"Unbelievable." Big Mouth Simon shook his head in disbelief. "All of them, just... gone."

  "Likely they saw the end coming," Tyler Wynlers said. "Made their peace with it. Still, who wants to die? Even if they sing songs about you after."

  "Heroes?" Carl Clawyn eased himself down beside them, wincing slightly as he smiled. "I doubt history will call them that—dwarves rarely earn such honors. What of those two knights?"

  "Returned to Third Company," Tyler replied, examining Carl's wound with a critical eye. "It's not terrible—the arrowhead didn't severely damage the muscle tissue. Still, you shouldn't be up and about so soon."

  "No choice in the matter. We're preparing to enter the city." "Now?" Simon asked incredulously.

  "Yes, immediately. We're to launch a coordinated assault on Cynthia alongside the main force at the gates. Fortune seems to favor us—our scouts have thoroughly reconnoitered the breach and report no Cynthian military presence, only what appears to be civilian militia groups."

  "And after we're inside? Do we simply continue fighting our way to Phyal?"

  "Barring unforeseen complications, yes. If our main force can successfully engage the bulk of Cynthia's army at the gate while breaching their defenses, we stand an excellent chance of advancing directly to Phyal. Even allowing for necessary rest periods for our mounts, it's merely half a day's ride. With favorable conditions, we'll have our answer before nightfall."

  A horn blast cut through the air as troops began assembling in formation. "Shouldn't you be in your tent? What are you doing trailing after us?"

  "Obviously," Carl replied, already striding ahead, "because I'm joining you."

  Tyler seized his arm firmly. "This isn't a jest. Your shoulder is wounded—how do you propose to ride, let alone engage in combat?"

  "I spoke to Devalosfang. He said they're desperate for men—anyone who can still stand should be in the fight..."

  "I'll speak with him myself."

  "My decision stands, Tyler," he reassured his concerned friend. "Have no fear—should circumstances deteriorate, I'll be the first to withdraw." Tyler's expression remained skeptical.

  "Strange," Simon suddenly interjected. "What's strange?"

  "Doesn't it strike you as... odd?" His whiskers gave a twitch. "If a rock truly brought that wall down, how come no one's found the damned thing?"

  Stellan dragged his wounded comrade, muttering curses under his breath. His mood was murderous—the engagement had been an unmitigated disaster. The black riders, positioned for ambush within the forest, had not merely been surrounded and repelled with casualties exceeding half their number, but had surrendered control of the West Wall breach. He laid all the blame at Lannord's feet, certain his companion should have sniffed out the Godmans' encirclement through the trees.

  His fury stemmed from another source as well. Stellan had very nearly slain those Godmans concealed behind the redwood—a feat that would have not only satisfied his rage but also quenched his most primal urge: to taste fresh blood. But an arrow from an unseen archer had disrupted his plans, provoking him to kick away the rare repeating crossbow in frustration—a weapon of unquestionable dwarven craftsmanship.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Lothar's pained groans filled the air. Covering the black riders' retreat, a blade had laid his thigh open, and now it was pissing blood. Stellan had attempted rudimentary first aid, but the filthy, blood-saturated cloth was now unrecognizable beneath layers of mud and gore. (If only it had been an arrow wound,) he thought with disturbing detachment, (the blood would flow faster, unstoppable.) He observed Lothar's increasingly ashen lips and drooping eyelids. (Blood,) his mind whispered darkly. (He cannot endure much longer. Neither can I.)

  Stellan's mount, though tethered nearby, had fallen early in the skirmish with its throat severed—a catastrophic development for a rider already separated from his unit and burdened with a gravely wounded commander. "Damn it all," he muttered venomously. "Pure hell."

  The rich, metallic tang of blood hammered at his senses, making his brows furrow, his lips draw back from his teeth, his face tic. "Ah! Curse it!" He abruptly released Lothar, whose moans had diminished to nearly inaudible whispers. "Control yourself...!" He crouched low, clutching his head in desperate restraint. "Hold fast!"

  Lothar fell silent. Stellan raised his head slowly, turning to find his commander utterly still, lifeless. (Dead?) He crawled closer, slapping the man's face. (Dead. Truly dead.) He didn't know whether to grieve or give thanks. Without warning, a violent wave of nausea overcame him, saliva mixed with partially digested matter dribbling from his mouth. This proximity to fresh blood—he hadn't experienced such temptation in ages. The blood from Lothar's leg wound had now spread, forming a dark pool that reached the edges of his fingers. "...Forgive me," he whispered, abandoning resistance. "You're already gone, Lothar. Just this once, forgive me." With that declaration, he reached toward his mouth with blood-stained fingers.

  Lannord's charge came with such blinding speed that Stellan had no opportunity to react. He crashed into Stellan with tremendous force, sending both men tumbling several meters across the forest floor. "What in all hells do you think you're doing?!" Lannord shouted, pinning Stellan's blood-smeared hand firmly to the ground. "I've been searching everywhere for you—only to discover you about to commit this atrocity?!" His customary composure had vanished entirely, replaced by undisguised fury. "Have you forgotten your House's—"

  "Damn you, don't speak of my House!" Stellan roared, finding the strength to hurl Lannord off him. Barely regaining his footing, Lannord immediately launched another full-bodied charge, slamming Stellan against a towering pine, forearm pressed crushingly against his throat. "Yes, your House," Lannord shot back, pinning Stellan against the pine, forearm digging into his throat. "Your father, the Duke, he charged me with watching you, Stellan! Watching you day and night, lest you... stray. He could have set your own kin to the task. Why choose me? An outsider?"

  Lannord seized Stellan's collar, hauling him up only to slam him back to the forest floor."Because he recognizes that they all share your affliction—every young member of the Blood Race battles these same urges, unable to resist temptation at critical moments. His assessment was painfully accurate."

  Stellan pushed himself upright, his features contorted with rage and hunger. "...This is not your concern." His gaze drifted inexorably back to Lothar's bloodied leg. "He's already dead."

  "I'm perfectly aware he's dead. But he was Lothar, our commander since departing the city gates. Even lacking close personal connection, you have absolutely no right to desecrate him this way."

  For a fleeting moment, Stellan appeared to regain a fragment of his humanity, but it vanished like morning mist. His eyes darkened to a deep crimson, his breathing became labored and irregular. "I wouldn't... feed from his throat..." He scrubbed the back of a shaking hand across his wet mouth. "His leg... it's bleeding so much... all that good blood..."

  "After that incident," Lannord said gravely, "I became convinced you were ill-suited for service among the Shadowgreen Knights. Did you honestly believe I remained ignorant of what you did to that riverside cow that night? An entire cow drained! Though not human blood, it was blood nonetheless—strictly forbidden for your kind. You successfully resisted during infancy, when blood-hunger reaches its apex—why falter now? Do you aspire to degenerate into a feral vampire, condemned to wander aimlessly through the forests surrounding Cazarburgh? You've already endured the trials, Stellan. Don't surrender now, when restraint matters most." Lannord's eyes bored into his. "Resist, Stellan. Don't let it take you. There's still a man in there."