tie it to my belt.
Then I look down at the old kobold.
He meets my eyes.
And nods.
Once.
Not thanks. Not praise.
Recognition.
[Bond Thread Deepened: Cohort Node – Veteran Hunter (Tentative)]
[Name Placeholder: "Stonebite" – User Designation Optional]
...Stonebite. That fits.
The female rises next. Gathers a second fang. Doesn't speak. But she taps hers against mine before slipping it into her wrap.
I think that's her way of saying "we're even."
Or maybe "don't forget who bled."
[Symbolic Ritual Formed: Kill-Fang Sharing – Level 0]
[Group Cohesion: Improved]
The hoarder stares at us. Doesn't move.
Then sighs. Loudly.
And grabs the broken claw still stuck in his leg.
Pulls it free with a grunt.
Ties it to his wrist.
Not a fang.
Still a mark.
We leave the corpses behind—
No.
We don't.
We carry two of them.
Dragged by the legs. Heavy. Messy. We don't have a plan, but we do have mouths to feed.
They aren't just trophies.
They're food.
And the fire's still waiting.
The return to Ashring is slow.
The old one leans on the hoarder. Doesn't speak. Doesn't complain.
The female scouts ahead. Quiet. Watchful. Her tail only twitches once the whole way back.
The tunnels feel... different. Like the walls are watching.
We step into Ashring just before the fire dies.
The kid's still there.
He hasn't moved the tokens.
He hasn't drawn anything new.
But when he sees us, his eyes go wide.
Then he gets up. Walks to the slab. Adds a single mark beside the spiral X.
A curve. Like a fang. Overlapping flame.
I drop the Reaver fang on the stone.
Then I drop one of the corpses beside the fire.
Hard.
A gift. A kill. A meal.
No one speaks.
System pings.
[Thread Progress: Tribal Symbolic Authority — 61%]
[Title Evolution: Firekeeper (True) – Pending Confirmation by Witness Node]
The kid kneels.
Touches the fang.
Looks up at me.
And nods.
Like I didn't just survive.
Like I came back with proof.
That's worse.
Because now they believe in me.
Even I don't do that.
That night, I try to sleep.
The fire crackles.
The blood on my hands won't come off.
I hear a sound from the far tunnel.
Not claws.
Not chittering.
A voice.
Dry. Weak. Not kobold.
"…help."
I sit up fast.
Rock in hand.
Heart in throat.
Eyes wide.
And the first thing I think isn't "run."
It's:
"No one's supposed to talk down here. Not even us."