Idaho shrugged as he accepted the glass vial containing the remaining half of the golden powder from the headmaster. "The truth is, we simply call," he explained in hushed tones, careful that Duke Pafaheim and Earl Berlid, engrossed in marshaling their troops, would not overhear. "We goblins merely summon the earth—or perhaps more accurately, the God of the Earth—though none among us has ever beheld it. It consumes Source, of course, but when we call, the earth... it answers our will, and bends to our actions."

  Patrick Fort sensed a profound mysticism suffusing their private council. "So you establish communion with the earth itself, after which no further action is required?"

  "I prefer to consider it as achieving the freedom to do as we wish."

  "...Extraordinary," Patrick stated with quiet reverence. "Yes, I think it's a great power, too. It's just a shame it fell to a people considered... less than great, for them to use as they see fit."

  Patrick Fort suspended his preparations. "...I believe you are extraordinary beings, gentlemen," he declared with unmistakable sincerity and solemnity. "Goblins are magnificent. Dwarves are magnificent. Halflings and elves alike possess their own magnificence..." He seemed to deliberately omit something. "There exists no unremarkable race within this world."

  Idaho regarded him intently for a long moment. "Might I request that you lower yourself to my height, Headmaster?" The young man complied literally with this request.

  Goblin Idaho embraced him. Patrick's cheeks instantly flushed crimson, his composure momentarily abandoned. "I extend my profound gratitude, Headmaster. Throughout history, none has ever acknowledged goblin-kind as magnificent, nor considered humanoids among the great races. You represent the first such encounter in my sixty-five years of existence."

  Patrick, ever susceptible to sentiment, felt his eyes moisten. He struggled diligently to maintain his dignity.

  After what seemed an eternity, Idaho released the young headmaster—only for Halleck to immediately enfold him in another embrace. "Thank you," the goblin declared. "My brother has articulated my sentiments perfectly, though I must note you are the first such individual I have encountered in seventy-two years, Headmaster."

  Only then did Patrick fully compose himself, becoming acutely aware of the details surrounding him: the weathered felt cap upon his head, the small gold-trimmed satchel at his side, the well-traveled cloth shoes, and the distinctive aroma of ink and earth emanating from Halleck. He returned the embrace with genuine feeling.

  Nearby, Grand Pip Berlid, in the midst of issuing commands to his subordinates, experienced a sudden wave of emotion. He turned impulsively and enveloped Ricard Pafaheim in a powerful embrace, their armor plates colliding with metallic resonance. "Wish me glorious return," he requested. "Certainly. May your return be triumphant indeed," Ricard replied, smiling warmly.

  "Historically, I never comprehended humans' predilection for pre-departure embraces," Idaho remarked while meticulously examining the glass vial for potential fractures. "I remained ignorant that this custom originated with elven tradition, similar to the handshake. Yet today, I find the experience unexpectedly agreeable."

  "Perhaps when this conflict resolves, we might reconvene and exchange similar embraces..." the boy mused wistfully.

  "Sir," Halleck interjected promptly, "while I admittedly possess a loquacious nature and occasionally exhibit foolishness, I steadfastly avoid superficial prognostications regarding future events. Our focus must remain on present circumstances rather than unpredictable future developments. Otherwise, fate invariably imposes its cruel ironies upon us."

  Idaho considered his brother somewhat excessively superstitious, while Patrick Fort wisely abandoned the subject. He too comprehended fate's formidable power—a force surpassing even magic in its potency. His father had once shared similar sentiments at the harbor's edge, instructing him to care for his two sisters during his absence while he pursued an enormous marlin—a catch sufficient to sustain their family of four indefinitely. Patrick had accepted this prophetic statement, yet his father never returned. Initially skeptical, the boy had believed fate would eventually provide answers. Not until he could bear it no longer and took to the sea to find his father, his two sisters barely ten years of age in tow, did he learn the true face of fate. It came when the pirates took them, and after his sisters were violated, they were tied to the stern and dragged through the water as bait for sharks. That was when he truly understood the hunger of the mako. He had questioned why he had been spared their fate, later discovering the grim economics—he commanded three additional fish-line coppers in market value. Bellita Village, chronically deprived of youthful laborers, represented lucrative hunting grounds for pirates. Patrick Fort had ultimately accepted this destiny, while silently vowing to forge his own path forward. He did not realize that in speaking this vow, he had already cast another shallow and fleeting prophecy of his own into the future.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Patrick lapsed into contemplative silence before retrieving his staff from its position against the table. "Are your preparations complete, gentlemen?" he inquired with ceremonial formality reminiscent of final examinations at Saint Asini. Meanwhile, an attendant meticulously verified Grand Pip Berlid's gorget and breastplate—soon he would charge headlong into blood-saturated conflict. He intended to reunite with his son only upon his triumphant return, the young man currently bolstering troop morale alongside Helmos, heir to Duke Pafaheim. "Absolutely, Headmaster."

  "Please, address me as Patrick, gentlemen."

  "Halleck, accompanied by my intellectually deficient brother Idaho," Halleck announced formally. "We serve as Royal Messengers of Cynthia."

  "And we are Lutin goblins, distinguished by our pointed nasal features," Idaho supplemented.

  An almost imperceptible smile flickered across Patrick Fort's countenance, simultaneously hopeful and melancholic. "Let us now confront our respective destinies."

  Alan Kebos was a bear of a man, one of the few able-bodied young men left in the village. He shared his household with a sister of comparable stature and a father reduced to virtual physical insignificance. Alan returned carrying two substantial salmon purchased from the marketplace, priced at a mere four Glen, with hooks included as supplementary value. He thrust open the entrance, causing the deteriorating wooden door to emit an agonized protest. As he stooped to enter, the entire structure seemed to shudder in response. "Kate," he addressed his sister positioned beside the bed. "Fish today. Damned cheap too."

  Kate Kebos, possessing distinctive square facial features, acknowledged with a nod, regarding her brother with gentle affection. "I never anticipated our descent into such circumstances—living the existence of impoverished folk." Alan kicked aside a fractured stool before seating himself.

  "Our origins were always humble," Kate responded, avoiding her brother's intimidating gaze by lowering her eyes. "I refer specifically to Father's impoverished childhood."

  "The situations differ fundamentally." Alan dismissed with a sweeping gesture. "His youthful poverty eventually resolved. If there's a shred of truth in those damned stories he's always telling, he should have been rewarded handsomely by the Emperor. He achieved heroic status—commonly referenced as the 'Stone from the Sky' during the Godma-Cynthia conflict. I suspect the old man's accounts were authentic," he indicated the elderly figure reclined upon the bed, chronologically perhaps fifty yet physically deteriorated to corpse-like condition. "He gave you plenty of jewelry, Kate. Gold, silver, emeralds... The old man had his moments, I'll give him that." His sister ducked her head, clearly reluctant to pursue this conversational direction. "Remain untroubled, Kate. I shall not demand surrender of your concealed valuables. At least not until your matrimonial arrangements materialize." Kate physically contracted in response.

  "...Where had my narrative reached?" The elderly man's desiccated lips began to move, producing vocalizations seemingly emerging from unfathomable depths. Alan had long maintained that his father's condition resulted from intimate congress with a succubus, subsequently draining his vitality and remaining lifespan. "Have I succumbed to slumber again, my cherished one?"

  "Affirmative, Father." Kate Kebos placed her substantial hand upon his withered forehead with exquisite gentleness. "You must be experiencing fatigue." Alan emitted a derisive snort.

  "...Fatigue? No, fatigue eludes me..." The elderly man struggled to achieve a seated position, his cataract-clouded eyes apparently blind to Alan's presence. He addressed exclusively his daughter: "I shall continue my account... proceeding from... what point had I reached?"

  "You described Godma's gradual ascendancy during the military stalemate, initiating forward progression. However, an unexpected impediment halted their advance—specifically..."

  "The barrier!!" The elderly man exclaimed with startling volume, causing Alan to reflexively spring upward while Kate, thoroughly accustomed to such outbursts, remained perfectly composed. "The golden barrier! The magical barrier!" His daughter clasped his emaciated hand reassuringly. "Indeed, that very barrier," she confirmed with tranquil patience.

  This represented the one thousand and first recitation of Nate Kebos's illustrious narrative.