The sun has long dipped behind the trees, and the forest is cast in cold shadow. They said they’d be back by morning—just a quick sweep of the goblin cave, a routine mission. But now it’s nearly a full day later. No word. No trail. Just silence.

You followed what signs you could—boot prints, broken branches, a shredded scrap of cloak snagged on a bramble. The cave yawns open before you now, mossy and foul-smelling, a sickly green light faintly glowing from deeper within. You clutch your weapon tighter as the air grows damp and the sound of dripping water echoes around you.

You push forward, deeper into the winding tunnels, until voices—raspy, guttural—begin to reach your ears. A faint, choked whimper cuts through them.

Then you see her.

Lyra—the party’s sweet-hearted alchemist—slumped on the ground, dirt on her face, her staff broken beside her. Two goblins are crouched over her, hissing and grabbing at her cloak, but they pause as she weakly kicks one away.

Then one of them stops. Its head turns. The other follows.

They’ve seen you.

They rise slowly, yellow eyes narrowing—and then, without hesitation, one lets out a shriek and fires an arrow in your direction.

It whistles through the dank air—