The stone columns of the Pillars Hall stretched into infinity. "It is said the Godma army approaches Cynthia's heart. Will you not decide to act?"

  "I... I want to save Claire. But... but King Royce wishes me to hold my forces for now."

  "King Royce's domain is Brigar." (And he's stuttering again.) "But Duviliel, the very ground beneath our feet, belongs to you alone. And Queen Claire of Cynthia is your sister by blood. You should act according to your own conscience."

  The shadows in the Pillars Hall seemed to sprawl without end. "I... I understand that. But... sigh. There are many factors I must weigh. Decisions made by a crown must be... must be thoroughly considered."

  "Prudence is indeed necessary." (But his intentions may not be entirely pure.)

  "I know... know what you're thinking, Einington. After... after I attend the Seven Kings' Council, I shall take action."

  "You may need to assert your position more forcefully. So..."

  "I will endeavor to remain calm at the council and speak as clearly as possible."

  The Pillars Hall stretched on and on. "...Footsteps, Einington. Make some bloody noise when you walk."

  "Tap, tap, tap."

  "Oh, spare me. I marvel that my predecessor didn't have you hanged."

  "We've arrived. Allow me to assist you down the stairs."

  The night sky above the Pillars Hall was a boundless void.

  Raveirmom listened in silence as Devalosfang delivered his report. Around them, high-spirited soldiers marched, brandishing an array of mismatched weapons and bellowing disjointed victory songs. A hastily constructed gallows caught his eye. "Del," he said, nodding toward the swaying corpses. "What manner of men hang there?"

  Devalosfang followed his gaze. "Camp followers, some troublemakers from the ranks, and a few prisoners."

  "And those two?" Raveirmom gestured toward two slender figures, their necks freshly broken. "They have the look of elves."

  "Half-elves only, Your Grace," the sub-commander replied, his tone tightening. "Camp followers as well."

  "Get those bodies down. Now," the Duke snapped, his voice like ice. "You know damn well we can't have elven corpses lying around. We're already skating on thin ice with Illuviλofer. I don't need any more headaches. Who's responsible for this?"

  "Likely Milankai..." Devalosfang nodded in agreement. "His cruelty toward camp followers is legendary." He barked orders to bury the half-elven corpses without delay. "Continue your report, Del."

  "...This is all the intelligence we've gathered thus far."

  "...Take me to them."

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  "Who?" Devalosfang asked, his voice cutting through the camp noise.

  "Those who have crossed swords with the Cloaked Knights."

  "There's one right here, Your Grace," called a soldier seated by the campfire. He had but one hand, while a serving girl poured wine for him continuously.

  "Is that so?" Raveirmom crouched beside him. "A steep price to pay."

  "It happened in an instant. Their ambush came like lightning," the man said, raising his stump for inspection.

  "And these cloaks?"

  "Like a demon's trick, Your Grace."

  Raveirmom examined the wound with a practiced eye. "It heals well."

  "Aye, the surgeons say the same. Woman!" he snapped at the girl beside him. "Are your eyes painted on? Can you not see Lord Raveirmom?" The maid startled, spilling wine across the ground.

  "That's unnecessary," the duke said, his tone gentler than before. "Which division do you serve?"

  "Second Division of the Royal Knights, Hylen Martin, at your service."

  "The Martins of Hobok. Would you prefer to continue fighting on the front, or take a position in the rear guard?" Raveirmom's gray eyes betrayed no emotion in the firelight.

  "Well..." Martin hesitated briefly. "The truth is, though my right hand is gone, I've always favored my left. Which means," he seized a cup with his remaining hand, "I can still send plenty more Cynthians crying to hell."

  "They should be running there," Raveirmom remarked, lifting a cup himself. Both men erupted in laughter.

  Devalosfang watched with surprise. The Duke of Dear had always been somber and reserved, from childhood to manhood.

  "You shall have the rewards and honor you've earned, Hylen Martin of Hobok," Raveirmom declared, rising to his feet. "Del, show me to the others."

  The drunken revelry had subsided, allowing their conversation to flow more freely. Devalosfang guided Raveirmom to question those who had faced the Cloaked Knights in combat, including Carl and Tyler. Though initially reluctant to revisit the battle, they soon found themselves drawn into casual conversation by Raveirmom's subtle charisma, revealing everything he sought to know. Details about the cloaks, Simon's account of bat-like creatures, the troll at the bridge—Raveirmom absorbed it all, deepening his understanding of intelligence he had already received.

  After departing from Carl and Tyler, Raveirmom and Devalosfang entered a wooden cabin where officers had been playing dice and Kante Cards. They sprang to attention immediately. "The quarters have been prepared for your use, Your Grace," one announced.

  Raveirmom nodded dismissal. As they filed out, he called, "Leave the wine and dice," to a young knight who was hastily stuffing gaming pieces into his breeches.

  Seated at the rough-hewn table, Devalosfang poured beer into a large, stained mug. "Have you forgotten that your elder brother doesn't favor beer?" Raveirmom asked, rolling the dice between his fingers.

  "I'm no longer your cupbearer. This is for myself," Devalosfang replied, drinking deeply of the cold brew. "Unlike some, I don't deny myself life's pleasures."

  "When did I become an ascetic in your eyes?" Raveirmom poured himself a glass of red wine instead. "I simply prefer these crimson jewels." He held the bottle to the candlelight, examining its contents. A fly bobbed lazily in the liquid. "......"

  "They worship you," the sub-commander observed, moving to the window. "To them, you are the embodiment of hope."

  Raveirmom tossed the dice into the air. "In what respect?"

  "In every respect," Devalosfang answered, refilling his mug. "Many in our ranks believe only you can breach the city walls."

  "Me? And how would I accomplish such a feat? Dig tunnels with my bare hands? Perhaps spit at the gates or politely knock?"

  "Tunneling is an ancient strategy," Devalosfang chuckled. "But as for spitting and knocking, I wouldn't stake our victory on either."

  "Tunnels might have worked for the old southern kingdoms. But Cynthia's different - different country, different times." Raveirmom eyed the fly-specked wine, stalling for time. "The Brigarians tried to tunnel under Cynthia's walls once, but not a single tunnel ever made it inside. They never said why. Now, most southern kingdoms use goblins as messengers and scouts - I bet the northerners do too. Those little bastards would sniff out our tunnels in a heartbeat. It'd be a waste of time and men. No, tunnels are a dead end."