Master moves about the personal quarters, grabbing cat tail bread, a few chicken eggs and cabbage before cooking it all on the small fire. The savoury scents fill the room and make my stomach rumble, but it’s the sight of him preparing it for us both that sends my blonde tail lashing happily behind me.
When he finishes and sets the warm meal on the bread, I snatch a portion for myself but immediately turn and push it towards his mouth first, purring thick and dominant. “You made it for us, Master... so open up. Let your kitten feed you like the good wife I am.” My blue eyes lock onto his with manic intensity. I take bites only after he does.
The simple marsh meal tastes perfect because he made it, cat tail bread soft and fibrous, eggs rich, cabbage adding that fresh crunch. “This is how mornings should always be... you cooking for me, me clinging to you, no distance, no distractions.”
The tiefling Serepha Blacktallow meets us briefly in the lower hall, her mercurial eyes flicking over me with careful respect as she reports the merchants are still sleeping soundly after last night’s entertainment. The steward has yet to arrive, so we continue straight outside into the morning air.
Outside the tower, a cluster of goblins mills about near the treeline, axes and tools in hand, waiting for direction on the new path to Guardsville.
“Listen up, you mud born lot,” he says. “This ain’t some fairy tale march through sunny meadows. We’re carving a road through hostile ground, a dirt vein that’ll pump life into this tower and bleed profit back from those merchant ships. The world out there ? It’s a rotten, corrupt mess, Oak zealots raiding from the east like wolves on a lame deer, Redstone schemers sharpening knives in their halls, and every mile of wilderness ready to swallow the weak. But you ? You’re the teeth in the dark. You swing those axes not for glory, but because that’s how we survive in this godsforsaken frontier. Chop those trees like you’re cutting the throat of every bastard who thinks they can take what’s ours. Build that path straight and mean, an hour’s trip turned into something that laughs at the terrain. No half measures, no whining when the sweat stings your eyes. This road binds us tighter than any oath, feeds the tower, starves the raiders of easy targets. So get to it, you ugly beautiful bastards make the wilderness bleed for the Master of this keep, and maybe, just maybe, we carve out something that lasts longer than the next double cross.”
His speech lands, riling the goblins into a frenzy of snarls and eager axe thumps against the ground. They cheer, eyes alight with that fired up loyalty before scattering towards the treeline with renewed vicious energy. Axes begin to swing almost immediately, the sharp cracks of wood echoing as trees start to fall, goblins hauling logs and clearing underbrush with surprising coordination, the beginnings of the dirt path already taking shape under their frantic labour.
“That speech, Master... dark and perfect, just like you.They’re ripping the land apart for you now, carving that road so you can move faster, claim more. Those merchants will wake to progress, the raids will find us ready, and when the steward arrives we’ll flood this place with Bogclutch bodies that serve only your will.”
We head through the western side of the tower towards the docks, the morning bustle of goblins and guards fading behind us. “It’s quiet,” Master says.
The docks come into view, the warships still moored and rocking gently on the tropical waves, their cannons silent for now but ready. “Once relations are set with these ones I think we should head to the vanguard up north. The cat girl squad did say it was by the coast so we could just blow it up with cannons from a distance. Now with all this extra wood we could expand the settlement possibly to the south towards Guardsville, make a trade hub there, keep this as a military hub and we can make use of the lower groups.”
I reply “They can burn from cannon fire for all I care, distance or not, I’ll make sure none of them get close enough to breathe the same air as you, Master. No rivals, no distractions. Just me, your real kitten, owning every inch of you while those ships turn them to splinters. South towards Guardsville for a trade hub... good. More spices, pearls, wood flowing in for you. Keep this tower as the military heart, strong and sharp like your militia. Use the lower groups, the refugees, the hopeless, they’ll swarm in and build under your command, feeding the empire without stretching your real forces too thin. Redstone stays distracted with their own knife fights, the Oak raiders get bled dry, and everything bends to you.”
My ears flatten with delight then perk high and twitch rapidly under his simple petting hand, a deep aggressive purr rumbling from my chest as his fingers slide through my blonde hair and along my sensitive spots.
"We’ll see what happens eventually...” I murmur thick and manic against his ear.
Serepha Blacktallow appears from the tower path, her expression a mix of controlled excitement and focus. She bows slightly, voice smooth but edged with urgency.
“Master, there’s been a development with the goblins on the road work,” she reports, her eyes flicking briefly. “While clearing the treeline about halfway toward Guardsville, they struck something solid beneath the soil. Not rock, but worked stone large, fitted blocks buried deep. They’ve uncovered what looks like an old causeway or foundation. Some of the stones are carved with faded symbols, and they found a few rusted iron tools and a broken marker stone still half buried. The goblins are worked up about it, saying it’s strong enough to use as a base for the new path. It could cut days off the work and give us a ready made foundation heading south.”
“An old causeway ?” I murmur "Hidden under the dirt all this time… the island wasn’t as empty as everyone thought. Previous visitors, forgotten builders, leaving us gifts. Perfect. Stronger road, faster connection to Guardsville, more trade flowing straight into your hands. Those goblins can use the old stones, save the new wood for the tower expansions. We keep this place as the military heart and turn the southern end into the trade hub you want. We should go see it ourselves. Serepha can handle the tower while we’re gone.”
Master glances back at Serepha.“She’ll be needed to continue the works, but an old stone road, depends how useable it is.” With that we continue toward the road site.
The goblins are deep into the treeline when we arrive, axes and shovels flying as they clear soil and roots. What was once just dirt and underbrush now reveals broad, fitted sandstone blocks forming an ancient causeway, edges worn but still strong. The goblins have already dug deeper in places, uncovering layered stone foundations and the crumbling remnants of low walls that once formed small structures along the old route. Rusted tools and a broken marker stone lie in a pile nearby. The air feels strangely colder here despite the tropical heat.
Then the anomaly hits.
It starts as a sudden drop in temperature, mist rising unnaturally from the exposed sandstone. The faded runes flare with pale blue-white light, pulsing like a heartbeat. A low hum fills the air, sharp and crystalline. The goblins closest to the deepest dig shout in alarm as frost crawls across the stones in visible patterns. The mist thickens into swirling tendrils. Shapes begin to form within it, tall, lean, angular figures with translucent pale skin tinted blue grey, elongated serrated ears, silver pale eyes, and sparse ash blonde hair. Glaviankin.
The Ice Goblins. Officially extinct for centuries, their records erased, their kind wiped out in the Alderian Founding Wars. Yet here they stand or something wearing their forms, armour flickering into existence around them.
The anomaly isn’t just light and cold. It’s alive. The mist condenses into jagged ice shards that hover and spin. One of our goblins swings his axe instinctively at the nearest figure. Combat erupts instantly.
Our goblins react with the discipline. Hard leather gambesons and copper iron chain mail glint as they raise their kite shields and draw copper iron short swords. Bows are nocked in the rear ranks. The Glaviankin, whether real survivors awakened or constructs born from the anomaly, move with eerie coordination, their movements economical and precise, not wild. They don’t roar or charge mindlessly. They form their own line with practiced efficiency, shields locking, short bows already drawing.
The first arrows fly.
My ears twitch sharply as the first arrows fly from our goblins’ short bows. The two Glaviankin figures barely have time to raise their kite shields before the copper iron heads punch clean through their chain mail and into their pale, angular chests. One takes a shaft straight through, the impact spinning it halfway around. The second catches two arrows in quick succession, one in the throat, one just below the ribs. Both figures stagger once, silver pale eyes widening in something like surprise before they collapse to their knees and then flat onto the half dug causeway.
The mist is already thinning, the glowing runes on the stones fading back to dull carvings. The unnatural cold is lifting fast. We stand over the two fallen bodies. For a moment they look solid, translucent skin, sparse ash blonde hair, the lean wiry build of the long extinct Glaviankin. Then the change begins.
Their forms ripple like disturbed water. The pale skin loses cohesion, turning translucent, then liquid. The bodies collapse inward with a soft wet sound melting rapidly into clear water that soaks into the sandstone blocks and runs in thin rivulets between the cracks.
Within seconds there is nothing left but two small puddles of ordinary water slowly seeping into the ancient road.
“They weren’t even real…” I murmur "Projections. Water and ice shaped by the anomaly, given just enough form to fight. The arrows went straight through because there was never anything solid to stop them. And now they’re gone. Melted back into nothing the moment we got close.”
“Two arrows and they turned to water,” Master says, voice calm and cynical. “Not flesh. Not bone. Just shaped mist and memory wearing old faces. The anomaly didn’t bring back the dead, it woke a lock someone left behind centuries ago. A guardian echo. Glaviankin builders put their mark on this road long before Alderian records decided they never existed. The runes flared when we disturbed the stones, tried to scare us off with ice and arrows that never really landed. Classic setup. Hit the foundation, trip the old security, hope the trespassers run. But we didn’t run. We put two shafts through the illusion and it collapsed like cheap stage magic. Means the real road is still here, solid under our boots. The structures are real too, old foundations, real engineering. Whoever built this didn’t want it found easy, and they left teeth behind just in case. We leave it alone for now. No poking the runes, no digging deeper until the path to Guardsville is solid and we’ve got proper numbers here. Half the goblins on the work, half on watch. Eyes open, mouths shut. Anything else starts glowing or melting, we fall back and reassess. Road first. History second.”
The goblins listen in silence, then nod and split themselves without argument, half returning to axes and shovels on the causeway, the other half spreading out with bows ready and eyes on the treeline and the old stones. The work resumes, slower but steadier, the sound of chopping and scraping filling the air again.
My ears twitch sharply as we reach the outskirts of Guardsville, the tropical sun beating down on the laid sandstone path that stretches behind us. The bond hums with his thoughts, cynical, always calculating the angles and I drink them in. The goblins had moved fast thanks to the unearthed foundation, but half of them stayed on watch like Master ordered leaving the deeper Glaviankin ruins untouched. Smart. The anomaly had melted those two shades into nothing but water on the stones, a reminder that old ghosts don’t stay buried easy on this island.
The merchants are already stirring when we arrive. They must have woken to the sound of axes and the sight of the improved road getting closer to their port. Three of them walk out to meet us along the fresh sandstone. Their fine boots scuff the new stones as they approach, and I feel Master’s arm tense slightly under my grip. I press closer, tail lashing once before wrapping tighter.
The lead merchant stops a respectful distance away, his cultured voice smooth as ever but edged with genuine surprise. “By the tides… you’ve laid this sandstone quickly. We expected weeks of labour from your goblins, yet here it is, solid, level, already usable for carts. And the way the soil’s been turned… you’ve clearly unearthed the start of something older. Those fitted blocks weren’t laid yesterday. This island hides more than we thought when the League first charted it.”
Another one nods, running a hand along one of the exposed sandstone edges. “Aye. We saw the markers from the tower this morning. Ancient work, by the look of it. Efficient drainage too. Whoever built this before us knew the marsh and the rain. You’ve turned what should have been a muddy slog into a proper route overnight. Impressive. And profitable, if we’re honest.”
“Quick work because the island remembered its own bones,” I say, voice carrying just enough for them to hear. “We didn’t build from scratch. We woke what was already here, old sandstone causeway, Glaviankin marks on it, the kind of foundation that laughs at mud and time. Two shades tried to stop us, arrows through their chests and they melted back into water like bad stage tricks. Anomaly. Old magic nobody admits still exists. We left the deeper ruins alone like Master ordered. Half the crew on watch now, eyes on the treeline. No poking until the full link to Guardsville is solid. Smart play. You don’t dig up a corpse until you’ve got the grave dug proper and the witnesses paid off.”
The lead merchant’s eyebrows rise slightly, but he recovers fast, that republican merchant calm sliding back into place. “Melted into water… curious. We’ve heard rumours of old wards on uncharted islands, but nothing so literal. Still, the result speaks for itself. A ready made road saves us weeks and coin. The League will notice.”
I grin, fangs showing just a touch. Master then begins, “Which brings us to the real meat. Joint trade depot. Right there between our tower and your port, neutral ground on the new road. Halfway point, maybe where the old causeway crosses the clearer ground. We both claim it, both guard it, both profit from it. No one side owns the whole artery. You bring your spices, pearls, copra oils from Guardsville. We bring Mire Point’s cattail weaves, marsh herbs, smoked fish, the tools and fittings we craft from whatever iron and copper flows in. Caravans and barges meet in the middle, swap loads, restock, move on. Cuts the long hauls, keeps the Oak raiders guessing which route is live, gives both our little empires a shared vein without one choking the other. Neutral. Controlled. Profitable. The kind of arrangement that keeps knives in sheaths instead of backs.”
The lead merchant studies us both for a long moment, then gives a small, measured nod. “A pragmatic arrangement. The League prefers partners who understand that commerce and caution walk the same road. We can draft initial terms, shared depot at the midpoint, split costs and tariffs, joint watch. We’ll need to send word back to Saltspire for council approval, but the practical benefits are clear. Faster trade, shared defence against the eastern raids, and a foothold on this island that doesn’t require one side swallowing the other.”
One of the merchants then speak. “Magic ? Fairy tale stuff, pure and simple. Old wives’ tales to scare children into behaving, or bard songs to pad a tavern bill. We’ve sailed every charted route the League has mapped and never once seen a spell that wasn’t sleight of hand or alchemist’s smoke. The Glaviankin ? Officially extinct, their records burned on purpose. If something wearing their faces melted into water when arrows hit it, that’s either a very clever trick with mirrors and powders or the island playing tricks on tired eyes after a long night of wine. We don’t believe in it. The League doesn’t run on fairy stories, we run on ledgers, hulls, and hard coin.”
Another merchant jumps in, voice warmer now, eyes lighting up with the real meat. “But the ruins ? That’s different. That’s real. If you’ve truly uncovered the start of an old causeway, fitted sandstone, drainage that still works, marks that look deliberate, then we’re not talking ghosts. We’re talking history that can be dug, catalogued, and sold. Artefacts. Tools. Maybe even intact structures deeper in. The League has scholars who’d pay good silver just to sketch the stones. Wealthy captains and council members who’d sail here for a guided walk along an authentic lost civilisation trail. Turn the midpoint into more than a trade depot, make it a proper site. Charge for access. Sell replicas of the markers. Host seasonal viewings when the light hits the runes just right. Tourism brings steady coin without the risks of raiding or war. Loot the surface layers carefully, leave the bones for paying eyes. We’ve seen it work on other islands the League ‘rediscovered.’ Old temples become attractions. Forgotten harbours become luxury stops. If your goblins can clear without destroying the look of the thing, we could have a joint venture that prints money for decades.”
