Chapter 1: The Inn of Sinking Will
When the fog finally receded, it was because the air had changed. It was thinner, sharper, scented with woodsmoke and the crisp, iron tang of high altitude. Ethan Harker stood at the head of a steep, winding path, looking down into the village of Lacta, high in the Holstaur Mountains. His body ached with a deep, peculiar emptiness. His travel pack was on his back, his map in his hand. The last three days were a blur of road and forest, but the details were smudged, unreal. Had he walked here himself? He must have…
He started down the main street.
The village was a postcard of quaint chaos, timber-framed buildings with steep, snow-dusted roofs stacked along a narrow pass. But the inhabitants froze him mid-step. A fox-eared woman with three fluffy tails was gently but firmly pulling a dazed-looking human man by the hand toward a cottage door. “Inside, my heart,” she chided, her voice a melodic whisper. “You know you catch chills so easily, and the night air is cold tonight.” The man, slender and soft-looking beside her, nodded with a vague, contented smile, his eyes not quite focusing.
Further on, a woman with glossy black feathers braided into her hair had her arm wrapped possessively around a shorter man’s shoulders, tucking him against her side as she unlocked a shop door. “No lingering, my treasure,” she said. “I’ve got the hearth all ready for you.” He leaned into her, a sigh of pure submission on his lips.
The road had been mud and misery for three days. Ethan Harker’s boots were caked with it, his clothes smelled of damp wool and sour sweat, and every muscle in his slender frame screamed for a bed that wasn’t just a rolled cloak on root-choked ground. The map said this was the last village before the border. The assignment letter, tucked against his chest, felt like it was burning a hole through his ribs.
Everywhere, it was the same. Monster girls of every description—scaled, furred, with glowing eyes or curling horns—ushering their human partners indoors. And the men… they were all like that. Smaller. Softer. Their expressions uniformly placid, clouded with a kind of blissful vacancy. A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air traced Ethan’s spine.
He kept walking, his boots crunching on the gravel path. He felt exposed. He was taller than those men, perhaps, but just as slight, his frame all academic angles under his wool coat. The feeling of being watched prickled his neck.
From the shadowed mouth of an alley, a pair of lamia women, their lower halves coiled, watched him pass. Their forked tongues tasted the air. “Look at that one,” one hissed, not bothering to lower her voice. “Fresh trail dust still on him. Lost little lamb.”
“Does the lamb need a pen for the night?” the other called out, her voice syrupy. “A nice, warm bed? We have plenty of room.” She ran a long, polished nail along the curve of her own jaw.
Ethan’s face heated. He gave a stiff, nervous wave and sped up, his eyes fixed ahead. Just find the inn. Get your bearings. Assess the stability of the Greyridge Marches. The assignment mantra felt thin, a child’s rhyme against the palpable hunger in the air.
Proceed to the contested territories and assess the stability of the Greyridge Marches. His advisor’s voice, dry and academic, echoed in his memory. It was a test. A first mission for a young graduate who needed to prove he was more than just top marks in geopolitical theory. He just hadn’t pictured the geography being quite so… muddy.
He didn’t see the two figures until he’d already bumped into the first one, his shoulder connecting with solid muscle that felt like seasoned oak. He stumbled back, apologies already tumbling out. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking—”
He looked up. And up. They were orcs, he realized. Taller than any man he’d ever met, with powerful builds that strained the fabric of their practical tunics and trousers. Their skin was a deep, mossy green, their faces handsome and strong-jawed, with pronounced lower canines. They carried heavy farming implements—a scythe and a thick-hafted mattock—as if they were twigs. They looked down at him, and their stern expressions melted into wide, delighted smiles.
“Well, hello there,” said the one he’d bumped, her voice a warm, low rumble. She leaned her mattock against the wall. “Where’s the fire, little one?”
“No fire,” Ethan stammered, trying to be polite. “Just… heading to the inn. I’m new.”
“It’s… it’s my assignment. I’m here to see the Countess.”
The effect was instantaneous. Their flirtatious, almost maternal warmth cooled into respectful disappointment. The two orcs shared a glance. “Ah,” sighed the first one, a long, weary sound. “The Countess’s new scribe. We heard a human was coming.”
“But if you’re claimed for the manor…” The first orc shrugged her massive shoulders, a gesture of absolute finality. “You better get inside. The Lusty Goblin is just down the road, the sign with the… well, the lusty goblin on it. Can’t miss it.”
“And be careful,” the other added, her tone turning serious. She leaned in a little. “Just because you’re spoken for doesn’t mean others won’t get ideas. A cute little human like you, wandering after dark? There are girls in this town who’d love to snatch you up just for the sport of it, claim or no claim. Now scoot.”
They waved him off, picking up their tools and turning back to their conversation, already dismissing him as unavailable inventory. Ethan stood there for a second, the word “claimed” ringing in his ears. He’d said he was here to see her, not that he belonged to her. Did they mean the same thing here?
He hurried down the street, the weight of their stares—from windows, from doorways, from the deepening shadows—pressing on him like a physical force. He saw the sign: a cartoonishly buxom goblin winking, holding a foaming tankard. The Lusty Goblin Inn.
“Well now. What’s lost stumbled in?”
She emerged from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a stained apron. She was short, her skin the muted green of forest moss, her ears long and pointed where they poked through lanks of charcoal hair. Her eyes were vast, pupil-less, and glowed with a soft ochre light. A goblin. He’d read about them. Seen illustrations. It didn’t prepare him for the reality of that gaze, which felt less like being looked at and more like being gently unfolded.
“A room,” Ethan said, his voice rough from disuse. He straightened his shoulders, trying to project an authority he didn’t feel. “For the night. And a hot meal.”
“Course, dearie. Course.” Her smile was wide, showing neat, sharp little teeth. She came around the bar, and the sweet-copper smell intensified, clinging to her. “Long road, was it? You’ve got the look. All hollowed out.”
Before he could answer, two more figures appeared from a back doorway. Younger, slighter, with the same glowing eyes. Daughters, he presumed. They didn’t giggle so much as hum, a sound like bees in a jar. Their eyes scanned him from his muddy boots to his tired, pale face.
“This way, sweet traveller,” the maid said, taking his elbow. Her touch was startlingly warm. “We’ll get you sorted. Kora, fetch the gentleman’s supper. Lise, draw a bath. The deep tub.”
“A bath would be… exceptional,” Ethan admitted, letting himself be led. The exhaustion was a weight now, making him pliant. The assignment could wait for morning. His rational mind, the one that earned a first-class degree, whispered that this was improper, being ushered away by strangers. But his body was chanting a hymn of gratitude for any direction that led toward hot water and a flat surface.
They moved down a narrow hallway, the wooden walls pressing close. The lanterns here were different, burning with a slower, thicker flame that cast dancing shapes on the rough-hewn planks. The sweet scent was in the air itself now, a perfume that seemed to coat the back of his throat.
“Just in here. Our best room, for a best guest.”
The room was small, dominated by a large bed piled with furs and woven blankets. A copper tub steamed in one corner, already half-full. The younger goblins moved around him with unsettling silence, pouring more buckets of hot water, laying out a folded linen towel. One of them—Lise—brushed past him, her arm sliding against his. A spark of static, or something else, jumped where they touched.
“Your meal,” Kora said, placing a wooden tray on a small table. A bowl of thick stew, a hunk of dark bread, a clay cup of that spiced ale. And a small, porcelain dish of something that looked like black honey, gleaming in the lamplight.
“What’s that?” Ethan asked, nodding at the dish.
“A local delicacy,” the mother said, her ochre eyes fixed on him. “For strength. Stir it into the ale. It’ll settle the road right out of your bones.”
He was too tired to be suspicious. The stew was rich and good, the ale warm and fragrant. He poured the thick, dark syrup into the cup. It dissolved without a trace, deepening the ale’s colour to a ruddy black. He drank it down. It tasted like overripe berries and earth.
The heat started in his stomach, a slow, radiating warmth that unspooled through his limbs. The constant ache in his muscles began to soften, blurring at the edges. It felt good. Better than good. It felt like forgiveness.
“Let’s get you out of these wet things,” the mother murmured. Her hands were at the clasps of his travelling cloak, and he was too lethargic to protest. The younger ones helped, their small, quick fingers making short work of buckles and buttons. Their touches were constant, incidental, feather-light strokes against his neck, his wrists, the bare skin of his torso as his shirt came away. He should stop them. This was highly irregular.
But the thought was a lazy fish in a deep, warm pond. It swam away before he could catch it.
The bath was a revelation. The water was impossibly hot, scented with pine and that ever-present honeyed darkness. He sank into it with a groan that was half-man, half-relief. The three of them didn’t leave. They moved around the tub, their humming buzzing in his ears. One poured a dipper of water over his hair. Another began to knead the knots from his shoulders with strong, clever fingers.
“So tense,” the mother crooned, her glowing eyes holding his from the foot of the tub. “Carrying the world. You can put it down here. We’ll look after it.”
Ethan’s head lolled back against the copper rim. The room was wavering slightly, the lantern light streaking. Their eyes were the only steady points, those three pairs of softly glowing amber, watching him, soothing him. The one called Lise lifted his hand from the water and began to massage his palm, her thumb pressing slow, concentric circles.
“The Greyridge Marches,” he mumbled, the assignment swimming up through the syrup in his mind. “I have to… assess…”
“Shhhhh.” It was Kora, her lips close to his ear. Her breath smelled of cloves and sugar. “Tomorrow. The marches aren’t going anywhere. You are exactly where you need to be.”
Her words weren’t just sound. They felt like physical things, settling into the grooves of his will, filling them up. He nodded, dumbly. She was right. Why was he fighting? This was help. This was comfort.
The bath lasted an eternity of bliss. They lifted him from the water, dried him with the linen towel, every pass of the fabric a slow, deliberate caress. He was led to the bed, the furs cool against his skin. The lanterns were dimmed. The three figures stood around the bed, looking down at him. His body was heavy, boneless, swimming with a pleasant, humming warmth. His sense of duty, his mission, his very name—Ethan Harker, graduate, envoy—were all receding, soft distant bells under a blanket of fog.
“Sleep now, sweet thing,” the mother said, her voice the last clear sound in the universe. “Just let go. We’ll take care of everything.”
One of the daughters climbed onto the bed beside him, curling into his side, her head on his chest. Her hair smelled of the same perfume that saturated the inn. The other lay down at his feet, her hands resting on his ankle. The mother simply watched, a smile playing on her sharp-featured face.
Ethan tried to form a thought, a question. This wasn’t… standard hospitality. But the black honey and the humming and the glowing eyes had woven a cocoon around his mind. His last shred of resistance melted, not with a fight, but with a deep, shuddering sigh of surrender. The outside world, the kingdom he was supposed to serve, the man he was supposed to be—it all faded into the sweet, dark, perfumed nothing.
Just before sleep took him completely, he felt a sharp, tiny prick on the inside of his elbow, like the sting of an insect.
Just before sleep took him completely, he felt a sharp, tiny prick on the inside of his elbow, like the sting of an insect.
Darkness, thick and absolute, swallowed him.
Consciousness returned as a slow drip of sensation. A deep, resonant thrumming in his bones. A smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat that made his empty stomach clutch. A soft, rhythmic pressure on his scalp—someone’s fingers, gently massaging.
Ethan opened his eyes.
He was slumped in a deeply cushioned armchair by a roaring central fire. He didn’t remember walking here. The last thing he knew was the bed, the furs, the prick. His body felt like warm wax, soft and malleable. He tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on his shoulder pressed him back into the chair’s embrace.
“Easy now. Let it settle.”
It was the mother goblin. She stood beside his chair, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding a polished wooden tankard. She smiled down at him, her ochre eyes glowing in the firelight.
He blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs. The inn was a warm, cozy place with small tables arranged around a large central fire, where a large roast of some kind slowly turned on a spit, giving off a rich, heady aroma. The patrons of the tavern were all male, like the ones outside, smaller and frail looking with dreamy expressions on their faces as they sipped from tankards of frothy white beer that, had Ethan not known better, he might have mistaken for milk. He got his first glimpse of a real goblin maid as about half a dozen of them were flitting about the common room, some carrying trays of food to their guests, smiling as they presented them to grateful and eager customers. Others carried full tankards of the frothy beer out to customers, careful to never let a mug sit empty for long. They were all short-stacked maidens with pointy ears, mischievous smiles, curvy hips, and large breasts that strained at the tight, revealing tops of their maids' outfits. They flirted openly with their customers, tickling the chin and rubbing the belly of one man as he finished a large plate of food and began to sag deeply in his chair, smiling as the dazed look on his face grew drowsy, and she called back for more ale for her good boy. Another sat in the lap of a man, hand-feeding him little morsels of spiced food as he stared openly at her bulging chest, barely registering as the goblin maid on his lap lifted a tankard or more food to his obedient mouth.
In the corner, a harpy in a long red dress sang a hypnotic song in a language that Ethan was unfamiliar with, which nevertheless washed over his weary mind and slowed his thoughts.
The melody wove through the smoke, a wordless lullaby that made his eyelids heavy. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was like sinking into a hot spring, the world softening at the edges.
“Drink.” The mother goblin placed the tankard in his hands, guiding it to his lips. “It’ll help you acclimate.”
The frothy white liquid was cool and slightly sweet, with a creamy, filling texture. It did taste like milk, but with a subtle herbal undertone that spread a fresh wave of calm through his chest. He drank without thinking, his throat working automatically. As he drank, he watched the scene unfold.
A goblin maid with violet hair giggled, wiping gravy from the chin of a portly, middle-aged man who gazed at her with utter devotion. “My good, hungry man,” she purred, popping the gravy-soaked bread into her own mouth before leaning down to kiss him, sharing the morsel. The man’s hands, which had been resting on the table, didn’t move to touch her. They lay there, open and passive.
Ethan’s tankard was taken from him, instantly replaced with a full one. He took another sip. The harpy’s song shifted, dipping into a lower, more resonant register. It felt like the sound was massaging the inside of his skull. He could almost see the notes, like ripples in the dark air.
Assignment. The word floated up from some deep, neglected trench in his mind. Greyridge. Report.
It felt abstract. Unimportant. Like trying to recall the details of a childhood lesson. What mattered was the warmth of the fire on his shins. The comfortable fullness in his belly. The pleasing, curving shapes of the maids as they moved, a ballet of care and control.
“See?” the mother goblin whispered, her lips close to his ear. Her scent—honey and copper and pine—was the only thing that felt sharply real. “Everyone is happy here. Everyone is looked after. There’s no need for that frown.”
He hadn’t realized he was frowning. He tried to relax his face. His muscles responded sluggishly.
“I…” His voice was a dry rustle. “I have to go… to the Countess.”
“And you will, my dear. Tomorrow. The pass is treacherous at night. You wouldn’t want to fall.” Her fingers combed through his hair again, scritching his scalp. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure shot down his spine, melting the last remnants of tension in his neck. He groaned softly, his head lolling against the back of the chair.
“That’s it. Just listen to the song. Let your mind drift.”
His gaze drifted back to the man being hand-fed. The man’s eyes were half-lidded, his jaw moving slowly, obediently. He looked… content. Peaceful. Free of worry. Ethan felt a faint, confusing pang of envy. What must it be like, to have all decisions made, all needs anticipated? To simply… be?
The harpy held a long, shimmering note. The fire seemed to pulse in time with it.
The mother goblin’s hand left his hair and traced the line of his jaw, turning his face gently toward her. Her glowing eyes held his. “You’re a special guest. Not just passing through. The Countess doesn’t request just anyone.” Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. “She has a taste for the clever ones. The ones who think they’re strong.”
A cold trickle of understanding seeped through the warm haze. Requested. Not assigned.
He had been selected.
Panic, thin and distant, fluttered in his chest. He tried to muster it, to build it into something he could use. He needed to stand up. He needed to walk out the door.
“I think… I need air.”
“Of course you do. Soon.” She didn’t move. None of them did. The other maids continued their work, their laughter like tinkling bells under the harpy’s unwavering song. The man in the corner had fallen asleep in his chair, a blissful smile on his face, a goblin maid draping a blanket over him and kissing his forehead.
Ethan’s limbs were leaden. The idea of rising, of fighting against the gravity of the chair, of the warmth, of the song, was monumental. Impossible. The panic faded, smothered by the creamy, sweet aftertaste of the beer and the relentless, gentle stroking on his cheek.
“What…” he breathed, his thoughts swimming through syrup. “What did you give me?”
“A little peace, sweet scholar,” she said. Her smile was kind. Absolute. “A little silence for that noisy, busy mind. The Countess prefers her scribes… pliant. Well-rested. You’ll thank us. Everyone does, in the end.”
She leaned forward, her presence filling his world. The firelight haloed her hair. The song wove around them, a cage of sound. He was falling into her eyes, those pools of molten, gentle amber.
“Sleep now,” she commanded softly, and it was no longer a suggestion. It was a fact, as inevitable as the turning of the roast on the spit. “The walk to Greyridge Manor is long. You’ll need your strength.”
Darkness encroached again, but this time it was from the edges of the room, thickening and rolling in like fog to claim him. The last thing he saw was the harpy in the corner, her red dress like a wound in the firelight, her mouth open in that beautiful, endless, silencing song.
The last thing he felt was the mother goblin’s thumb, pressing gently on his parted lips, shushing him into oblivion.