[Fifteen years ago]

  Grimz hated the Artifact Repository more than any other place in Blackthorn Keep.

  The expansive chamber stretched endlessly beneath the main fortress, its stone walls lined with shelves containing thousands of cursed, enchanted, and otherwise dangerous objects collected by generations of Nightshades. Each item demanded specific care, from the soul-trapping music boxes—polish with clockwise motions only—to the flesh-petrifying amulets—never allow skin contact for more than two-and-a-half seconds.

  And today, as every day for the past three years, Grimz was responsible for keeping them all immaculate.

  "Watch your elbow, runt," growled Skrix, the supervisor, as Grimz carefully balanced on a rickety stool to reach a particularly nasty obsidian dagger. "That's the Blade of Eternal Bleeding. One nick and you'll be replaced before your blood stops flowing."

  Grimz nodded without looking down, focusing on maintaining his balance while extending the special silk polishing cloth toward the weapon. At seventeen, he was small even for a goblin, with ears that seemed too large for his narrow face and fingers so thin they appeared almost skeletal. Not ideal physical traits for a member of the cleaning caste, but his size allowed him to reach places others couldn't—a dubious advantage that had earned him this particular assignment.

  "Careful, careful," Skrix muttered, more concerned for the artifact than Grimz. Even with all the benefits of this kid, young goblins were easily replaceable.

  The cloth made contact with the dagger's surface, and Grimz felt the familiar chill that accompanied contact with dark magic. He hated that sensation, like spiders crawling beneath his skin, but he'd learned to ignore it. Three clockwise wipes, two counterclockwise, then repeat. The blade gleamed malevolently in the chamber's dim light.

  "Why do we have to polish these every day?" Grimz asked, immediately regretting the question. "I mean—they barely collect dust down here, and no one ever sees them except us."

  Skrix's yellow eyes narrowed to slits. "Questions again? That's your problem, boy. Too many thoughts in that skull."

  Grimz bit his tongue until he tasted copper, his thin fingers never pausing in their practiced motions. His questions bubbled up like swamp gas—dangerous, inevitable. Three years of reprimands hadn't dampened that nagging itch in his mind, the one that kept asking 'why' when every other goblin had learned to think 'how' and nothing more.

  From across the chamber came the clatter of metal against stone, followed by a howl of pain. Grimz turned to see Nex, another young goblin, clutching his hand as a bronze orb rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of glittering purple dust.

  "Fool!" Skrix abandoned Grimz, rushing toward the commotion. "That's the Sphere of Waking Nightmares! Don't let it touch anyone else!"

  As Skrix's shouts echoed through the chamber, Grimz slipped from his stool, the cool stone floor a momentary comfort against his calloused feet. He navigated the repository's illogical layout—artifacts arranged by curse type rather than any sensible system—resulting in a cleaning route that zigzagged through centuries of magical catastrophes waiting to happen. A mind trap beside a flesh-melter next to a soul-drinker—organized chaos that only the Nightshades would consider sensible.

  Grimz moved to the next item on his list: a mirror that showed the viewer aging rapidly until they saw their own death. This required a special cloth soaked in phoenix tears, applied only to the frame, never the reflective surface.

  As he worked, he observed the other goblins through the corner of his eye. Twelve of them were assigned to this section of the repository, each more miserable than the last. He recognized the subtle differences in their uniforms that indicated their family lines—the red trim on Nex's collar marking him as third-generation mining stock, reassigned due to an excess of workers below ground. The double stitching on Vorx's sleeves denoted his family's traditional role in waste disposal.

  And then there was Grimz's own plain gray uniform, the mark of a goblin whose family had always cleaned, always served, always existed in the background of the Nightshade dynasty's grand story.

  "Move faster!" Skrix shouted, returning to hover near Grimz after containing the orb incident. "Lord Nightshade is expecting a full inspection report by tomorrow, and we're behind schedule."

  "But why would Lord Nightshade even—" The words tumbled from Grimz's mouth before he could trap them behind his teeth. "He hasn't set foot down here in years."

  Skrix's hand moved faster than Grimz could react, catching him sharply across the ear. "There you go again with those cursed 'whys.' Your place isn't to understand," he hissed, leaning close enough for Grimz to smell the morning's rancid meat on his breath. "It's to obey."

  The blow wasn't particularly hard—physical damage to workers reduced efficiency—but the humiliation burned. Around him, the other goblins kept their eyes down, pretending not to notice. Solidarity existed only in silence here.

  "The great Lord Nightshade collects these artifacts as symbols of his family's power and reach," Skrix continued, apparently deciding a small lesson might prevent future questions. "Each one represents a victory, a conquered enemy, or a particularly clever acquisition. They are the physical manifestation of the Nightshade legacy."

  Grimz nodded, storing away this information like he did all rare explanations. Knowledge was precious currency in the depths of Blackthorn Keep, especially for goblins who were actively discouraged from acquiring it.

  "Now get back to work. Five more artifacts before meal break."

  Moving to the next shelf, Grimz reached for a crystal vial containing what appeared to be constantly swirling smoke. Skrix had drilled the identification of this artifact into him during training. "Bottled Regret—Duke Hallowwell, 1387," he recalled. According to the handling instructions, it required gentle buffing with dragon-hide gloves, taking care not to disturb the seal. Failure to remember such details often meant death in the repositories.

  Like all workers here, Grimz had spent months memorizing the appearance, location, and handling requirements for hundreds of artifacts. Those who failed this rigorous training rarely survived their first week among the dangerous objects. The Nightshades ensured their servants knew the proper procedures without needing the forbidden skill of reading.

  His hands moved with mechanical precision while his mind escaped the confines of the repository. Beyond these walls, his cousin Mirix scrubbed the upper-level bathrooms, her ears perking at fragments of Nightshade conversations through ornate doors. "They're planning something big," she'd whispered during their last shared meal. "Something about the eastern villages." Further below, Uncle Braxum's pickaxe struck the enchanted stone in the mines, each swing earning him an extra ounce of gruel—the price of a broken back paid in meager spoonfuls.

  Only the most "privileged" goblins served in the main halls, wearing finer uniforms and interacting directly with the family and their visitors. Those positions were reserved for goblins with the right connections or particular talents that made them valuable in visible roles.

  Grimz had neither. What he did have was a dangerous tendency to think too much.

  He was halfway through polishing the vial when his stool wobbled. For one terrible moment, he felt himself losing balance, arms pinwheeling as the precious artifact slipped from his hands.

  Time stretched like heated glass as the vial tumbled through the air. Grimz lunged, his body moving before his mind could calculate the consequences. His skeletal fingers closed around the container a heartbeat before it would have shattered against the unforgiving stone.

  The relief lasted exactly one breath.

  Crack.

  The sound was small and insignificant—a whisper compared to the constant dripping of condensation in the repository. But to Grimz's ears, it thundered. A small black box lay splayed open on the floor, its ancient hinges finally surrendered to time. From its velvet-lined interior, a tendril of luminescent green smoke unfurled like a curious serpent, seeking secrets to devour.

  "What have you done?" Skrix's voice cut through the sudden silence like a blade.

  Grimz carefully placed the vial back on its shelf before turning to face the disaster. The box had split along one corner, its ancient hinges finally giving way after centuries. A pulsing green light emanated from within, growing brighter by the second.

  "It's the Whisperbox," someone murmured. "The one that tells secrets."

  As if summoned by the words, the smoke began coalescing, forming shapes resembling mouths. Ghostly whispers filled the air, fragments of conversations never meant to be heard.

  "Lord Nightshade plans to sacrifice the eastern villages to the—" "—replaced his heart with a demon's after the assassination attempt—" "—the lady's child isn't truly a Nightshade, but rather—"

  Skrix slammed the box shut with a gloved hand, cutting off the whispers mid-revelation. He had been in the repositories longer than any other goblin. His perfect recall of every artifact's properties and dangers was why he'd survived decades when others perished within months. The Whisperbox was infamous among the staff—their supervisors made sure every cleaner could identify it by sight and knew to avoid disturbing it. His face had gone ashen, eyes wide with terror.

  "You," he hissed at Grimz, "do you have any idea what you've done? Those secrets... if anyone heard..."

  "It was an accident," Grimz said, knowing it wouldn't matter. "The stool wobbled, and I had to choose between saving the vial or—"

  "Silence!" Skrix grabbed him by the collar, dragging him away from the shelves. "Lord Nightshade himself enchanted that box to hold the secrets he extracted from his enemies. If word gets out that it was opened..." He left the consequence unspoken, but his trembling grip told Grimz everything he needed to know.

  The repository fell silent as every goblin froze mid-task, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and morbid fascination. Still nursing his wounded hand from the Sphere incident, Nex took a half-step toward them before withering under Skrix's venomous glare.

  "I'll report this myself," Skrix decided, releasing Grimz with a shove. "You'll be reassigned to the deepest cleaning detail. If you're lucky, you'll spend the rest of your days scrubbing waste pipes instead of decorating the torture chamber as an example."

  Grimz swallowed hard, fear curdling in his stomach. He'd heard stories of goblins who made serious mistakes—how they disappeared into the lower dungeons, returning changed, if they returned at all.

  "Back to work, all of you!" Skrix shouted at the others before turning back to Grimz. "You... you wait here until I return with the proper authorities. Don't touch anything else."

  As Skrix hurried from the chamber, Grimz stood frozen in place, mind racing through potential escapes. Running was pointless; Blackthorn Keep was a deliberate nightmare of dead ends and false passages. Legend whispered that the Dark Lord had forced the architect to create ten different plans, then jumbled them together at random, laughing as the master builder clawed at his own eyes, driven mad by the impossible geometry he'd been forced to create.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Hiding would only delay the inevitable. Pleading for mercy from Lord Nightshade was laughable—the Dark Lord was not known for his compassion, particularly toward replaceable servants.

  "Well, you've really gone and done it now," Vorx muttered, sliding closer while pretending to work on a nearby shelf. "Breaking a containment artifact? That's worth at least twenty lashes, maybe worse."

  "It was an accident," Grimz repeated weakly.

  "Doesn't matter in Blackthorn Keep," said Vorx, shaking his head. "Results matter, not intentions. That's what the supervisors always say."

  Grimz knew he was right. The Nightshade philosophy trickled down through every level of the Keep's hierarchy—power, results, and image above all else. Weakness was punished, and failure was unacceptable.

  He stared at the broken box, perched on its shelf with deceptive innocence, green whispers still curling like smoke within its cracked frame. One moment's falter in seventeen years of meticulous servitude, and the executioner's blade now hung over his neck. The injustice of it burned in his throat like acid.

  The thought surprised him with its clarity and force. Justice wasn't a concept featured prominently in Blackthorn Keep's goblin life. There was only work, obedience, and survival.

  Before he could examine this dangerous new line of thinking, the heavy doors of the repository swung open. Instead of Skrix returning with guards, a single goblin entered—Trisk, who worked in the upper levels as a messenger. He was breathing hard as if he'd run the entire way.

  "Everyone out," Trisk announced, his voice unusually high with excitement or fear. "Lord Nightshade has called an emergency gathering in the main courtyard. There was a breach of the security perimeter. Some artifacts may have been compromised. All staff and servants must attend immediately."

  The goblins exchanged confused glances. Such gatherings were rare, usually reserved for public punishments or significant announcements.

  "What about him?" Nex asked, pointing at Grimz. "Skrix said he's to wait here for—"

  "Everyone means everyone," Trisk interrupted. "Lord's orders override supervisor's. Come on, we can't be late."

  As they filed out of the repository, Grimz found himself caught in the middle of the group, swept along by the current of bodies. Whatever was happening in the courtyard had temporarily saved him from immediate punishment—though probably not for long.

  The narrow service corridors were clogged with bodies as goblins poured from every corner of the Keep, a churning river of gray and green flesh. For once, the rigid hierarchies melted away—kitchen goblins with flour-dusted aprons jostled against maintenance workers with oil-stained hands, while stableyard attendants trailing the scent of hay pushed past archive assistants clutching parchment notes they hadn't had time to set down. Grimz caught a glimpse of his cousin Mirix, her cleaning uniform still damp from scrubbing the upper bathrooms, her eyes wide with the same confusion that gripped them all.

  The courtyard's harsh sunlight stabbed at Grimz's eyes after hours in the repository's murky gloom. He squinted, tears streaming involuntarily as he shuffled into the back rows of servants. The stench of fear-sweat and dirt hung over the crowd. Above them all, on a balcony festooned with the Nightshade family's midnight-purple banners, stood Lord Nightshade himself—tall, imposing, his features sharp as a blade. Behind him lurked several robed figures that Grimz recognized as members of the Shadow Cabinet, the Dark Lord's inner circle of advisors.

  "An intruder has breached the eastern defenses," Lord Nightshade announced without preamble, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner of the courtyard. "A wizard seeking to steal family secrets. He was captured, but not before he managed to activate a revelation spell that may have compromised several magical containments."

  Grimz felt his blood turn to ice. The timing couldn't be a coincidence. Somehow, his accident with the Whisperbox had been mistaken for the actions of an intruder.

  "All artifacts are to be inspected for damage or tampering," Lord Nightshade continued. "Report anything unusual immediately. The intruder will be publicly executed at sunset as a warning to others who might consider similar attempts."

  Murmurs spread through the crowd. Public executions were theatrical affairs designed to reinforce the family's power while terrifying potential enemies. For the staff, they meant extra work preparing the execution grounds and cleaning up afterward.

  "Until the inspection is complete, security measures will be doubled throughout the Keep. All non-essential staff will be confined to quarters when not on duty."

  Lord Nightshade's cold gaze swept over the assembled servants. For a heart-stopping moment, Grimz thought those eyes paused on him, seeing through the lie, recognizing the true source of the disturbance. Then the moment passed, and the Dark Lord turned away, disappearing back into the Keep with his advisors trailing behind.

  As the crowd began to disperse, Grimz felt a hand on his arm. It was Vorx, expression unreadable.

  "You got lucky, runt," he whispered, eyes darting to ensure they weren't overheard. "They've blamed your mess on some poor fool of a wizard."

  "But they're going to execute someone for what I did," Grimz hissed back, his stomach twisting into knots. "Someone who didn't do anything wrong."

  Vorx's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Innocent? In Blackthorn Keep? Besides, what do you think would happen if you stepped forward now and told the truth?"

  Grimz knew exactly what would happen. He'd join the alleged intruder at the execution post and likely suffer far worse for being a servant who damaged valuable property.

  "Better get back to the repository," Vorx advised. "Skrix should be somewhere here with all of us. But he will be returning, and if you're not where he left you..."

  Grimz nodded, numb with the realization of what his clumsiness had unleashed. His mind churned with uncomfortable questions as he returned to the underground chamber. Why should a simple accident result in death? Why were goblin lives valued less than magical objects? Why should he feel guilty when the entire system was built on such monstrous inequality?

  When he reached the repository, Skrix was indeed waiting, his expression thunderous.

  "Where were you?" the supervisor demanded. "I told you to stay put!"

  "There was an announcement," Grimz explained. "Everyone was ordered to the courtyard."

  Skrix's anger deflated slightly. "Yes, well... it seems we've had a security breach. Luckily for you, Lord Nightshade believes the damage to the Whisperbox was the intruder's doing."

  The supervisor leaned closer, voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "But you and I know the truth, don't we? Consider this your one warning, boy. Next time, not even a coincidental intruder will save you."

  Grimz nodded submissively, eyes downcast. "Yes, supervisor."

  "Now get back to work. Those artifacts won't polish themselves, and we're already behind schedule thanks to this interruption."

  As Skrix moved away, already finding fault with Nex's handling of a cursed music box, Grimz climbed back onto his rickety stool. He noticed how the supervisor's posture changed when addressing different workers—slightly less threatening toward those with connections to higher-ranking goblins, more vicious toward the genuinely vulnerable. A careful ecosystem of selective cruelty. Grimz reached for his dropped cloth, the familiar silk oddly comforting against his thin fingers.

  But something had shifted inside him—a tiny, dangerous spark of questioning that refused to be extinguished. As he mechanically performed his duties, one thought kept returning, growing stronger with each repetition:

  This isn't right.

  The supervisor passed behind him, pausing to inspect his work. "Remember, boy," Skrix said, as if reading his thoughts, "what use have goblins for questions? You have tasks, not thoughts."

  Grimz nodded dutifully, his face a practiced mask of submission. But behind that mask, something dangerous took root—a seedling of defiance feeding on the rich soil of injustice.

  Maybe that was exactly the problem: goblins weren't supposed to think. Which made Grimz wonder what the Nightshades were so afraid they might think about.

  ***

  Two weeks after the Whisperbox incident, Grimz's hands still trembled whenever Skrix passed nearby. He'd almost convinced himself the whole thing was behind him. Almost.

  The alleged intruder had been executed as promised—a sorcerer from a rival territory who'd been caught skulking near the eastern wall. The question gnawed at Grimz like acid—had the sorcerer actually attempted to breach the Keep, or had he simply been walking past at the wrong moment? Every night, the executed man's face appeared in Grimz's dreams, silently mouthing accusations.

  He had been reassigned to a different section of the Repository, away from the more dangerous artifacts. This new area housed what the supervisor called "dormant curiosities"—items that had either lost their power over time or had been neutralized by the Nightshades' magic. It was considered a punishment detail due to the dust and tedium, but Grimz secretly preferred it. At least these objects wouldn't kill him if he made a mistake.

  "Section 7-B needs a complete inventory check," Skrix announced, thrusting a logbook into Grimz's hands. "Lord Nightshade wants to clear space for new acquisitions."

  Grimz accepted the enchanted journal with a nod, careful to keep his expression neutral. The book contained pages and pages of illustrations with checkboxes to mark if the item was in place, damaged, or missing. Of course, Grimz couldn't read the texts above the columns or the description of the artifacts. But he didn't really need that to compare the object and its enchanted representation.

  Since the accident, he'd become even more cautious around the supervisor, offering no questions, no opinions, nothing that might draw attention.

  Section 7-B was the farthest corner of the dormant artifacts area, where shadows pooled like old blood, and the air hung undisturbed for decades. Crates teetered in precarious stacks, filled with artifacts deemed too worthless for proper shelving but too dangerous to discard. Grimz had never ventured this deep into the repository before—few had reason to. It was the perfect assignment for a goblin being punished with isolation.

  "Finish by midday," Skrix added. "And remember—"

  "Accurate counts, precise descriptions, no interpretations," Grimz recited automatically.

  Skrix nodded, satisfied with this display of obedience, and left Grimz to his task.

  The journey to Section 7-B took Grimz through a labyrinth of shelves and storage areas, each progressively dustier and more neglected than the last. Cobwebs brushed his face like ghostly fingers, and the stone beneath his feet changed from smooth-worn paths to rough, uneven slabs that no one had trodden in years. By the time he reached his destination, the sounds of the other workers had faded entirely. He was alone among the forgotten treasures of the Nightshade dynasty.

  The inventory list was extensive. Before moving to the next section, goblins like Grimz usually had to spend at least a day memorizing the aspects and descriptions of different objects stored there. "Glass orb, contents uncertain, possibly trapped cloud sprite" and "Wooden box, seven-lock system, acquired from Barrow Mage, may be empty." However, more often than not, even the most experienced servants like Skrix couldn't tell the object's function, suggesting even the original catalogers hadn't been sure what they were looking at.

  Grimz set to work systematically, checking items against the list and ticking the right boxes. It was mind-numbing work, but at least no one was watching over his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, he allowed his thoughts to wander freely.

  The shelves held many strange objects: books bound in materials he couldn't identify, musical instruments with impossible configurations, and jewelry that seemed designed for anatomies not found in any species Grimz had known about. He wondered about their origins, purposes, and stories behind their acquisition. He would never ask these questions aloud but could safely entertain in this isolated corner.

  The glass bottle in Grimz's hand contained what looked like captured starlight, swirling in hypnotic patterns. He tilted it to check for cracks when something shattered the silence—a soft thud followed by a high, melodic giggle that had no place in these abandoned depths.

  Grimz froze. Children were not permitted in the repository. The only child in Blackthorn Keep was—

  "Hello? Is anyone here?"

  The voice was high and clear, unmistakably young. Grimz silently set down his clipboard and peered around the edge of the shelf.

  A tiny figure stood in the narrow aisle, head tilted curiously as she examined a dust-covered tapestry. Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking who she was—the fiery ginger hair, the pale skin, the fine quality of her clothes. Morgana Nightshade, the Dark Lord's only child and heir to Blackthorn Keep.

  She couldn't have been more than three years old, small even for a human child. Her vivid hair had been arranged in perfect ringlets. However, several had come loose, suggesting a recent escape from whoever was supposed to be watching her. She wore a miniature version of the formal Nightshade robes, complete with tiny silver clasps shaped like thorns.

  Grimz's first instinct was to flee. Being found alone with the Nightshade heir would mean punishment, possibly severe. Who knew what kind of magical abilities this child had already exhibited. She may be the one who executed Grimz right there, on the spot. And it wouldn't be the worst fate for him, if he believed the myths enshrouding the Nightshade family that were passed between the servants by word of mouth.

  But there was nowhere to go—the only exit was past the child, and any sudden movement might startle her.

  Better to announce himself properly and offer to escort her back to her guardians. It was the safest option, though still risky.

  He stepped forward cautiously, keeping his head bowed in the proper posture of subservience.

  "Young mistress," he said softly, "this area is not safe for—"

  The child whirled around, eyes wide with surprise rather than fear. Those eyes stopped Grimz mid-sentence—they were not Lord Nightshade's cold, calculating eyes but bright with curiosity and something that looked suspiciously like delight.

  "You're GREEN!" she exclaimed, her voice rising with wonder as she pointed her tiny finger at him. "Not just a little green, but properly, wonderfully green all over!"

  Grimz blinked, caught off-guard by this reaction. Most humans in the Keep treated goblins as furniture—necessary but beneath notice unless something went wrong. This direct acknowledgment of his existence, let alone his appearance, was unexpected.

  "Yes, young mistress," he replied carefully. "All goblins are green. It's our natural color."

  "And your ears are pointy!" She took a step closer, examining him with unconcealed fascination. "Like in my storybooks!"

  Grimz resisted the urge to touch his ears self-consciously. They were indeed pointed and larger than average—a source of occasional mockery among the other goblins.

  "May I touch them?" the young Nightshade suddenly asked.

  Grimz was petrified with horror. The heir to the Keep asked him permission. Him. A mere servant.

  The silence stretched between them like a thread about to snap. The child's face darkened, fine creases appearing around her eyes as her lower lip began to tremble. The air crackled with sudden electricity, and Grimz's hair stood on end as the taste of ozone flooded his mouth. The magical tantrum of a Nightshade heir was about to begin.

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