"Ignorance is a twisted kind of bliss," Jess said with a cold smile that never reached his eyes. "Everyone dies eventually, and everything withers away. They will die, and so will you, half-elves. Even the noble and beautiful elves have their dying day. But luckily for you, your men aren't dead yet." The sisters exhaled in visible relief. "Barring any misfortune, they're carrying out a mission over there." He extended his right hand, pointing toward the dense, shadowy forest to the southwest. "If I hadn't been cursed with the loss of this leg, I'd be with them now."

  "Thank you for telling us their whereabouts, for letting us know they're safe," Teresa said, offering a small, graceful bow. "But what I don't understand is why you'd trouble yourself to bring us this news."

  "Hmm... now that's the pivotal question," he replied with mysterious inflection. "Perhaps I harbor some special affection for you two."

  Teresa studied him with narrowed eyes. "My intuition tells me you're jesting again."

  Jess Hilton let out a soft chuckle, both hands gripping his crude crutch. "Intuition is a precious thing, miss. It's a form of impulse—your brain making judgments before you're even conscious of it." He tapped his temple with a slender finger. "Few people nowadays know how to harness it properly."

  "Why do you persistently evade my questions, Sir Knight?" Teresa pressed, refusing to be deterred.

  "Because of intuition."

  "Intuition?"

  "Yes, intuition. I cannot explain why I came to admire this view, why I spoke to you, or why I divulged Carl Clawyn and Tyler Wynlers' whereabouts. I simply don't know—it's akin to an instinct, or perhaps a voice, germinating in my heart and reverberating through my mind, compelling me to act." Teresa noticed a subtle tremor in his eyes as he spoke.

  "What in blazes are you doing?" A familiar, harsh voice carried from the direction of the inn. "Skiving off again, you good-for-nothing whores!"

  "I believe that's my cue to depart," Jess said, offering a courteous nod before limping away on his crutch. "Whores! Filthy whores!" Tessa's voice grew louder, prompting a forlorn sigh from Treni.

  "What's the meaning of this? I sent you to wash laundry, not to—" She lunged to seize Treni's ear, but Teresa deftly interposed herself. "I know how you two cover for each other, you conniving strumpets. Who was that man? Seducing knights when my back is turned?"

  "We weren't seducing him, Tessa. He was merely admiring the landscape..."

  "Landscape, my arse!" the overseer snarled, her glare boring into Teresa. "A knight hanging around here looking at the scenery? At a time like this?"

  "You heard correctly, Tessa," the previously silent old woman interjected. "The knight was indeed standing here. They speak the truth."

  Tessa's belligerence visibly deflated. "Why are you defending them, Louisa?"

  "I merely state what I witnessed," the laundress replied evenly, her eyes never leaving her work. "I know Marquess Redwyn values justice, as does Emperor William."

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  The plump woman's substantial bosom heaved with indignation. "Fine. Even you take their side. I'll concede this time." She folded her arms across her chest. "But before I go, tell me this knight's name. At the very least, I can... verify it afterward."

  "Jess," Treni blurted before her sister could respond. "Jess Hilton. The Seventh Squadron of the Royal Knights."

  "Jess...?" Tessa muttered under her breath. "That poor bloke? The one with the silver hair and the good looks, but with the missing leg..."

  "Yes, that's him," Teresa confirmed.

  "Very well, I'll verify it. Now get back to your washing," she commanded, jabbing a finger at Treni's nose. "Don't leave a single garment untouched."

  "Gentlemen, esteemed dwarf sirs, would you kindly state your identities?" Walin Barklo Vaslov called out with exaggerated formality, pompously tugging at his reins.

  "Refugees," Jim Harad replied flatly.

  "Refugees," Holar Peter Wilton echoed.

  "Refugees," Fendi Firshield added.

  "..." Caroline Tobias maintained her silence.

  "Miss," Fendi turned his head, addressing the girl seated behind him. "And your identity would be?"

  "..."

  "Leave her be. The girl's likely mute," Walin dismissed with a wave. "She's traveled alongside us for ages, and the only message her eyes have ever conveyed is 'get away from me.' I wager if she could speak, she'd only utter vulgarities like 'piss off.' Now, to summarize—Can't any of you come up with something better?"

  "Creativity?" Jim retorted incredulously. "What creativity does one need to be a refugee? Should we smear our faces with filth?" He stroked his intricately braided brown beard with distaste. "That's absolutely out of the question. My beard is sacred."

  "I recognize the importance of our beards," Walin conceded, fondling his own impressive facial hair. "I'm speaking of rhetoric. For instance—'helpless, desperate refugees.'" He patted the short sword at his waist. "To convince the Cynthians, our tale needs more conviction. Let's try once more." Straightening his back, he bellowed, "Gentlemen, esteemed dwarf sirs, would you kindly state your identities?"

  "Pitiful refugees," Jim Harad declared.

  "Miserable refugees," Holar Peter Wilton proclaimed.

  "Wretched refugees," Fendi Firshield announced.

  "..." Caroline Tobias remained resolutely silent.

  "Miss," Fendi turned again to prompt the girl. "Your identity?"

  "...Piss off."

  Walin Barklo Vaslov erupted in raucous laughter. "There! Didn't I say as much?" he crowed triumphantly. "Fendi, cease wasting your efforts on her. The haughty little pale-skin clearly considers herself above us stunted folk." He cast a disdainful glance at Caroline. "Let's be honest, aren't you all saying the same damn thing?"

  An infant's wail suddenly emanated from behind the girl. "Gods preserve us," Walin groaned, rolling his eyes skyward. "The little beast stirs again."

  "Hunger, most likely," Fendi suggested, addressing Caroline. "Would you prefer to stop and rest?" Caroline shifted the baby from her back carrier to her chest, watching as the tiny, moist lips opened and closed rhythmically. After a moment's consideration, she nodded.

  "There, beneath that banyan," Jim Harad indicated, pointing leftward. "This little one certainly possesses a healthy appetite," Walin remarked with a lecherous grin. "But soon you'll be munching on those white tits and pink nipples!"

  "Piss off!" Caroline hurled back, her glare venomous.

  "Very well, I apologize," Walin conceded, raising his palms in mock surrender. "How was I to know they're brown or perhaps black? You've never granted me the privilege of observation."

  The five travelers paused briefly in the shade of the sprawling banyan. Their four steeds—three brown, one chestnut—listlessly grazed on the sparse grass surrounding the tree's base. The forest here was not dense, allowing the banyan to extend its majestic limbs in all directions, its dangling aerial roots seeming to delineate its territorial boundaries. Caroline Tobias walked deliberately to the opposite side of the massive trunk, turned her back to her companions, and discreetly removed her garments to nurse the hungry infant.