"Yes?"
"What's this?" Sword Maiden asked, genuine surprise in her voice.
"Arlen?"
He sat on a wooden bench—not praying, but checking his gear. A spare leather strap for his cuirass. A pouch of salt. A small clay vial of oil. His helmet rested beside him, revealing short, ashen hair and tired, watchful eyes. A pouch of salt
"No," he said. "The guild received a request. A farmstead two leagues west. Missing children."
A long silence stretched between them. Outside, a cart creaked past, and a child laughed.
The autumn sun bled amber through the stained-glass window of the small chapel. Inside, the air smelled of old incense, beeswax, and the faint, clean scent of steel that followed the Goblin Slayer wherever he went. "No," he said
"The stew. Save me a bowl."
"I think everything is goblins until proven otherwise."
"I did. The grates are reinforced. But the priestess reported a missing goat from the eastern pasture three days ago." the air smelled of old incense
"You don't sleep much," she said softly. Not a question.
"Goblins?"
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