"Look, if you can't use tools, that's fine," Herman said. "I'm more than happy to handle them, and there's plenty of other work for you. The least you can do is decide who's responsible for what."
He gestured vaguely towards Lex.
"You know. Boss things."
"Right. I suppose that works. Give me a minute to write everything down."
Lex searched through the boxes until he found a notepad and a packet of ballpoint pens.
The plastic fought him for longer than it had any right to.
"These things are never easy to open," he muttered.
Herman answered with a judgemental snort.
Once Lex had liberated a pen, he clicked it and began writing upon the first page.
Herman handles the tools. That means repairing the shelving and securing every unstable structure—which is roughly half the bloody store.
His gaze drifted towards the tree growing through one corner of the shopfront.
We can't remove that without heavier equipment. He could cut back the branches, clear the roots around the walkway and make it less of an obstruction.
He tapped the pen against his chin while surveying the debris scattered throughout the warehouse and shop.
We don't have replacement glass, either. We'll need to remove the dangerous pieces and board up the windows for now.
The list soon covered the page from top to bottom, each line reminding him how long the day ahead would be.
Herman wandered through the building while Lex wrote, studying the walls, shelves and sagging fixtures with renewed attention.
"It'll take me a minute to remember what I'm doing," he said. "Trade skills don't disappear completely, though. It's like riding a bike."
Despite his words, a faint smile had appeared upon his face. It might have been the first honest work he had done in a decade.
Lex found Herman difficult to understand. One moment, the man was insulting him. The next, he was accusing him of something or losing his temper. Then, without warning, he became the most useful person Lex could have asked for.
Lex clenched his jaw.
I hate to admit it, but this squatter is more useful than I am right now. It's embarrassing.
What frustrated him most was how naturally Herman had found his footing.
The man had been sleeping in the warehouse like a raccoon with a drinking problem. Put a hammer in his hand, however, and he almost looked respectable.
Almost.
Still, Lex had given him the responsibility. Lex had opened the door and decided they would begin.
That had to count for something.
He wasn't a tradesman. He knew that much.
But he had chosen to study business for a reason. His course might have consisted mostly of dry theory taught by a university nobody cared about, but that did not mean he had learned nothing.
If he wanted to escape the squalor of his old life, he needed to learn how to operate something real.
This ruined shop was the first thing he had ever been responsible for.
Lex smirked.
Calling it a shop might be generous at the moment.
He looked back down at the notepad.
His own tasks would be clearing rubble, creating designated work and disposal areas, cleaning the checkout and helping Herman once the immediate hazards were gone.
When the list was finished, Lex found Herman outside, staring up at the sign above the entrance.
"All right, I've made the plan."
He held out the page.
"Have a look."
Herman continued studying the sign.
"This thing is being held up by hope and two nails..."
Only then did he take the list.
He read it once and laughed.
Lex's expression flattened.
"What?"
"Nothing." Herman smirked. "I can tell you've never had to give someone proper instructions."
Lex shifted awkwardly.
"Why?"
Herman turned the page towards him and tapped one line.
"'Make the tree less in the way.'"
Lex stared at his own words.
Herman covered his face with one hand.
"Listen. When you give someone a job, you need to explain what the result should look like. What do they focus on? What must they avoid? When do you consider it finished?"
He lowered the page.
"Imagine a foreman walking onto a construction site and telling the crew to 'build a house'. No drawings, no measurements and no materials list. What happens?"
Lex shrugged.
"Nothing," Herman said. "Or something incredibly stupid."
"You're not building a house, and I'm not an architect."
"It's a metaphor." Herman pointed towards the page again. "I know what you mean because I've seen the tree. Someone else might not. The terminal already told us what needs doing. Your job is to make the work clear enough that people know where to start."
He handed the list back.
"I'm telling you for next time."
Lex folded his arms.
"Is it clear enough for today?"
Herman considered the question.
"Aye. It'll do. We're cleaning and making repairs, not rebuilding the entire place."
"Then we're agreed?"
"For now."
And so they began.
They pulled on work gloves, steel-toed boots and hard hats. Herman arranged his equipment beside the entrance—hammer, nails, hand saw, ladder and sandpaper—keeping each tool within easy reach.
Lex gathered heavy-duty bags, brooms, dustpans, buckets and cleaning supplies.
Without another word, they separated.
Lex returned to the warehouse to clear the remains of Herman's time as a squatter and establish a disposal area behind the building.
Herman remained at the shopfront. He braced the ladder beneath the sign, which hung from two tired nails and a length of fraying rope, then climbed towards his first repair.
* * *
(Meanwhile, Vargis' POV)
(Guram Keep)
Vargis and his scouts broke through the outer glades surrounding Guram Keep just as the sun began to set over Durim Forest. Golden light flickered between the branches, guiding the exhausted party towards home.
The keep was protected by a thick palisade of sharpened timber, with watchtowers positioned along its perimeter and guards stationed above and below its enormous gate.
Danger was commonplace in Durim Forest. If magical beasts did not test the walls, rival goblin tribes or one of the other races inevitably would. Tribe Guram treated everything approaching the gate as a potential threat.
"Oi!" a worn, gravelly voice called from the battlements. "Identify yourselves and state your business."
Vargis continued forwards with complete confidence. The younger scouts behind him grew more nervous with every step.
He looked up.
"Shut it, Bitek. Have you gone so blind that you can't recognise your own people?"
The group stopped several metres from the gate.
Bitek leaned over the palisade. Long grey hair framed a weathered face marked by an opaque eye and more scars than any goblin had reason to possess. Age had not softened him. Thick muscle still covered his arms, and he trained hard enough to shame warriors half his age.
The old captain snorted.
"Head Scout Vargis. I'd recognise that prideful tone from a mile away. What news from the centre of the forest?"
Vargis smirked.
"Something interesting. I've never seen anything like it in all my years leading the scouts."
"Something even you didn't expect?" Bitek gave an approving nod. "Now you have my attention."
"You'll have to wait. I need to report to Chieftain Guram and my father first. This could be an opportunity for the tribe."
Bitek groaned.
"Is that what I trained you for? Keeping confidential information from your superiors until you've delivered it to the chieftain?"
Vargis raised an eyebrow.
"Yes."
"Probably. Give me something anyway. I'm old, and gate duty is boring."
Vargis glanced at the other guards.
"What would you say if a group of human merchants were willing to trade with monsters?"
Bitek narrowed his good eye.
"I'd say it was a ridiculous joke, and not a particularly funny one."
"I said what I said. Now let us through."
Bitek studied him for a moment before waving one hand.
"Fine, you stingy git."
He turned towards a thin goblin stationed beside the gate mechanism.
"Pollok! Open the gate before poor Vargis catches a chill."
Pollok had the narrow frame of someone who had never seen real combat, which was why Bitek kept him close to the walls.
"B-but you said not to let them through until they answered—"
The rest of his sentence died beneath Bitek's glare.
"Did you not hear me, whelp? We have all the answers we're getting. Open the gate unless you want extra drills."
"R-right, Captain."
Pollok scrambled towards the pulley.
Wood groaned as the gate dragged upwards along its supports. Before it had fully opened, Bitek vaulted from the palisade and landed in front of Vargis with enough force to dent the packed earth.
"Welcome home."
He looked beyond Vargis towards the younger scouts. His grin vanished.
"The rest of you will report to the training grounds. If walking towards your own gate makes you shake, you are not ready to accompany my head scout beyond it."
Every scout grimaced.
Bitek was not only captain of the guard but the tribe's most feared combat instructor. His drills were infamous for bruises, broken bones and visits to the healers.
"Great lords... not again," one scout whispered.
Another managed an uncertain smile.
"I'm rather excited to train under him."
The group looked at him with pity. A veteran patted the eager recruit on the shoulder.
"I remember my first session. Couldn't lift my sword arm for a week, and I spat out a tooth before supper."
Bitek's voice cracked across the courtyard.
"Did you not hear me? Training grounds. Five minutes. Anyone late earns extra drills."
The glint in his eye sent every scout sprinting through the open gate.
Vargis laughed.
"If you weren't such an old fool, the rest of Durim might still fear you."
"Watch your tongue. You're still a boy with more talent than sense." Bitek smirked. "Remember who trained you. Now go. The chieftain will want your report."
Vargis nodded and entered the keep.
* * *
(Vargis' POV — Chieftain's Hall)
Guram Keep was not lavish, but it possessed a presence of its own. It was the tallest and grandest structure within the settlement, built to intimidate enemies and remind its inhabitants where authority rested.
The people of Tribe Guram revered it. Guram Keep had survived for generations while other strongholds burned or vanished beneath the forest. Its continued existence was proof of their resilience.
Vargis pushed open the heavy doors to the chieftain's hall.
Sconces made from the horns of slain beasts lined the walls. Two long feasting tables stretched down either side of a central fire pit, where a Great Hog turned slowly upon a spit. Fat hissed against the flames, and the smell made Vargis's stomach tighten with hunger.
It has been one hell of a day. I could eat an entire leg.
At the far end of the hall stood a throne constructed from enormous bones, crowned by the skull of a Lord Ogre. Any ordinary goblin would have looked like a child sitting upon it.
Chieftain Guram did not.
He was the largest goblin Vargis had ever seen: a true chieftain whose reputation alone discouraged enemies from approaching the keep.
Wraith stood to his left. The tribe's foremost shaman specialised in necromancy, making him both a pillar of their military strength and a figure few wished to approach without reason. A long black hood hid his face within unnatural darkness. Bones formed a collar around his robes, and a horned goat skull crowned the staff in his hand.
To Guram's right stood Farkas, Vargis's father and chief adviser.
Farkas appeared more refined than the warriors surrounding him. Red-and-silver robes marked him as a scholar, and his hair had been tied neatly behind his head. Those who mistook his appearance for weakness did not understand his history.
Before becoming adviser, Farkas had served as head scout for more than two decades.
Most goblins believed scouting was safer than fighting upon the front lines. They were wrong. Scouts were sent towards every unexplained disturbance before the tribe possessed enough information to prepare. They encountered each danger alone and without advantage.
Sometimes, the head scout was the only one who returned.
That was enough for the tribe. One survivor meant the information survived with him. The dead could be replaced.
An ugly truth, Vargis thought. But a truth all the same.
He walked towards the throne over a path of layered beast hides. Experienced warriors and tribal elders watched his every step, but his pace remained measured and controlled.
"Vargis," Chieftain Guram said.
His deep voice silenced the hall.
Vargis lowered himself onto one knee and bowed several metres from the throne. The attention of Guram, Wraith and his father settled heavily upon him—three of the four pillars of Tribe Guram. The fourth, Bitek, remained stationed at the gate.
"Chieftain Guram," Vargis began carefully. "I have returned from the centre of Durim Forest. What we discovered there may be of great importance to our tribe."