"You always find a way. No matter how many battles we've faced, you always manage to turn the tide."

  "Hearing your praise does bring me some comfort." He contemplated for a moment before decisively pushing away the red wine. "I think we need to talk." The dice tumbled across the table.

  Devalosfang trapped the dice under his palm. "Before that, tell me about the current situation in Crividsylvan."

  "Crivi?" The duke arched an eyebrow. "Taken a fancy to some local girl? I thought after Josephine, you'd sworn off marriage entirely."

  "Enough games, Raveirmom. I never intended to remarry."

  "Suit yourself," Raveirmom shot back, throwing his brother's words back at him. "Davidow has dispatched Duke Duke to govern Crivi."

  "A duke? Is he planning to convert Crivi into a duchy? Or simply annex it as a province?"

  "Either is possible," his elder brother replied with calculated indifference.

  "Continue. What else should I know?"

  "Too many trivialities to enumerate." The duke felt a flicker of impatience but maintained his composure. "The dwarves have been raising quite the ruckus."

  "Dwarves?" Devalosfang flicked the dice back across the table. "Banking Guild or Lumber Guild?"

  "Both. They've formed an alliance. After seizing power, Duke Duke first requisitioned bank deposits, then hired farmers to fell vast swathes of forest. He claims it's for rebuilding Crivi, but few are convinced. If you witnessed so-called 'reconstruction materials' transformed into catapults and siege engines before your eyes, you'd join the protests too."

  "So the Lumber Guild dwarves are disgruntled as well?"

  "Naturally." Raveirmom set the dice spinning rapidly. "He employed no dwarves yet ravages their forests indiscriminately. They'd love nothing more than to drive us all out."

  "Those lumber merchants already swim in gold."

  "The wealthy always dance with bankers," his brother remarked. "More troubling still, Duke Duke has begun taxing them."

  "Taxing? Surely not—"

  "The Humanoid Species Tax. That proposed 'Humanoid Tax Act' has become a primary clause in the Humanoid Act."

  Devalosfang let out a bitter laugh. "It seems Duke Duke has quite the 'fondness' for dwarves."

  "He's always loathed dwarves. In fact, he despises all humanoid species. When their family's goblin emerged from below stairs, he shrieked like a pig at slaughter." Raveirmom reclaimed the dice. "Let's set Crivi aside for now. Our present circumstances demand greater attention."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Devalosfang pushed away his fifth cup of ale. "What strategy have you devised?"

  "Before discussing strategies, we must analyze the situation. That's a strategist's most fundamental skill." He set the dice spinning once more. "Quiz time, Del. Tell me, what has allowed us to seize most of Cynthia's outskirts? Terrain advantage, tactical superiority, or sheer numbers?"

  "Numbers," his brother replied, transfixed by the whirling dice.

  "Good. Next," Raveirmom locked eyes with his brother, "without our overwhelming force, could we have captured those territories?"

  "Clearly not." The dice began to wobble.

  "And why?" He noticed his brother's gaze growing distant.

  "Everything, Raveirmom. Apart from numerical superiority, we're disadvantaged in every aspect." The dice halted, six pips facing upward. "It seems everything remains within their control."

  "That's the crux," Raveirmom said, lifting the dice by its edges and launching it into another dance. "The Cynthians appear to anticipate our every move. This is far more significant than those cloaks everyone fixates upon."

  "You're suggesting a traitor moves among us." Devalosfang's attention was once again captured by the spinning dice. "I must remind you, Raveirmom, this conflict bears no resemblance to past southern squabbles. We share virtually no history with Cynthia, and no one in our ranks has Cynthian connections—Crividsylvan's conscription hasn't even commenced."

  "That's the obvious conclusion, and I've considered the issue you raise. But there's a critical flaw in that reasoning." Raveirmom leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "If our spy were human, how could they relay information to the enemy so swiftly and accurately? If carrier pigeons or ravens were flying between camps, our men would surely have noticed."

  "Not human?" The dice wobbled precariously. "Then what manner of creature?"

  "Bats."

  Devalosfang slammed his fist on the table. "You jest!" The dice, jarred by the impact, settled again on six. But he knew his brother never made pointless jokes. "You're suggesting... you believe those..." He fumbled for words. "Those unconfirmed species are aiding them?"

  "Steady yourself, brother. It could also be wolves, snakes, mountain cats, or similar beasts. More precisely, I suspect shapeshifters." Raveirmom gestured for his brother to sit. "We often dismiss what we haven't witnessed as nonexistent." He reclined in his chair. "How many years have passed since your birth? And how many non-human creatures have you encountered? Dwarves, goblins, halflings, cats, dogs, dragons, and those relatively harmless Child Ghouls—what else have your eyes beheld?" He studied his brother's profile. "Before the Battle of the Bridgehead, had you ever glimpsed what lurks beneath the Blackwater River?"

  Devalosfang fell silent.

  "I'm more inclined to suspect goblins," he muttered eventually.

  "That possibility is largely eliminated." Raveirmom crossed to the wooden window, opened it, surveyed the surroundings, but left it ajar. "En route here, I dispatched goblins to reconnoiter. This region contains no tunnels used by their kind."

  "Goblins can conceal their passages with earth-magic after traversing them."

  The duke returned to his seat. "True enough. But to goblin eyes, disguises crafted by their kin are transparent."

  "Fellow goblins might shield one another!" The sub-commander's tone carried a hint of frustration.

  "I won't deny that possibility. But they understand the consequences all too well."

  "...Warlocks." He slumped back. (I feel like an absolute fool.)

  "...That possibility warrants consideration as well." Raveirmom steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Speaking of warlocks, I've acquired an intriguing piece of intelligence." He observed his brother's shifting expression. "The advisor-level mages and warlocks from the northern kingdoms—their most gifted practitioners—are currently assembled in Brigar. This, naturally, includes Cynthia's finest."