"I agree as well." King Porchet Malen Owen of Popodovis slammed his beer mug onto the table with such force that foam sloshed over the rim. "I fail to understand why we continue this pointless delay. If not for your constant restraint, Royce, I would have dispatched troops to Cynthia months ago to assist Claire against these southern invaders. What exactly are we waiting for?"

  "Waiting for what?" King Royce Paul Sain of Brigar replied, his voice measured. "An excellent question, Porchet. We're not 'waiting' for anything; we can only wait. You wish to send aid to Cynthia? Very well, tell me: how many troops can you actually muster?" His eyes narrowed with contempt. "I'm not asking about the forces you might spare for Cynthia. I'm asking about the total military strength of your entire kingdom."

  "You... what are you implying?!" Porchet Malen Owen's face flushed with indignation. "Are you suggesting that I—"

  "Fifty thousand," Royce continued, cutting him off. "And that figure generously includes your elderly, infirm, and barely trained conscripts. Don't look so shocked. Knowing both oneself and one's enemy is fundamental to warfare. You can't possibly commit your entire military, so at best you could deploy thirty thousand men—of which perhaps five to seven thousand might be cavalry. That's the maximum support you could offer. Now, do you have any concept of how many troops have amassed outside Cynthia?"

  "Don't you dare speak to me with such condescension!" Porchet thundered. "Perhaps, as rumors claim, there are 120,000 Godma soldiers encircling Cynthia. But what of it? King Salt—may he rest in peace—commanded approximately 80,000 troops in Cynthia. With those existing forces, supplemented by our intervention, these southerners would need twice their current numbers to have any hope of breaching the walls!"

  "It's 150,000, Porchet," King Noland Lister Russbinder of Arisindra interjected with a smirk. "The Godmans positioned over 150,000 troops in Cynthia's outskirts at least ten days ago. Reports indicate they've already captured half the surrounding territories. Your information is pretty old..."

  "The current count is 210,000," Richard Grace said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Two days past... according to our frontline intelligence... approximately 210,000 Godma soldiers... surround the city... And... furthermore..."

  "Furthermore, two-thirds of Cynthia's outer districts have already fallen," the goblin Einington Vis Avifesh completed his monarch's thought. "Additional reinforcements will surely arrive. I concur with the esteemed King of Dud—we have observed passively for too long. We must act decisively and dispatch relief forces before it's too late." (Don't worry, my king.) He gripped Richard Grace's right hand firmly.

  "By what authority do you speak in Richard's stead?" Porchet leaned rightward, craning his neck to better observe Einington standing beside Richard. "And what business does a goblin have in this council chamber?"

  "Please afford some basic courtesy, King of Popodovis. Goblins are among the sapient races," Princess Angela Disterin Lloyd of Ellytra admonished, her tone glacial.

  "Indeed, Porchet. Why make such a commotion?" Noland mocked. "Moore even brought a whore to our meeting."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "I am not a whore!" the woman beside King Moore Byron Lawrence blurted out.

  Moore's hand struck like lightning, sending her sprawling to the floor. "Did I grant you permission to speak?" he inquired with unnerving softness.

  "...Forgive me, Your Majesty." The woman cradled her reddened cheek, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  "Don't let it happen again, my sweet." Moore scooped a dollop of snow-white cream with his middle finger, extending it toward her. She nodded submissively, eagerly taking both cream and finger into her mouth.

  "Enough. I find domestic violence rather distasteful," King Royce clapped his hands, prompting the two attendants behind him to clear away the remaining desserts. "Let us return to our primary concerns. I hold Mr. Avifesh in the highest esteem," he said, acknowledging the elderly goblin. "His wisdom is considerable, and his counsel merits our attention."

  "Fine, proceed as you wish," King Porchet waved dismissively. "It's your banquet, your council."

  "Mr. Avifesh," Royce Paul Sain addressed the goblin directly. "I fully comprehend your concerns and those of King Richard, particularly given that Queen Claire of Cynthia is King Richard's sister. However, precipitous military action would prove counterproductive. Consider—"

  "We lack the luxury of awaiting perfect circumstances, King Royce," Einington interrupted. "The Godmans are not fools. They will not attempt to traverse the Throat Road until Cynthia has fallen, denying us any opportunity for a pincer maneuver. We must seize the initiative now, while Cynthia still stands. Otherwise, should—and I emphasize should—Cynthia fall to the southern forces, reclaiming it would necessitate crossing the perilous Kulen Mountain."

  "Or navigating the Seven Seas," Moore Byron Lawrence added.

  "Why not consider forming a formal alliance?" Princess Angela's voice rang clear as crystal. "The Godma Emperor harbors vast ambitions. Crividsylvan and Cynthia are just appetizers--like the slugs we had. We northern kingdoms are going to be the main course. Why not unite against these southern aggressors?"

  "Your assessment is impeccable, my dear princess," Noland Lister Russbinder remarked, regarding Angela with undisguised admiration. "But alliances are like glass--easy to see through, and easy to break."

  "We should indeed form an alliance," Moore concurred, his hand idly caressing the thigh of the maid beside him. "But timing is crucial. Alliances rarely prove optimal during active conflicts. History abounds with failed coalitions—I need not elaborate extensively. The Tenth Era alone—the Era of Conflicts—and the innumerable defeats suffered by the 3rd Ptolemaick Dynasty's allied armies offer abundant lessons. Disparate combat methodologies, contradictory tactical philosophies, arrogance and mutual suspicion among commanders from different nations, and monarchs prioritizing self-interest over collective goals—all contributed to those legendary failures."

  "The Era of Conflicts... occurred nearly a millennium ago, did it not?" Noland pointed out. "Times have changed substantially. How can warfare from a thousand years past compare to our present circumstances?"

  "Perhaps the similarities outweigh the differences," Queen Shirley Farland observed softly. "The Ptolemaick Dynasty's coalition collapsed largely because each allied monarch focused exclusively on immediate self-interest, hoping to expend allies' resources rather than their own. The infighting among kings presaged their defeat before the first arrow flew. Consider our own situation: were we to form an alliance here today, I would undoubtedly contribute the least." She took a measured sip of wine. "Don't regard me with such suspicion. From a diminutive realm like Megonian, could you reasonably expect thirty or forty thousand troops? My perpetually inebriated husband—that cursed Prince Bantner—possesses a belly twice the circumference of Porchet's. You cannot possibly rely on him. The entire kingdom's burden falls upon me, a mere woman. I deeply sympathize with Claire's predicament."