Grag’s POV

  Grag sat in the Master’s hut reading the fire runes he was supposed to memorize for the day. His lips moved as he read over the description of what the rune did.

  Fire blast: sends a blast of fire up to 10 feet at a target.

  Sounded useful. So far, all the fire spells he learned were useful like this. Fire just seemed to be naturally useful. All of his enemies would be afraid of him now.

  After studying for 2 hours, Grag decided to call it quits and go get something to eat. Being chief now, he got to eat cheese and goat meat every day. There were days they didn’t want to slaughter a goat, but he made them slaughter the goat. Tribute came in from the other tribes and they had plenty because of it. Before he could find food Krelgr found him.

  “Hello chief.” Krelgr said. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Make it quick Krelgr I’m hungry.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. The herd’s running thin.” Krelgr learned a little on a staff he had brought with him.

  “How’s that possible?” Grag looked the older goblin up and down. “The other tribes are sending us tribute and more goats come in each day.”

  “The resources of the other tribes are not vast and limitless. Breeding season is almost upon us. We will need as many good goats as we can get.” Krelgr said. “The other villages need their good goats too. They are not sending their best as tribute.”

  “Then we will send messengers demanding better tribute.” Grag said as he puffed up his chest.

  “Do you think Paul wants to strain the relationships he has built with the other villages and tribes so you can eat a little better than them?” Krelgr asked.

  “What do you suggest?” Grag asked.

  “Try going back to eating stew for the most part. “One goat every few days can make a lot of stew.” Krelgr said.

  Grag thought about what Paul would do, or want him to do. Paul would probably march an army down to the offending tribe and demand what he wanted by force. Grag didn’t have an army. He doubted Paul would authorize Grag to do such a thing.

  “Fine. I’ll eat stew.” Grag’s stomach turned a little. He had gotten so used to eating good, the stew was going to be rank in comparison.

  Back in the hut, he dug around in the spellbooks. There had to be something in here to fix the stew. If he couldn’t eat goat meat every day, maybe he could at least make the stew taste like goat meat.

  Eventually he found a spell in a margin note:

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Flare of Flavor – Minor magical enhancement to the taste of food. Use caution on hot dishes.

  That sounded perfect.

  He waved his fingers over the bowl of stew.

  It bubbled. The scent shifted—maybe? Was that garlic? He eagerly took a spoonful.

  The stew tasted… different. Not better, just… spicier?

  Then his tongue started to tingle.

  Then it buzzed.

  Grag yelped and dropped the spoon. His tongue felt like it was crawling with ants. He fumbled through the spellbook, eyes wide, trying to find a reversal. Eventually, the buzzing faded on its own, but not before his eyes watered and his nose ran like he’d eaten a fireball.

  He glared at the bowl. “Stupid magic.”

  He took a tiny sip more.

  Still terrible.

  He sighed, shoved the bowl away, and muttered, “Fine. I’ll eat the stew. But I don’t have to like it.”

  After some time passed, Grag quickly ate the stew. He had been getting used to luxury, and he wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing. If liking his new diet was wrong, why did the hobgoblins talk about eating this good regularly? There had to be a trick to getting more food. Maybe he would ask Rikkard next time they saw each other.

  Grag was still fuming from the spell backfiring when he left the hut, his tongue finally calm but his mood anything but. He kicked a rock as he walked toward the fire pit, where some goblins were eating stew and passing around old bread.

  He wasn’t in the mood for company, but he was in the mood for yelling at someone. That someone turned out to be a stranger.

  A goblin he didn’t recognize—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar down the side of his face—was sitting on a log, laughing loudly with a couple others. He shoved a smaller goblin off the seat to make more room for himself.

  “Hey,” Grag barked. “Who are you?”

  The goblin turned and grinned. “Name’s Rukk. Just got here from the Black Teeth clan. Heard this village was soft and led by a spoiled brat who eats goat meat every day.”

  The other goblins went quiet.

  Grag’s lip curled. “You got something to say to your chief?”

  “I don’t see a chief,” Rukk said, standing up. He was only a few inches taller, but he made the most of it. “I see a little runt playing mage while the rest of us eat slop and work our hands bloody.”

  Grag didn’t wait. He swung.

  His fist caught Rukk in the jaw, but the bigger goblin barely flinched. Rukk snarled and shoved Grag back, then lunged with a wild punch of his own. Grag ducked—mostly—but the second blow landed square on his ribs.

  The wind rushed out of him. Grag stumbled, coughed, then jumped forward with a tackle, slamming them both into the dirt. The two rolled, fists flying. Grag got in another solid hit, but Rukk was stronger, more experienced. He threw Grag off and climbed on top of him, cocking back a heavy punch.

  Grag braced for it…

  Then a loud CRACK echoed through the courtyard.

  A clay pot shattered on Rukk’s head, spraying stew and shards everywhere. The big goblin dropped sideways with a dazed grunt.

  Pasxi stood over them, holding the broken handle in one hand. “You don’t hit my Grag,” she growled.

  Grag blinked up at her, then coughed and rolled to his knees.

  Rukk was already shaking off the daze, blood running down one temple, eyes full of rage. He grabbed a rock from the ground and staggered forward.

  Grag lifted his hand, shouted the rune he’d practiced that morning. “Fire Blast!”

  A burst of flame erupted from his palm and struck Rukk square in the chest. The goblin screamed and dropped the rock, rolling in the dirt to extinguish his scorched tunic.

  The crowd around them stared in stunned silence. Some nodded. Others looked nervously at the smoldering spot where Rukk had stood.

  Grag rose slowly to his feet, breathing hard. “Anyone else got a problem with the stew?” he snapped.

  No one said a word.

  Pasxi walked up beside him, smirking. “Still hungry?”

  Grag glanced down at the ruined stew pot. “Not anymore.”