The cave was cold. The goblins sniffed, the mine’s cold vapor clinging to their skin. All of them, roughly a thousand in number, were silent.0

“A great warrior died in a sword fight today,” someone finally whispered. “The warrior’s name was Gyari, ker. She was the daughter of Gorhe and Orogan, the warrior chief of the White Mane tribe. She was also a descendant of Gorgir, the great warrior who inherited the marking from the White Lion.”0

The speaker didn’t reveal their figure, choosing to remain hidden in the crowd. Leaning against the shadows of their kin and the cave, this goblin held a small speech, despite the lack of a podium. 0

“She was always prickly, keruk.”0

“Since she was a little girl, she beat up other people, but she got herself beaten to death.”0

Because it wasn’t really a speech, the goblins chimed in freely, constantly interrupting each other in the dark mine. The fragmented words formed sentences, stringing together the fallen gladiator’s life.0

“Gyari didn’t remember who she hit.”0

“But she never forgot who hit her, kerrr.”0

“She was a girl full of spite. I remember when she was young, Gorhe tried to give her a marking, but...0