That afternoon, Kaelrith moved through the goblin settlement in the shape of a red-haired human child. Wherever he went, he was followed by dozens of keen eyes. Despite this unassuming form, none could shake the feeling of raw power that clung to him. It was as if a predator prowled in their midst, disguised as prey. Kaelrith kept his bloodline pressure—the oppressive aura of dragon dominance—firmly in check, allowing only tendrils of it to test his subjects' mettle. The weak-willed found reasons to scurry from his path, while the bold straightened their backs,bowed respectfully, and stepped aside—none daring to meet his gaze for more than a fleeting heartbeat.
Kaelrith sought out the tribe's warriors first. Grak introduced him to Commander Rugh, the hobgoblin in charge of training and leading their fighters. Rugh was an imposing figure—taller than most , with skin a dusky red and a perpetual scowl carved into his face. His muscles bulged under patchwork armor, and a jagged scar across his brow spoke to a lifetime of battles. At the sight of Kaelrith, Rugh pressed a clenched fist to his chest in salute. Though the dragon now appeared as a child, the commander did not dare meet those fire-lit eyes directly.
Behind Rugh stood a line of his lieutenants: hobgoblins nearly as large and grim as he, outfitted with heavy cleavers, spears, and crude iron armor scavenged from years of skirmishing in the wilds. They were the discipline and backbone that kept the more unruly goblin fighters in line. Each one sized up Kaelrith with a mixture of skepticism and reverence. A few sniffed at the air unconsciously, as if sensing what their eyes could not fully process.
Kaelrith offered a faint smile to the assembled warriors, aware that strength earned respect among their kind. "I have seen your defenses and your blades," he said, nodding to Rugh. "They served well in keeping our people alive. Under my guidance, they will serve even better. We will make you all stronger."
Rugh grunted approval, the simplest acknowledgment of the dragon's praise, and barked an order for the fighters to assemble for review.
Kaelrith walked among the ranks of the gathered goblin soldiers. In total, they numbered only a few hundred—archers with short recurved bows, spearmen gripping weapons tipped with scavenged steel, and skirmishers dual-wielding jagged swords or daggers. Scars and fresh burns from harsh life and training marked many of them. They were scrappy, lean, and quick-eyed. But Kaelrith knew that in a head-on clash against a force of full-grown humans or orcish warriors, these goblins would struggle. They know it too, he thought, observing the flicker of uncertainty in some of their expressions.
A few younger goblins stood out among the veterans. Barely more than whelps, these youths clutched their weapons with a mixture of eagerness and white-knuckled anxiety. Two in particular drew Kaelrith's attention. One was Skarl—a tall, lanky goblin boy whose helmet sat slightly askew over ears too large for it. He gripped a rust-pitted dagger so tightly his knobby knuckles looked ready to pop. His wide eyes darted to Kaelrith's face, then down to the ground, then back again in disbelief. The other was Igra—a stocky goblin girl holding a short spear. She trembled like a leaf, but her jaw was clenched and her feet were planted in a fighter's stance. Both of them bore expressions of awe, as if meeting a hero from their bedtime stories.
Kaelrith stopped before the pair, but raised his voice to address all the young warriors present. "You have spirit," he said, pacing slowly down the line. "And you have skill, or you would not have survived this harsh land so long." His tone was measured, each word falling with weight. "But tell me—is good enough for you? Or do you want to become great? To become truly powerful?"
Skarl swallowed so hard it was visible in his thin neck. He nodded vehemently, not trusting his voice. Igra managed to speak up, stammering slightly through her fear. "Y-yes, my lord… more than anything."
Kaelrith's human lips curled in a smile, revealing just a hint of too-sharp canines. His amber eyes glowed with approval. "Then feed the flame," he replied. "Give me your courage, your loyalty, and your strength. In return, my fire will protect you. It will forge you into warriors the likes of which the Blackwild has never seen."
A ripple passed through the crowd of warriors. Young and old alike straightened their backs, puffing out their chests with renewed determination. Skarl's dagger stopped shaking in his grasp; Igra's trembling subsided as she tightened her grip on her spear and gave a firm, resolute nod. Across the ranks, goblins thumped weapons against shields or grunted affirmations. Hope—tangible and hot as a coal—was rekindling in their hearts.
Grak watched from beside Rugh, his weathered face nearly glowing with pride. Only that morning, his people had been downtrodden, fearful that each day might be their last. Now they stood united under the banner of the Great Flame's heir. Even Grak's own son, a young warrior named Drek, was racing through the crowd, shouting for everyone to hear. Drek brandished a tattered flag bearing a crudely painted red dragon—the old emblem of their pact. He planted it in the soil of the training ground, drawing a roar of approval from those around him.
All through the afternoon, Kaelrith oversaw drills and sparring sessions, lending advice where he saw fit. A twist of the wrist to correct a swordsman's grip here, a steadying claw—disguised as a boy's hand—on an archer's elbow there. At one point he even took up a fallen spear to spar briefly with a boastful goblin who claimed he'd never been disarmed; two moves later, the goblin was on his back in the dust, staring at the point of his own spear hovering just inches from his throat. The ease of the victory hinted at formal training in a previous life. Kaelrith merely chuckled and helped the shocked warrior back to his feet, but the lesson was clear. Under the dragon's guidance, every member of the tribe had room to improve.
What had begun the day as a ragged, anxious rabble was fast transforming into a focused force. Goblins moved with newfound confidence and purpose. The weight of Kaelrith's mere presence pushed them to be better—sharper, quicker, more disciplined. He was among them not as a distant idol, but as a tangible commander and teacher. And so their fear of him became respect, and their respect fanned the flames of fervent loyalty.