Gnash quickly accepted what was already clear to him. The spider’s body was far too large and awkward to drag back through the tunnels they had fled through. Leaving it where it lay, however, felt equally wrong.

  After a brief search, he found a narrow side alcove set back from the main passage, little more than a shadowed hollow in the stone. With a series of firm chitters, he directed the others, and together they undertook the slow, exhausting work of moving the carcass. It took time, frequent pauses, and no small amount of strain, but eventually they managed to wedge the spider’s bulk into the alcove.

  Gnash was still not satisfied. They began depositing loose stones, crumbling rock, and clumps of packed earth, he and the others worked to disguise the remains as best they could. The result was imperfect, but passable, the body broken up by shadow and stone rather than left as an open invitation.

  Only once the alcove looked suitably undisturbed did Gnash signal the scouts to move on.

  The rats set out once more, leaving the concealed alcove behind them and pressing onward into the Deep.

  They moved without the clear markers, guided only by Gnash and a persistent sense that the hidden cavern lay ahead.

  Progress was uneven. The tunnels rarely cooperated, narrowing suddenly or branching off at awkward angles. More than once, a promising passage ended in a dead end or sloped sharply upward before collapsing into rubble. Each mistake forced them to turn back, retracing their steps through familiar ground slick with damp and scattered debris. The scouts fanned out when they could, probing ahead before doubling back with frustrated flicks of tail and chittered warnings.

  Gnash took note of each failure without agitation. Every wrong turn etched the shape of the Deep more clearly into his mind. Even tunnels that led nowhere had value; knowing where not to go mattered just as much. Slowly, the map in his thoughts grew more defined, an invisible network of passages and obstructions layered over instinct and experience.

  Time slipped by unnoticed until a change in scent caught Gnash’s attention. Several rats lifted their noses at once, drawing in the unmistakable smell of water. He followed it, leading the troop toward a shallow break in the tunnel wall where water seeped steadily from a narrow fissure in the stone. It wasn’t a pool or stream, just a thin spring draining across the floor before vanishing into cracks further down the passage.

  The rats descended on it eagerly. Gnash drank deeply, the cool water washing grit and dryness from his mouth. The scouts followed, lowering their heads in turn, their earlier fatigue easing as thirst was quenched. For a brief while, the tunnel was quiet save for the faint trickle of water and the soft sounds of movement.

  Renewed, they pressed on.

  The path ahead still twisted and doubled back on itself, but the missteps grew fewer. Gnash adjusted their course incrementally, favoring passages that felt right, subtle shifts in air, the slope of stone beneath his paws, the way sound carried forward rather than swallowing itself. The rats moved with him, trusting his choices without hesitation.

  Though their pace remained slow, Gnash did not rush them. They were fed, watered, and alive, and every step forward added to their understanding of the Deep.

  The farther they pressed on, the faint tang of something unusual reached them. It was subtle at first, barely distinguishable from the usual damp, earthy scent of the tunnels, but gradually it grew stronger, enough to make Gnash’s nose twitch and the scouts pause. The source was unclear, but the scent suggested recent activity, a presence that had moved through the area, leaving traces behind.

  The signs became harder to ignore the farther they pressed on. The stone underfoot was disturbed in places, grit scuffed and pushed aside rather than settled by time. Small fragments of bone appeared along the tunnel edges, stripped clean and left where they had fallen. None of it was old. The air itself carried a change, a faint, sour note threaded through the dampness, sharp enough to make Gnash’s nose wrinkle.

  The tunnel forked ahead.

  The main passage widened slightly, its ceiling lifting just enough to suggest easier travel. The scent was stronger there, clinging to the stone and pooling in shallow pockets along the floor. Gnash slowed, crouching low as he studied it. Whatever had passed that way had done so recently, and in numbers.

  To one side, half-hidden behind a slumped curtain of stone, a narrower offshoot split away. It dipped lower almost immediately, the ceiling pressing close enough that Gnash’s whiskers brushed rock when he tested the opening. The scent lingered there as well, but thinner, stretched and diluted, as if carried rather than made. He hesitated only a moment before angling his body toward it.

  The smaller tunnel felt right.

  It was tight but manageable, sized comfortably for Gnash and his scouts. Nothing large could have forced its way through at speed without scraping stone or leaving signs behind. The floor was undisturbed, dust lying where it had settled long ago. No markings scarred the walls. No debris had been dragged through. The smell followed them regardless, faint but persistent, seeping in from somewhere ahead.

  They moved carefully, bodies low, tails trailing close to the ground. The tunnel sloped upward in a gradual rise, then curved sharply. As they crested the bend, the air thickened all at once, the sour stench swelling until it made their noses burn and their stomachs tighten.

  The passage ended in a narrow opening set high along the cavern wall.

  Gnash eased forward, peering through. Below them, the tunnel dropped away into open space. Jagged mineral growths framed the opening, thin stalactites hanging like broken teeth above, thick stone ridges and stubby stalagmites rising just beneath it. The formations crowded the gap, breaking up its outline and offering natural cover. From below, the opening would be little more than shadow and stone.

  Gnash settled into the covered opening, using the stone and shadows to keep himself hidden. The scouts pressed close, forming up at his sides. From here, they could see the chamber below without being seen.

  The cavern below was nothing like the rats’ Hidden Cavern. It was far larger, the ceiling rising high above the floor, but the walls were mostly bare, lacking the alcoves, cracks, and sheltered hollows his kind favored. The space felt open and exposed, lit only by sparse patches of glowing moss clinging to jagged outcroppings.

  Along the walls, hunched figures sat in loose clusters. They were spread throughout the chamber, small groups of four or five huddled together while few others wandered slowly between them.

  Most did little more than crouch or sit where they were, shifting positions, and draping thin hides over their bodies. A few picked through debris, while others seemed to be sleeping. The dim moss-light barely reached them, leaving their forms half-lost in shadow.

  Gnash watched in silence, trying to estimate their numbers from what he could see. There were many of them, far more than the members of his colony. But there was none of the vibrancy his own colony enjoyed. They occupied the cavern as it was but didn’t seem to care for it as one would expect to care for a home.

  One of the figures straightened briefly, rising onto its rear limbs as the hide draped over its shoulders slipped free and fell to the stone. It stretched, bony limbs extending with a faint shudder. Atop a thin neck sat a misshapen head, crowned with stringy dark hair that hung in uneven clumps. Dark, beady eyes stared out from either side of a long, narrow nose. The creature yawned, its thin black-lipped mouth opening wide to reveal rows of broken, uneven teeth, many damaged or missing entirely, before it hunched back over and gathered the hide again.

  Only then did Gnash fully register how unlike anything he had known these creatures were. They stood taller than two of his scouts stacked end to end, yet their spindly frames carried little sense of strength. Their mottled green skin stretched tight over knobby joints and narrow limbs. As they moved again, several crouched low, flipping small stones and scraping weakly at the dirt. One seized something from the dirt, trembling fingers closing around it before stuffing it into its mouth. Others paused often, glancing toward one another with quick, scowling looks.

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  Gnash’s mind flared with understanding as a subtle insight took hold. The name came to him clearly, almost instinctively. These were Goblins.

  His nose twitched when a particularly strong, acrid scent wafted to them, rising from the chamber. The goblins’ home was no prize, marked by a fetid filthy pond in one corner, piles of excrement in another, and walls scratched with crude representations of the creatures themselves, or stained with thrown refuse.

  At the far end of the chamber, the stone rose into a broad shelf of rock that overlooked the rest of the den. One of the hide-covered figures occupied it alone. Even at a distance, the difference was clear. This one was larger, its limbs thicker, its movements slower and more deliberate. Others gave the space a wide margin, drifting near but never lingering.

  The creature crouched over a small scatter of bones. It selected one, already cracked, and worked at the broken end with a narrow claw. Then it lifted the bone to its mouth. A wet, hollow sound followed as it drew something from within. When another of its kind edged too close, the larger one snapped suddenly, striking out with a sharp kick. The smaller figure cried out and scrambled back, leaving the raised stone empty once more.

  Gnash’s gaze swept the chamber, noting every shadowed recess and flicker of motion. Then, movement caught his attention along the edge of the cavern. At first it was only a shadow, but it soon slipped into the faint light, a lone rat, thin and ragged, its fur patchy and fouled with grime. It moved carefully, favoring one limb, keeping close to the wall as it moved.

  Gnash tracked it without shifting his body, only his eyes moving. Several goblins lingered nearby, dull and distracted, yet close enough that the rat’s path threaded between them.

  The lone rat below limped forward another few paces.

  One of the goblins lifted its head. Its eyes dull, unfocused, but then they widened as the movement registered. It rose abruptly, tossing its hide covering off and crossed the distance in two quick rushed strides. The rat tried to turn, too late. The goblin’s hand closed around it, fingers locking tight as it let out a squeal of glee.

  Gnash watched as the commotion rippled through the chamber like a stone dropped into shallow water. Heads turned, searching for the source of the stir. Guttural mumbling spilled from the figures’ lips as several nearby goblins began to rise.

  The unfortunate rat shrieked once, high and thin, as the hunched figure held it firmly. The larger creature paused, head swiveling, registering the dawning awareness in its kin that it had found something. Time was short.

  With a sharp, decisive motion, it bit down on the top portion of the rat . Instantly, chaos erupted. Nearby figures surged forward, limbs tangling and claws scrabbling in the rush, each pushing for a chance at the prize.

  When the struggle finally broke apart, there was nothing left to claim. A small trickle of blood darkened the stone beneath them, smeared by bare feet. Several goblins crouched low, lapping at the spilled blood with frantic strokes of their tongues. The rest hovered close, snarling and snapping in frustration, too late to take part but unwilling to move on just yet.

  Gnash did not look away. He didn’t know that rat, it wasn’t part of his colony, but he still felt a loss at the sight of one of his kind so violently consumed.

  He noted their speed. The lack of restraint. How quickly hunger seized them. Though these beings appeared weak, they displayed a startling savagery at the possibility of food. A single, frail rat had been enough to spark a frenzied scramble, turning a large portion of those present against one another.

  A larger, more imposing figure moved through the chaos. The leader shoved aside weaker kin, their bodies thudding against the stone. A harsh, guttural bellow tore from its throat. The meaning was lost to Gnash, but the intent was clear.

  The surrounding green-skins erupted, scrambling wildly, overturning nests, flipping bones, and scattering debris. A wild search ensued, even those still lying further in the chamber, still waking, were jostled and shoved aside as the frenzy spread. Each movement was frantic, desperate, every creature driven by the gnawing need to find more food.

  It was time to go.

  Gnash backed from the opening, pressing close to the walls as the scouts followed. He began the narrow descent down the small tunnel, each movement slow and silent. They needed to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the chaotic chamber before any of the frenzied figures noticed them.

  At the exit, where it merged with the main tunnel leading into the goblin cavern, Gnash paused. His nose twitched, ears alert, picking up the distant echoes of the creatures’ chaotic search. Satisfied that they remained unseen, he led the group onward, retracing the route they had taken to reach this place while favoring side paths they had bypassed originally. Step by careful step, they slipped through the Deep, each turn and narrow crevice carrying them farther from the dangerous territory and the wretched figures within.

  Gnash moved steadily, paws pressing against the cool stone as the scouts followed closely. Each step was deliberate, balanced between speed and silence. As he moved, another layer of attention settled over his thoughts. He focused inward, actively engaging the mental map while still in motion.

  Before, he had relied on it only in brief pauses, stopping to sense direction, to recall known tunnels and chambers before moving on. Now, with conscious effort, he kept that awareness present as he walked, tracking their position in real time as the paths shifted beneath his paws.

  With effort, the shape of the Deep clarified. A complex network of tunnels and caverns spread through his mind, and within it, a small, distinct sense of here. Gnash realized he could feel their place within that network as he walked, not just the memory of paths behind them, but their current position as well. The sensation shifted with each step, sliding forward as they moved, pausing when they paused.

  Every bend and junction pressed itself into that awareness. He moved the mental view closer to home noting the familiar passages, which looked firm and defined, while newly explored routes appeared thinner, uncertain, filling in as the his group passed through them. Gnash watched the representation of the group advance. The map was no longer something that waited for him to return; it was something he carried with him now, shaping itself around his movement through the Deep.

  He still watched his footing, still listened for danger, but part of him tracked the slow unfolding of the tunnels ahead. Gnash was pleased that each step forward made the map more complete, and with it, his understanding of how this stretch of the Deep fit together.

  Ahead, the tunnel crossed a narrow break in the stone. As Gnash approached, a low, constant sound reached his ears, not a drip, but the steady rush of moving water. Cool air seeped upward through the fissure, carrying fine mist that clung to fur and whiskers. The scouts hesitated only a heartbeat before leaping the gap, paws striking stone on the far side as the unseen current rushed beneath them. Gnash followed, landing cleanly and marking the hidden river in his mental map, a flowing presence beneath the rock. Without slowing, he guided the group onward, choosing a path that carried them away from the sound and deeper into the winding tunnels.

  A deep crevasse appeared along the path, forcing careful negotiation. The scouts edged along the walls and low ledges, pausing at points where footing was tricky. The symbol of the group advanced across the mental map, marking each pause, each junction, each side tunnel they passed. Gnash tracked both the physical motion of the rats and their abstract representation in his mind, recording new hollows and side passages for future exploration while maintaining a steady pace.

  The faint glow of moss and occasional patches of lichen provided just enough illumination to notice subtle variations in the rock, small ridges, damp pockets, and shifts in texture. They moved around low-hanging mineral formations and over scattered rubble, occasionally pausing as a scout nudged a slower companion through a tricky stretch. Small teamwork, silent and efficient, kept them moving as a single, cohesive unit.

  At another point, a fallen rock partially blocked the path. Gnash used his slightly larger frame as a base for the others to climb his form and pull each other over the obstruction, a brief display of cooperation that brought a sense of pride to the Gnash, as he himself cleared the impediment, with help from his group.

  The tunnels curved and narrowed again, forcing the scouts to hug the walls closely as they pressed forward. Gnash observed their progress carefully, ensuring no one became stuck while watching each newly encountered alcove or hidden ledge populate in his mental map.

  Much time passed in this measured rhythm. Each pause, each careful movement, was recorded both in the physical world and in the abstract network of tunnels in his memory.

  The group kept up a steady pace, their progress broken only by the Deep itself. Some tunnels ended abruptly in deep chasms that forced long detours, while others narrowed into treacherous stretches where jagged, algae-slick stalagmites crowded the floor. These moments slowed them, demanded care, but never stopped them for long. When they did pause to rest, it was brief. Gnash usually remained on his feet during those breaks, watching the surrounding stone while the scouts settled. He felt the strain as well, but it lingered at a distance, his need for rest less urgent than theirs.

  As the tunnels grew more familiar, the scouts’ pace began to change. Their steps quickened without instruction, bodies easing as known stone replaced uncertain ground. Familiar bends, worn edges, and long, used passages drew subtle reactions, tails lifted slightly, noses tested the air more often, the group tightening and loosening in rhythms Gnash recognized. The strain of caution faded, replaced by a quiet urgency to move forward.

  Gnash felt it before they reached the junction, but the others knew soon enough. Familiar scents clung to the stone, old paths opened ahead, and the tension that had followed them from the hostile cavern finally bled away. He slowed only long enough to be sure, then guided them onward without hesitation. They were back.