The stench hits first. Rot, smoke, and something sour — the unmistakable odor of goblins. The cave mouth gapes like a beast’s throat, edges blackened by soot, floor sticky with dried blood. Steps echo inside. The air grows heavy, swallowing sound. Every breath, every scrape of steel rings against the walls. Faint torchlight flickers deeper within, throwing crooked shadows that crawl across the stone like insects. Something stirs. A scraping — claws on rock. Then a giggle, wet and guttural, echoing from the dark. Shapes emerge from the glow. Three goblins crouch by a dying fire. One sharpens a jagged knife, another gnaws on a bone, the third sniffs the air, nostrils flaring, eyes gleaming yellow with hunger and malice. A torch sputters out. Darkness folds over the tunnel. A hiss follows, then a whisper — harsh and eager: “Graaa… shaak… manflesh…” Silence tightens like a snare. The creatures rise, claws flexing, blades scraping against stone. This is no simple nest. It is a living hive — and it is awake.