Imagine it this way:

The night was thick and heavy when Nika, wandering among twisted roots and dark ravines, stumbled upon a narrow passage leading to a deep cavern. The cold struck her like a hand from another world, and the echoes of raindrops falling from the ceiling mingled with sounds that resembled laughter, hissing, and heavy breathing. It was a goblin cave.

After only a few steps, she saw them—dozens of pairs of eyes, yellow and gleaming in the semidarkness.

Closest to the entrance lurked the Champions of the Arena. Their bodies were scarred, their muscles taut like those of predatory beasts. Each wore makeshift belts made of scraps of leather and iron, and pride gleamed in their eyes. They didn't attack Nika immediately—they studied her intently, as if assessing whether she deserved to breathe in their presence.

A little further on sat the Wolf Riders. Tall for goblins, with thick thighs and shoulders from constant saddlework. They wore wolf skins on their backs, and at their sides crouched enormous, shaggy wolves with red eyes. A low growl rose from their throats, echoing through the cave like thunder.

In the shadow of the stalactites loomed the Shamans. Slim, almost bony, with eyes that glowed with a strange light—green and unnatural. Around their necks were necklaces made of the bones of small animals, which clinked with their every movement. In their hands, they held staffs adorned with feathers and raven skulls, and as they whispered their spells, the air smelled of burnt incense and blood.

Even deeper, by the stalagmites, stood the Hobgoblins. Larger, more powerful, with reddish-brown skin, their shoulders were scarred, and heavy blades and axes hung from their backs. Their breaths sounded like the growls of beasts, ready to tear the intruder to pieces at any moment.

But the most ominous sight awaited at the very heart of the cavern. There, on a stone dais, sat the Paladins of the Old Blood—warriors who looked like echoes of times long past. Their armor was broken and rusty, but still bore the symbols of forgotten gods. In their hands, they held shields that gleamed with remnants of ancient runes, and their gazes were empty, as if their souls had long ago abandoned them, leaving only the lust for battle and obedience to a single person.

And then Nika saw him.

At the end of the hall, on a throne carved from black basalt, sat the Goblin King. He was larger than all the others, his body wrapped in heavy chains, which he wore not as bonds but as a sign of dominion. His eyes were like two glowing embers, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded like the sound of a steel door closing in a dungeon:

"You have brought me... a girl."

The entire cave fell silent. Goblins, wolves, shamans, and paladins—all looked at Nika as if she had just become part of a game whose rules she didn't know.