Goburo opened his eyes.
There was no transition from sleep to waking. One moment there was darkness; the next, there was the stark, angular reality of a room he did not recognise.
The air smelled of dry wood and old smoke. It was still—the kind of stillness that felt heavy, pressing against the eardrums.
He tried to move his hand to rub the throbbing ache at the back of his head.
He couldn't.
His arm stopped after a few inches. He heard the rattle of chain before he felt the cold iron biting into his wrists. He looked down.
He was tied to a chair.
Not just tied. Bound. Thick rope lashed his chest to the backrest. Iron manacles chained his wrists to the armrests. His ankles were secured to the legs.
He pulled. The chair didn't even creak. It was solid, heavy, bolted to the floor.
Panic flared in his chest, hot and sharp.
He looked to his right.
Watabei was there.
She was in the same predicament. Her hands were chained, her body lashed to the wood. Her head was slumped forward, her dusty hair hiding her face.
A bruise was blossoming on her cheek, dark against her pale skin.
"Watabei," Goburo croaked. His voice came out dry, broken.
She stirred. She groaned, lifting her head slowly. Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she looked confused. Then she saw the chains. She saw Goburo.
Her eyes widened.
She jerked her arms. The chains rattled loudly in the quiet room.
"Easy," Goburo whispered. "Don't..."
She ignored him. She pulled harder, her muscles straining, the chair rocking slightly.
"Hey!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "Hey! Let us out!"
She thrashed, trying to find purchase, trying to slip a hand through the manacle.
"Help! Someone!"
"Stop," Goburo hissed. "They'll hear you."
"Let us out, you cowards!" she screamed.
A door opened.
It was a heavy wooden door at the far end of the room. It swung inward with a slow, deliberate creak.
Watabei stopped struggling. She stared at the entrance, breathing hard.
Three figures entered.
They were not the Ungrateful. They were not bandits.
They were clean.
Their clothes were dark, functional, and expensive. Their boots were polished. Their faces were calm.
The leader walked in front. He was a tall man, with slicked-back hair and a face that looked like it had been carved from marble—handsome, but cold. He wore a long coat that brushed the floor.
He closed the door behind him gently.
He walked towards them. He didn't hurry. He walked with the relaxed pace of someone who owned the place, and the people in it.
He stopped in front of Watabei.
She glared at him. She bared her teeth.
"Who are you?" she spat. "Why have you taken us?"
The man didn't look at her. He was looking at his own gloves, adjusting the fit of the leather.
"Well, well," he said softly. His voice was smooth. "Look who is here."
He turned his gaze to Goburo.
He stepped closer, moving away from Watabei and stopping directly in front of the goblin.
Goburo shrank back against the chair. The man's eyes were dark, void of any warmth. They scanned Goburo's face, measuring, weighing.
Watabei yanked on her chains again. The metal scraped against the wood.
"Stay away from him!" she shouted.
The man sighed. He turned slightly to look at her.
"Just be still already," he said. "You can't escape us."
His voice wasn't angry. It wasn't mocking. It was a statement of fact. It was the tone used to explain gravity to a child.
"The chains are dwarf-forged. The chair is oak. You are wasting your energy."
He turned back to Goburo.
He leaned down. He placed his hands on the armrests of Goburo's chair, bringing his face inches away from the goblin's. Goburo could smell his breath—mint, and something chemical underneath.
"You know what we need," the man whispered.
Goburo trembled.
"Do you know who I am, little goblin?"
Goburo shook his head.
"I am a collector," the man said. "I collect things that have been lost. Artifacts. Creatures. Secrets."
He tapped a finger on Goburo's chest.
"And you... are a map."
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Your bloodline carries a memory. A location. A place that has been hidden from the world for a very long time."
He straightened up.
"The Ancient Goblins," he said. "The progenitors. The Cides."
Goburo stared at him.
"We know you know," the man said. "Or rather... we know the memory is inside you. Sleeping. Waiting to be woken up."
He walked around the chair, his hand trailing along Goburo's shoulder.
"So. Let's make this simple."
He stopped in front of Goburo again. He crossed his arms.
"Take us to the Ancient Goblins' hideout."
Goburo's mouth went dry.
He looked at the man. He looked at the two silent guards standing by the door. He looked at the walls, the chains, the hopelessness of the room.
He didn't know.
He didn't know where the hideout was. He didn't have the memory. He was just a goblin from a settlement that had burned down. He was nobody.
If he told them that, would they believe him?
Or would they kill him?
"It's... it's not that simple," Goburo stammered.
The man raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"I... I don't remember."
The man's expression didn't change.
"That is... unfortunate," he said. "But not unexpected. Memories can be... encouraged."
He looked at Watabei.
"Perhaps seeing your friend in pain will help refresh your recollection."
Watabei froze.
Goburo looked at her.
She wasn't looking at him. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw set. But she moved her head. A tiny, sharp movement.
*No.*
She moved her eyes to him, then back to the man, then to him again.
*Don't tell them. Don't give them what they want.*
Even if he had it, he couldn't give it to them. These people—they were the ones who had hired Vorn. They were the ones who had sent the party to the dungeon. They were the reason the healer was dead. The reason Kenji was...
Kenji.
Goburo reached out with his mind again.
*Kenji. Please.*
Silence.
The wall stood tall and silent. No help was coming. The Reintelligence state had archived the connection. Goburo was on his own.
The man was looking at Watabei.
"Your loyalty is admirable," he said to her. "Misplaced, but admirable."
He looked back at Goburo.
"I will ask one more time," he said. "Clearly. Slowly."
He leaned in close again.
"The location," he said. "Now."
Goburo looked at the man's face. He looked at the cold expectation in his eyes.
He looked at Watabei.
She looked terrified. She looked angry. But she held his gaze. *Don't.*
Goburo opened his mouth.
He needed air. His chest felt tight. The room was spinning.
"I..."
He gasped. A shallow, rattling breath.
He couldn't give them what he didn't have. And he couldn't betray Watabei.
He looked into the man's eyes.
He had nothing left to say.
TO BE CONTINUED...