Territory Wars always changed the temperature of the Holler.

Seven days.
Seven horns.
Seven chances to prove something.

The war clock hung from the rafters of the barn, glowing red against the rough timber, ticking loud enough to feel in your bones. Even the younger goblins moved differently when that clock burned.  The whole barn buzzed with activity. Attack plans being made, weapons being polished, and everyone collecting spell jars from Ma. It was a busy time.

This one began with confidence.

They’d been building steadily for months. Walls reinforced. Troops trained. Spells refined. Discipline tightened.

Goodfella stood at the long oak table, sleeves rolled, charcoal smudged across his knuckles as he marked targets across the war map. He didn’t posture. Didn’t pace. He simply assigned.

“You hit here.”

“You hold until the funnel clears.”

“Don’t panic if it looks ugly. Stay with the plan.”

The goblins listened. For the most part.

Sir Ghoul’s base popped up before the first horn sounded.

No one said it outright, but everyone knew it hadn’t been built in the Holler.

Shadowsloth had come into possession of a towering citadel, thick walls layered in dark stone, infernal towers humming low and heavy. It looked powerful. Impressive. Weighty.

Too weighty. And the first battle exposed it.

Shadowsloth approached it like one of his old keeps, casual and familiar. Troops scattered early. Spells cast too soon. Funnel unfinished. It was a village skirmish plan thrown at a fortress meant for seasoned warriors.

When the smoke cleared, Sir Ghoul stood mostly intact. A murmur moved through the barn.

Goodfella approached Ma, clearly irritated. “Where did this base even come from? I’ve never seen it before and the attacks are terrible!”

Ma sighed. “It’s Shadowsloth’s base. I don’t know how he acquired it, but he did. He didn’t build it up himself.”

“WHO does that?” Goodfella raged. “The whole point is to build! He has no idea how to attack with a base that high level. His attack strategy was one of a much lower base. I don’t want him in any more of our wars until he learns how to manage it! His war weight hurts all of us!”

Silence followed. Ma nodded in agreement. Sir Ghoul was taken off the roster, but Shadowsloth’s original base was left in.

Shadowsloth bristled but said nothing.

Midweek, it got worse. Word spread that Shadowsloth couldn’t even access his own gates. Locked out. Keys misplaced. The goblins exchanged glances.

Goodfella stared down at the war map. “Shadowsloth again?”

“Maybe we put Sir Ghoul back in,” Ma suggested. “Weight doesn’t matter much in Territory Wars, and it could actually help with defense. Just assign his attacks accordingly.”

“You’re right,” Goodfella agreed. “It doesn’t matter so much right now. Put him back in.”

Four days he managed to swing before the gates sealed shut once more.

Silence again.

Ma watched the ripple it caused. It wasn’t anger.

It was fatigue.

Meanwhile…

BamBam stood at the bottom of the roster. And kept getting bumped up.

“Shift him here,” Goodfella said one night, sliding the charcoal mark higher.

“That’s four levels above him,” someone muttered.

BamBam shrugged. “Alright then.” He always said it the same way. No ego. No dramatics.

And he went.

His attacks were clever and scrappy,  smoke choking the sky, troops clinging to life, spells dropped with necessity instead of flair.

One star.
Two stars.

On bases that should have flattened him.

He came back scorched and grinning. “Got somethin’,” he’d say proudly.

“Fuck yeah, Bam!” Goodfella exclaimed.

Ma smiled quietly. The hard work and uncertainty of the past year was starting to pay off. They weren’t just recruiting bodies anymore.

They were keeping fighters.

Above them, the war clock burned steadily, its red glow washing the rafters in a dull ember light. It never hurried. Never slowed. It only counted who showed up when the horn sounded.

Five attacks were missed that week. Two of them belonged to Pa.

The first time, Ma chased him through storm split timber and unanswered calls.

The recent ice storm had carved through the woods like a careless god. Limbs cracked. Trunks split. Entire trees leaned at unnatural angles, roots heaving from frozen ground. She found him deeper than she expected, axe in hand, breath fogging in the cold dusk.

“You missed the horn,” she told him.

He didn’t answer at first, too busy staring up at a half split oak swaying overhead.

“That damn thing almost took me out,” he muttered as she approached. “Whole top sheared off. Missed me by inches.”

There was a fresh gouge in the ground where it had struck. Ma glanced at it, irritation faltering just a little. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.” He wiped sweat and melted ice from his brow. “If I’d been two steps to the left, you’d be running this place solo.”

He said it lightly. But not entirely.

For a fleeting second, quick as a spark snapping off a log, a thought passed through her.

I already do.

Ma’s gaze flicked to the gouge in the earth. Two steps to the left. She swallowed the thought. Not cruelly. Not wishing him gone. Just the quiet acknowledgment of how often she steadied the structure while he drifted in and out of it like a ghost.

“I don’t need you flattened by a tree,” she said instead. “I just need you to hear the war horn.”

He gave a half-grumble, half-laugh. “Clock wasn’t what was trying to kill me. I didn’t hear it, and this has to be done.”

That, at least, was true.

Still, the war clock did not care about timber or near misses.

The second time, he was present. Watching from the porch as the war unfolded below.

Another goblin’s attack sealed the loss for that round. The climb back to second place was gone.

“Can’t win now,” Pa said, arms folded.

Goodfella didn’t snap. “You’re right,” he replied carefully. “But a few extra stars would be nice.”

Ma nudged Pa.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“Just drop your troops,” she murmured. “Let it play out.”

He didn’t move. The horn faded. His banner never flew.

That one cut deeper than the storm. Not because of the leaderboard. Because of the choice.

Nickie muttered near the fire, low but not low enough. “He’s a sore loser.”

Ma’s eyes flicked toward her. She didn’t correct her. She didn’t agree out loud either.

Leadership required containment.

Later, Ma found Goodfella beside the barn, studying the war ledger by lantern light.

She stepped beside him. “Sorry about earlier,” she said.

“For what?”

“For him.”

Goodfella exhaled slowly. “I figured he was frustrated,” he said evenly. “But it’s not my place to chastise the leader.”

No resentment. Only restraint.

“You shouldn’t have to carry that,” Ma said.

He closed the ledger. “We carry what needs carrying.”

“Well,” Ma said quietly, “I just want you to know I appreciate you and all you do.”

And that was that.

When the seventh horn faded, they had not promoted. But they had not fallen either.

They remained, which, truthfully, was probably where they needed to be while the Holler strengthened.

That evening, Pa stood at the fire circle. “Sidelined by work,” he said. “Should’ve handled it better. Sorry, goblins.”

The goblins accepted it easily. They liked him. They always had.

Later, in private, Ma teased him. “You set the example. Father of the clan.”

He shook his head.

“You ain’t planning on being a deadbeat and leaving, are you?” she asked.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Can’t afford the child support.”

They both laughed. But the smoke lingered longer than the joke.

He’d been checked out for a while now.

That night, Ma gathered the goblins once more around the fire pit as everyone had their celebratory drinks and marshmallows.

“I value showing up. Even when the odds aren’t pretty. Even when the board looks lost,” she said. Her voice carried clean and steady. “I would rather you attempt and earn one star than sit silent and earn none. Teams try. Teams show up. Stars are earned. Presence is chosen.”

Then she added: “The bonus goes to BamBam.”

The circle stilled. Not the highest star earner. Not the flashiest victory.

“He hit up,” Ma said. “Every single time. Without complaint. Against odds he didn’t choose.”

BamBam blinked like someone had just placed a crown on his head.

“Stars win rounds,” she continued. “Team play builds clans.”

Goodfella gave one approving nod. Several goblins clapped BamBam on the back.

From the porch, Pa watched.

Quiet. Still.

Ma caught his silhouette against the lantern light.

And for the briefest moment, brief as a spark drifting upward, she wondered how long a warlord could sit out before the title weighed more than it meant.

She let the thought pass. There were things to do.

In the end, they stood because of the goblins who chose to show up.

The next morning came gray and cold. Pa rose before the others, boots thudding softly across the cabin floor as he gathered his coat and gloves for field work. The storm damage still needed clearing.

Ma met him at the door, handing him his thermos of coffee.

He kissed her, quick, familiar. Routine. His lips brushed hers, warm but distracted, like his thoughts were already halfway down the path.

“Be careful,” she said.

“Always am,” he replied.

But as he stepped off the porch into the frost bitten yard, she lingered at the doorway a second longer than usual.

The kiss hadn’t been wrong. It had just felt… obligatory. Like he wasn’t fully there.

The war clock inside the barn had dimmed. But something else, quieter, ticked on in her mind.

It was time to operate the holler without factoring him in. She would no longer press or chase his involvement. He had always said the holler was hers, anyway.

Ma turned back toward the fire. It still needed tending.