The trio of exiles skulked through the dim corridors of the Shallows, their movements dulled with fatigue. The ringleader, his ragged fur bristling, torn ear twitching in frustration, turned on his companions. He snapped his teeth at the pair his annoyance and displeasure obvious in the snarling gesture. The pair cowered before their leader, their heads bowed in submission. The ringleader’s sharp grunt made it clear they were receiving all the blame for their current predicament.

  Time seemed to crawl as they wandered, their noses twitching futilely for the scent of other rats. The Shallows were eerily empty, the faint trails they did find all led back to the colony they had been expelled from. The trio’s confidence waned as they encountered nothing but damp stone and sparse patches of moss.

  Hunger gnawed at their bellies, tight and hollow, and parched throats left their tongues dry. The trio were ill-suited for scavenging, having long relied on the work of others in the past, taking what they wanted by force or cleverness, rarely lifting a paw for themselves. Yet now, the surrounding Shallows offered little. Most rats had left the shallows for the colony they had just been escorted from. Leaving the exiles to scramble through barren corridors and empty paths. Each failed attempt at finding food or water deepened their frustration.

  As they approached the sloping tunnel leading into the Deep proper, their steps grew hesitant. The tunnel yawned ahead like a gaping maw, its stale air thick with an unshakable sense of foreboding. This was a place all rats of the Shallows knew to avoid. In the past, venturing here meant certain death. Yet somehow, that wretched Gnash had carved out a domain for himself, and thrived.

  The ringleader’s whiskers twitched with irritation at the thought. Gnash wasn’t larger or fiercer than him, just lucky. A snarl escaped his throat as he imagined his own colony in Gnash’s place, gorging on a surplus of food and ruling over the Deep. His greedy vision shimmered before him like an unreachable dream, stoked by equal parts ambition and frustration.

  A sharp squeak pulled him back to the present. One of the henchmen, the more sensible of the two, gestured nervously toward the way they had come, his beady eyes darting between the tunnel and the Shallows. His squeaks carried a plea for reason: they should turn back. The air here was wrong. This place wasn’t meant for them.

  The ringleader rounded on him with a growl, his frustration boiling over. A swift cuff to the smaller rat’s head silenced the protest, leaving him to cower under the leader’s glare. The ringleader’s body tensed as he crouched low, his glare fixed on the depths ahead. With a sharp flick of his tail and a commanding growl, he signaled the others to move forward.

  Without further hesitation, he shoved the frightened henchman forward, forcing him to take the lead. The rat squeaked in protest, his body trembling as he pressed close to the ground, but a sharp nip from his leader drove him into motion. The remaining henchman followed reluctantly, glancing nervously back at the Shallows.

  The ringleader lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the dark tunnel ahead. Frustration gnawed at him like a festering wound. If Gnash could make a place here, so could he.

  With a snarl, he lowered his head and followed his reluctant underlings into the depths.

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  The journey into the Deep was a trial of endurance. The trio, unskilled in navigating the twisting tunnels, became hopelessly lost. They retraced their steps repeatedly, circling back to familiar spots. Dead ends mocked them, and narrow passages scraped fur and skin as they squeezed through in desperation, only to find themselves no closer to a solution.

  Their bellies ached, tight and hollow. Parched throats made each breath a small effort. Bitter-tasting lichen scraped from the walls was all they could find to eat. Pools of stagnant water offered brief relief from thirst, but the trio’s strength waned with each passing day.

  The ringleader’s movements became more erratic. His nose twitched constantly, his body low and prowling. When a foul, acrid scent reached them, his ears pricked forward, and he paused, sniffing deeply. The stench was revolting, but it stirred something in him—a promise of sustenance, no matter how grim. He chittered sharply, motioning for the others to follow.

  The goblin camp sprawled across a cavern reeking of filth and decay. The trio crept along the edges, their movements tense and cautious. The cavern was larger than they had anticipated, open enough to make even the ringleader pause. Shadows pooled in the corners, goblins milling about in dull, lumbering movements. Piles of refuse and bones cluttered the space.

  The ringleader crouched low behind a mound of soiled hides and gestured at his underling to investigate one of the piles of clutter near an unmoving goblin. The lean rat hesitated, then edged forward, claws scraping lightly against the stone. He probed the pile, peering for anything edible. A small bone slipped free, clattering against the stone.

  The nearby goblin jerked upright with a wet snort, its dull eyes flicking from the bone to the exposed rat, who dared not move. The goblin brought a bony hand to wipe at its eyes before he focused back on the rat, its eyes widening. Letting out a squeal of glee, it sprang the short distance and seized him with both hands, long fingers curling tight around his middle.

  The henchman squealed, hind legs scrabbling frantically at the goblin’s fingers. The creature only grinned, a mouthful of broken, stained teeth, and shoved the struggling rat toward its jaws. There was a brief, strained wriggle, a soft crack, and the movement went slack.

  The remaining two froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, ears drooping, before instinct took over. They bolted toward the cavern wall, desperate for any crack, crevice, or tunnel that might offer escape.

  The commotion roused the rest of the camp. Goblins scrambled to their feet, jostling and climbing over one another as they surged after the fleeing rats. The ringleader and his subordinate skidded across the slick stone, paws scrabbling for grip.

  The rats spotted a shallow hollow at the edge of the cavern and darted in, only to find the opening led nowhere. Panic coiled in their chests. The ringleader barked a sharp order at his subordinate and pressed to the back edge, clawing at compacted soil and loose gravel, trying to widen the gap.

  From outside, goblin hands reached blindly into the hollow, slapping and grasping for anything they could find. One hand clamped down on the subordinate’s tail, yanking him backward. The rat squealed and flailed uselessly as the goblin dragged him out of the opening. The remaining arms pressed tighter, probing further into the narrow space.

  The ringleader was left alone, pressed into the shallow divot, back against the rear wall of the hollow. Grunts and cries of pain sounded from outside, punctuated by sharp thuds and frustrated snarls. Desperation drove him to claw frantically with all his strength.

  A low, guttural growl froze him mid-motion. The flailing hands withdrew, replaced by a thicker, heavier arm forcing its way into the hollow.

  The ringleader squealed in terror, claws scrabbling at the stone, as the arm groped forward, then found him. Fingers closed around his ribs and squeezed, crushing his chest and driving the air from his lungs.

  His vision blurred. His paws raked uselessly at the ground. His squeals thinned, then died away as the goblin dragged him backward, out of sight and out of hope.