The paper boat, placed upon the water's surface, began its slow drift across the mirror-calm expanse, encountering no resistance. Halfway through its journey, the stillness shattered. The water stirred and bubbled like a boiling hot spring, countless bubbles breaking the surface as the fragile vessel lurched drunkenly from side to side. Then it began to sink, ensnared by watery tendrils that resembled octopus arms, wrapping tightly around the craft and dragging it into the depths. Once the paper boat vanished, consumed by the waters, the surface returned to perfect tranquility.

  "And what exactly does this prove?" Prince Wally's face had blanched, his earlier composure crumbling. "It was merely a flimsy paper boat that was swallowed. Our warships are crafted from the finest cedar and oak, some even reinforced with Spiral Narwhal Bone. They're far mightier than anything you could imagine."

  "I've said all I care to say," Solomon gestured wearily for Crowley to help him rise. "Always maintain reverence for nature." At the threshold, he left his son with one final warning.

  "For it is far more terrifying than you could ever comprehend."

  Devalosfang leaned against the rough bark of a tree, firelight dancing across his blade as he examined it repeatedly. (Why did I tell him about that?) The polished steel reflected his increasingly unkempt beard, yet all he saw was his wife's flowing ebony hair. "Josephine..." he whispered, a pensive sigh escaping his lips as her image blurred in his mind's eye.

  For nearly a month, the Godma army's advance had been mediocre at best. Initial reinforcements and enemy retreats had buoyed their spirits, but the deeper they penetrated enemy territory, the more confounding their campaign became. Though Cynthia's outskirts presented open terrain with scattered woodlands, the Cynthians consistently exploited both landscape and timing to their advantage. As Godma forces pressed forward, Cynthia's cavalry studiously avoided direct confrontation, instead employing guerrilla tactics and ambushes that left the invaders reeling. Despite recent victories in several skirmishes, the Godma forces remained, in many ways, at a strategic disadvantage.

  His wife, his sword, and the cold light of the moon—these were Devalosfang's sole companions in this moment. He awaited news from scouts dispatched earlier, though he feared they had already met a grim fate. That morning's encounter had seen Cynthia's Cloaked Knights emerging from both flanks of the Godma vanguard in a brazen assault. The unexpected attack had thrown his forces into disarray. Though they had eventually repelled the enemy, the Cynthians had achieved their objective: the five-thousand-strong Godma force had been cleaved in two, with over two thousand men losing contact with the main force during their impetuous pursuit. A "Fragile Breach" now existed, and failure on either side would devastate the other. Devalosfang counted himself fortunate to be stationed with the rear contingent—those two thousand headstrong young soldiers had likely ridden to their doom.

  Hoofbeats approached—his men returning. The sub-commander sprang up like a drawn bowstring suddenly released, but the knights' grim expressions told him all he needed to know. "How many survivors do you estimate?" he asked, though their answers offered little comfort.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He cursed vehemently, his fist crashing against the unyielding tree trunk.

  As if by sorcery, the camp behind him erupted into commotion. Whispers swelled to shouts in the span of heartbeats. "What's happening?" Devalosfang felt his heart clench. (If the enemy has infiltrated our rear, then tonight shall be my last beneath the moon's gaze.)

  Yet the knights at his back showed no alarm. "What do you see?" the sub-commander called out, bracing for calamity. "A vast force approaches our rear lines..." reported the knight whose helmet bore a steel eagle. "Our men have seized their weapons. They're... jubilant."

  (The Triad of Destiny has pronounced my fate's end.) His heart plummeted, yet he felt an odd serenity wash over him. "Come, knights," he said, gripping his sword and gazing upon it one final time with profound affection. "Let us spill our blood and join our two thousand brothers in eternal slumber."

  "Really? You think your blood is worth spilling here?" A voice, both familiar and alien, cut through the darkness. "Not yet. This land isn't ready for you, or for those two thousand."

  Devalosfang stiffened, recognition dawning as he identified the voice's owner.

  Duke Raveirmom emerged from the shadows astride his midnight steed, Eoch riding at his side.

  "Raveirmom... Your Grace," the sub-commander bowed respectfully. "We anticipated your arrival at a later hour."

  "Intelligence that reaches you can reach Cynthian ears just as readily. Deceive yourself first, and others will follow." Raveirmom approached Devalosfang, clasping his shoulder firmly. "I've recovered those two thousand lost men of yours. Perhaps one or two are missing—I lacked the patience to count." Their eyes met, and in Raveirmom's steely gray irises, Devalosfang glimpsed something inscrutable. "But that matters little," Raveirmom continued, gesturing behind him where the campfires now blazed with renewed vigor.

  "I've brought twenty thousand more."

  The shouting, then, had been cries of elation.

  Candlelight stretched the shadows of stone columns long and thin across the walls, like spiderwebs woven across the chamber. King Richard slumped over the long table, staring at the intricately detailed map that, to his bleary eyes, looked as inviting as his own pillow. (Pillow... bed...) The young king struggled to keep his eyes open, not wanting to seem weary in front of the old friend who'd been keeping him company for days.

  His silent companion remained motionless on the table, showing no sign of displeasure.

  Finally, Richard could resist no longer and collapsed backward. The sound of man and chair colliding echoed throughout the Pillars Hall. A head peered cautiously from between columns. "Your Majesty? Are you seeking sleep again?"

  "No... I'm quite well." The king's hand waved feebly, only to be caught in another's grip. Richard bolted upright in alarm, but relaxed upon recognizing Einington Vis Avifesh beside him. The ancient goblin, having survived more than a century, had witnessed several dynasties rise and fall—including kings who had unwittingly slipped into their final slumber.

  "Haven't I instructed you, Einington? Walk as a goblin should," Richard grumbled. He had never understood how Einington moved with such stealth—a trait typically associated with halflings, while goblin feet normally slapped noisily against the ground.

  "Permit me to escort you to your chambers," the elderly goblin replied, unperturbed by the king's irritation. With Richard's tacit consent, he helped the monarch to his feet—no simple task despite Einington's larger-than-average stature for his kind. After all, Richard was a full-grown human, and a goblin who had seen more than 150 winters was well into the twilight of his life.