The week began with weight on his shoulders. True to his word, Grub carried what the sick could not. At first light he brought them water, crouching to tilt the bucket carefully at cracked lips. He fetched their food, softening the tougher meat over the coals before carrying it to the alcove where they lay. When the hides beneath them fouled, he dragged the rank bedding to the stream and scrubbed until his knuckles bled, then hauled it back dripping and clean. The rest of the day was no lighter. He gathered firewood. He tended wounds. He cleaned the reeking corner until the stink dulled to little more than smoke and damp stone. The four slaves worked with him, but the burden of the sick was his alone, as he had promised.
By the second day his legs gave out halfway to the stream. The buckets sloshed, filthy water spilling over his bare feet. Breath tore at his throat. The work was too much. As he stumbled, desperation flared, and the Skill answered.
The tribe noticed. Warriors no longer jeered when he passed with buckets balanced in both hands or cloth strips looped around his neck. They still sneered at the four who trailed after him, but Grub himself drew fewer jeers with each passing day. He was small, a slave, yet he worked with a pace and purpose none of them had seen before. By the third day he saw results, though less than he had hoped. The fever broke in a few, but others still shook with chills. Some wounds closed, others still festered. The cloth helped, the water helped, the separation helped. But it was not enough. That was when the memory struck him. Back on Earth, he had read of trees that kept themselves free of rot and insects by weeping antibacterial oils into their bark. Oils that killed what would eat them alive. He looked at the sick again. Looked at the cloth strips already dark with pus. And decided.
When only the fires still crackled in the cave, Grub rose inside the cage. The guards bristled, spears angling toward him. He kept his hands loose at his sides and lifted his chin. “Chief,” he said. His voice carried farther than he intended. Heads turned. The cavern’s noise thinned. From his stone seat, Dravak looked up. Firelight painted his scars deep. “Speak.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder in the cave. “I need bark.” The cavern stirred. Warriors blinked at one another before the first laughter barked out. “Bark?” one jeered. “Hear that? He wants twigs now!” Another spat on the ground. “Maybe he’ll gnaw it for supper.” But Dravak did not move. His gaze stayed fixed on the small goblin behind the bars. “What for?” Grub did not flinch under his gaze. He stared back at the Chief and responded simply. “For the sick.” The laughter in the cave swelled. Some clutched their bellies. A stone clattered against the cage bars. “The slave cures fever with tree scraps!” one howled.
Dravak raised a hand, and the sound died. A faint curl touched the corner of his mouth, something close to amusement, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Always strange,” he said. “Always scratching where others see nothing.” He leaned forward, elbows heavy on his knees. "However, the forest is dangerous. You will not walk it alone. Two warriors will watch your every step. If you stray, if you run, they will gut you and leave your carcass for the wolves. Do you understand?” Grub bowed his head. “Yes, Chief.” Across the cavern, a female warrior stood with her arms folded, eyes narrowed to slits. She had not laughed with the others. Her jaw worked, teeth gritting, and when Dravak gave his word, she let out a low hiss of disgust. “Weak, letting a slave lead you,” she muttered, too quiet for most ears but not for Grub’s. Dravak sat back, the hint of a smile fading into iron. “Then tomorrow, bark.” The warriors muttered among themselves as the fire popped and spat. Some shook their heads, sneers sharp, but none dared voice more with the Chief’s word hanging heavy. Grub sank back to the floor of the cage, silent. He smiled softly to himself and let sleep come.
The next morning, two warriors swung the cage open and motioned him out with the tips of their spears. Grub stepped forward, the tribe watching in silence this time. No jeers, no stones. Only the sound of firewood crackling and the drip of water in the dark. The female warrior from the night before stood near the entrance, arms folded tight across her chest. She spat at the ground as he passed. Grub kept his eyes low, his pace steady. The forest opened around them, damp with morning mist. His escorts stalked a few paces behind, blades naked in their hands. Grub moved from tree to tree, fingers brushing bark, nose close to the surface. He inhaled deeply at each trunk, searching for the sharp tang of sap. Some trees smelled of damp rot, others of nothing at all. Then one caught him, resinous, bitter, clean. “This one,” he said softly to himself. He glanced at the warriors and, careful to keep his tone respectful, added, “Cut me some bark. Please.” The two exchanged a glance. One raised his brow, muttering under his breath about madness, but pressed his knife to the trunk anyway, slicing off wide curls of bark. Grub nodded thanks, then moved on, sniffing again. To the warriors, he must have looked deranged, pressing his nose against trees, lingering as though listening for secrets in the bark. They shook their heads, muttering at the waste of time, yet followed and cut where he pointed.
Eventually, as he got better at identifying the correct trees, he heard a soft chime echo through the silent forest. He opened the System notification.
He grinned. The System was quite useful at times. By the time the sun had climbed higher, his arms cradled a bundle of bark, nearly a dozen strips, each a foot long and six inches wide. The sharp green scent clung to his skin and made his nose prickle. He hugged them close and turned back toward the cave. Inside, he set the bark between two cloths, placed them on the flat of a stone, and took another heavy rock in his hands. He leaned all his weight onto it, grinding until oil seeped dark into the cloth. He worked slow, steady, repeating the press until the liquid welled enough to be wrung into a small stone bowl. From there, he dipped fresh cloths, soaking them in the resin. The tribe gathered to watch. Whispers slithered through the cavern. Some laughed under their breath. “He squeezes bark like fruit,” one jeered. “What next, will he pray to it?” Another spat, “Slave worships trees.” The laughter rippled, though uneasily. Dravak did not laugh. From his stone seat, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze fixed intently on the work, unblinking, as if he meant to wring sense from the slave’s strangeness by sight alone.
Then Grub lifted one of the oil-darkened cloths and tied it over his own face. Laughter broke loud this time. “Look at him,” one barked. “Scared of bad breath.” Another howled, clutching his belly. “Maybe tree-juice makes him chief!” But the noise dulled when they saw Dravak still watching, his eyes narrow, his attention sharp as a knife. Grub rose and crossed to the alcove where the sick lay. They glared at him as always, but he crouched without hesitation. He bound a weeping sore with the bark-oil cloth, pressing the clean edge firm. The goblin hissed and snarled, writhing at the sting of the resin as it bit into raw flesh. Another cried out when he tied a strip across a brow slick with sweat, clawing weakly at his hand until he swatted it away. Each time the cloth touched wound or fevered skin, it drew curses and growls, but he pressed on, steady and unyielding. The mutters around the fire rose sharper. “He smears tree-juice on them,” one scoffed. “Next he’ll feed them leaves.” Still Dravak’s stare did not waver. He did not move, did not speak, but his eyes followed every motion, as though he might weigh the truth in each knot and press of cloth. Grub went on, binding each in turn until the last cloth was tied and the resin-scent lingered heavy in the alcove. Only then did he step back, his face still hidden behind the oil-stained mask. The sick coughed, shifted, cursed under their breath. But the cloths stayed. And Dravak watched.
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That was when a voice cut sharp through the cavern. “This is weakness.” Grub’s hands stilled. He lifted his head. The female warrior from nights past stood near the fire, spear in her grip, eyes flashing at Dravak. “We waste time on bark and cloth,” she spat. “A true chief would not let himself be swayed by a slave’s madness. You shame us, Dravak.” The cavern erupted in murmurs. Warriors leaned in, hungry for blood. The children crowded close, eyes wide, waiting. Dravak rose from his stone seat, the firelight throwing his shadow long across the wall. His voice carried through the noise like a hammer. “You call me weak?” The female warrior leveled her spear. “I do.” “You would take my seat?” “I would. I challenge.” She spat on the ground before him at that.
The tribe surged, shoving back hides and benches until a wide circle opened in the center of the cavern. The air throbbed with heat, bodies pressed close, anticipation sharp as a knife. Dravak stepped into the circle, empty-handed. The challenger sneered. “No weapon, Chief?” He shook his head once. “I will not need one for the likes of you.” Her snarl split the silence as she lunged, spear thrusting. The point darted for his chest, fast and sure. Dravak moved quicker. His hand caught the shaft in mid-strike, jerking it sideways. With his other hand he struck, a fist cracking across her jaw. She staggered but held her weapon, thrusting again. He batted it aside, stepped in close, and his fists became hammers. One to her ribs. A crunch. One to her face. Blood sprayed. She reeled, swung the butt of her spear wild. He caught it, wrenched it free, and tossed it clattering across the stone. His fists fell again and again, a storm of bone and blood. Her nose shattered. Her teeth split. Her eye swelled shut before she even had time to scream. He seized her by the throat, drove her backward, and slammed her down against the stone floor of the circle. His fists pummeled until her head lolled, until her body sagged limp. He dropped her, and she hit the ground with a hollow thud.
Silence. Only the sound of his breath and the blood dripping from his hands. Dravak straightened, eyes sweeping the circle. “Any others?” None moved. None dared. Even the children, who had leaned forward hungry before, shrank back, their eyes full of a mixture of awe and terror. Dravak simply grunted and returned to his chair. He wiped his knuckles on a scrap of hide. The female warrior’s corpse was dragged out of the cave and into the forest.
The cave settled back into its rhythm soon enough, and the next three days passed in hard labor. Grub’s work did not ease. He rose before most fires were stoked and hauled water until his shoulders burned, scrubbed fouled bedding at the stream until his palms went raw, rotated the bark-oil cloths, cleaned the reeking corner, and bound fresh strips over angry wounds. When wood ran low he helped carry it in, when a fever ran high he cooled it with damp cloth, and when the four faltered he set them to tasks and kept moving. A chime touched the edge of his hearing as he straightened from lifting a sloshing bucket. Opening the notification, Grub could only grin.
He breathed once, felt a small new steadiness in his limbs, then bent to the work again. The bark-oil cloths made a difference. More and more of the sick recovered enough for Grub to deem them fit to rejoin their tribe-mates. The fevered slept deeper, sweat cooling on their skin instead of burning. Wounds that had stubbornly festered began to scab, the rot retreating under the sting of resin. Fewer coughs echoed through the cavern at night. Even the tribe, for all their mutters, saw the change. The jeers quieted. Eyes followed Grub more often now, some wary, some curious, but fewer with open disdain.
By week’s end, only three goblins remained in the quarantine alcove. The rest had returned to their mats by the fire, weaker but standing. That night, Dravak called for him from his stone seat. His voice carried through the cavern. “Grub. Step forward.” The noise in the cave thinned at once. Warriors leaned in, children craned their necks. The four other slaves watched him with wide eyes as Grub crossed to the fire’s glow, the resin-scented cloth still tied across his face. Dravak leaned forward, elbows resting heavy on his knees. His scarred face was unreadable. “From the beginning, you have been unusual. You speak, act, think not like a slave, but like one of the tribe. Why?”
Grub lifted his head and met the chief’s eyes. His voice was steady. “Because I’ve lived the other way. I know what it feels like to be out there, alone. Cold. Starving. I would be dead if your hunters hadn’t found me. So when I was brought here, I never saw it as worse than that. At least here, there’s fire, food, numbers to keep the beasts away. I don’t like being a slave. But if I work, if I make myself useful, then I’m not beaten. I’m not punished. I can keep going. That’s enough for now.” A ripple stirred through the tribe. Some sneered. Others only listened. But more than a few shifted uneasily, eyes darting between the two figures at the fire, one a chief, the other a slave who spoke to him as an equal.
Dravak grunted, then straightened to his full height. His voice rang against the stone walls. “Then hear me, Grub. No longer a slave. I offer you freedom. A place among my warriors.” The cavern rippled with shock. Whispers buzzed, sharp and fast, like sparks catching dry grass. The four other slaves stared, frozen. Grub’s chest tightened. He drew a slow breath, then said, steady, “I will accept, on one condition.” The cavern fell silent. Even the fire seemed to crackle softer as every goblin fixed their eyes on him. A slave making demands of the chief was unthinkable. And yet Grub stood straight, his gaze still locked on Dravak’s, his voice carrying as if he had every right.
Dravak’s iron fangs gleamed in the firelight as his mouth curled into a laugh, booming and harsh. He threw his head back, the sound rolling through the cavern, then leaned forward again, teeth bared in amusement. “Offered freedom, and still you haggle. Absurd. But I’ll hear it. Speak.” Grub lifted his chin. “The four with me. If I join your tribe, then they must be offered the same choice.” The fire popped. Shadows leapt across stone. Every ear strained toward the chief.
Dravak’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his tone was slow, weighing every word. “You think strangely. Your ideas make little sense to me. But the results…” He swept a hand toward the alcove where only three remained apart. “The results cannot be ignored. You will have what you ask. All four will be given the same offer. Let us see if they have the strength to take it.” The four ex-slaves wasted no time. They stood at once, voices overlapping as they accepted and pledged loyalty to Dravak, fear and disbelief on their faces but certainty in their words.
Dravak rose, towering over the fire, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the walls. His voice boomed through the cavern. “Hear me! These five are no longer slaves. No longer tools. They are brothers in arms. Any who treat them as less will answer to me.” No one spoke. No one moved. The proclamation sank deep, settling into the bones of every goblin in the cavern. Unease flickered across many faces, not only at Dravak’s decree but at the sight of the small goblin who had stood eye to eye with their chief and spoken as though his words carried the same weight.
Grub stepped forward, walking to the fire with measured steps. He did not puff his chest or search for approval. He simply moved as though the fire was his place to sit, whether the tribe liked it or not. His shoulders were steady, his head neither bowed nor raised too high. He did not ask for space, nor did he wait for it to be offered. He sat, and that was enough. The four followed close behind, less certain, their shoulders hunched, their eyes darting from warrior to warrior. They sat pressed together, their unease plain, as if Grub’s presence alone might shield them from the weight of so many eyes. Around them the fire crackled, the scent of resin and smoke mingling with the bitter tang of dried blood. Shadows shifted and swayed across the walls, and above it all, Dravak’s iron fangs glinted in the firelight, a reminder of the violence that held this tribe together.
No one dared challenge the proclamation, though unease lingered in the cavern. Slaves had been folded into the tribe before, but not often, and not like this. Some muttered that it was weakness, others that it was waste, while a few held their tongues and studied the scene in silence. For many, the memory of the challenge still hung heavy, the sight of Dravak breaking a warrior’s body with his bare hands serving as a stark reminder that his word was law. None would defy him so soon after blood had stained the stone.
Grub leaned closer to the fire, stretching his hands toward the heat as though this was the most natural place for him to be. He let the warmth soak into his bruised fingers, into the cracked skin of his palms, and said nothing. The silence around him stretched long. The other four huddled close, still stiff with fear, and though no one spoke it aloud, the difference between them was clear. They had been given freedom but did not yet know what to do with it. Grub, by contrast, acted as though freedom had always been his, and all that had changed tonight was that Dravak had said the words aloud.
The chief leaned back in his stone chair, his eyes never leaving Grub. The fire painted his scars into harsh grooves, his broad frame a shadow of iron against the cave wall. He said nothing further, yet the weight of his gaze was enough to press on every goblin present. At last, one of the warriors tossed another log onto the fire, and the crack of flame broke the stillness. Voices returned, hushed at first, then louder as the tribe tried to fall back into its rhythm. But it was not the same. Not after what had been seen.
The five were no longer slaves. They were part of the fire now. And though unease lingered thick in the cavern, the words of the chief were law. No blade or fist would strike them without risking his wrath. For the first time, Grub was not just surviving. He was seated among his tribe. He belonged, and he would not give that back.
