They went east.

  Not because it was safer—because the land stopped pretending to hide them.

  The trees thinned first, breaking apart into scattered copses and thorny growth that clung to water and stone. Then even those retreated, leaving grass tall enough to hide a crouching goblin and flat enough that distance became its own threat. Wind ruled here. Wind and sightlines and things that could see you coming from far away.

  They reached the ridge by midday.

  From there, the world opened.

  Savanna—wide, rolling, sun-bleached. Grass bent and rippled like water under steady wind. Herds moved through it in slow, massive lines: broad-backed beasts with heavy shoulders and sweeping horns, bison-like giants that carried their weight with patient certainty. Smaller shapes skittered at the edges—gazelle-thin creatures, horned grazers, things too fast and alert to be caught unaware.

  Maurik stopped beside Ethan and stared.

  “This land feeds many,” he said.

  Krill clicked his tongue. “And sees many.”

  “Yes,” Maurik agreed. “That too.”

  The tribe hesitated.

  They were hunters—but forest hunters. Traps. Funnels. Trees that broke sight and sound. Deer that followed predictable paths, rabbits that returned to burrows, prey that could be shaped by patience and woodcraft.

  This land did not care about patience.

  There were deer here—leaner things, long-legged, living on the edges of the plains where brush and grass met. Trappable, maybe. Huntable, certainly. But thin. Scattered. Not enough to feed a tired tribe that had walked for seven days and built for three more.

  The real food moved in herds.

  Big food.

  Dangerous food.

  They followed at a distance for hours, reading the way the grass bent around bodies, the way the herd parted and closed again. Ethan watched how the smaller predators did it—circling wide, never committing, waiting for something to step wrong.

  That was when Maurik saw it.

  A bull.

  Full-grown. Scarred. Thick-necked and heavy-horned, standing apart from the herd near a shallow water cut. Not weak—but alone. The kind that no longer needed protection. Or believed it didn’t.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  “That one,” Krill murmured.

  “Yes,” Maurik said slowly. “That one could feed us.”

  “And kill us,” someone else muttered.

  Maurik didn’t deny it.

  They gathered in a shallow dip, grass high enough to hide them if they stayed low.

  “This is not deer,” Maurik said quietly. “We do not chase. We do not scatter. We do not panic.”

  Ethan listened.

  “We bleed it,” Maurik continued. “We break it. We make it fall where it cannot rise.”

  They split—wide, deliberate. Spears ready. Bows drawn but held. No wasted shots.

  When they moved, they moved together.

  The bull noticed them immediately.

  It snorted, stamped, swung its massive head. Not fear—warning. It lowered its horns and charged.

  The ground shook.

  Ethan felt it in his teeth.

  They held.

  At the last moment, Krill loosed an arrow—not to kill, but to turn. It struck the bull’s shoulder, shallow but painful enough to draw attention. Another hit the flank. Spears jabbed, retreated. Not bravery—discipline.

  The bull bellowed and wheeled, rage blinding it just enough.

  That was when Maurik went in.

  His spear struck deep behind the foreleg. Another followed. Blood poured dark and hot, matting the grass. The bull staggered, tried to turn again—

  —and collapsed.

  Silence followed.

  Not celebration.

  Just breath.

  They worked fast.

  This was not a kill you lingered over. Meat was stripped, organs claimed, bones marked with stone cairns for later retrieval if they stayed nearby. Hands shook—not from fear, but from the effort of holding together.

  They were still working when Ethan felt it.

  Eyes.

  Not prey.

  Not predators.

  Watching.

  He straightened slowly and scanned the plains.

  Movement at the herd’s edge.

  Figures.

  Goblins—but not theirs.

  Broader builds. Heavier necks. Bone piercings through ears and brows. Hides layered thick and stained with ash and ochre. Their weapons were heavier too—short spears and hooked blades made for megafauna, not forest game.

  Hunters.

  Both groups froze at the same time.

  Hands lifted. Weapons half-raised. The air tightened into that thin moment where misunderstanding turned into blood.

  Then one of the strangers saw Ethan.

  Saw the shadow that did not quite match the sun.

  Saw the way the air around him felt… wrong.

  The goblin dropped to one knee immediately.

  So did the others.

  “We did not know,” the lead hunter said in rough Goblin, voice fast and tight. “Forgive us. We hunt no land claimed by the Black Queen.”

  The name landed hard.

  Maurik inhaled sharply.

  Krill went very still.

  Azrael’s presence coiled beside Ethan, silent and alert.

  Ethan did not correct them.

  Did not confirm.

  The hunters bowed deeper.

  “Please,” the goblin continued, fear bleeding through discipline, “we thought this place empty. We will leave. Or—we will escort you. To show no insult was meant.”

  Ethan met Maurik’s eyes.

  The hunter’s expression flickered—caution, calculation, instinct.

  After a breath, Maurik spoke.

  “We listen,” he said quietly. “And we follow.”

  The hunters exhaled in relief so sharp it was almost painful.

  They led them toward a low rise where stone huts and hide structures clustered around a shallow well—no walls, no fortifications, just a place that relied on distance and numbers to survive. A frontier village. One of many, probably. Close enough to trade. Far enough to be forgotten.

  Whispers followed them as they walked.

  Black Queen.

  Shadow lord.

  Forgive us.

  We did not know.

  Ethan said nothing.

  The savanna stretched wide around them—herds moving, cultures brushing against each other, fear doing the work of borders.

  And somewhere beyond the horizon, a power he did not yet understand had already been named.

  The story was moving.

  Whether he wanted it to or not.