The first grey light of dawn was stealing through the high windows when Rhones Lord and Archmage Hamilton had come unbidden into her chambers, bearing tidings that twisted the waking world into nightmare. Only hours before, she had fallen into troubled sleep, arms wrapped protectively around her daughter after the terror of nearly losing her. In her dreams, she saw herself and Siv as children, quarreling in the palace gardens over a violet missing a single petal. She hadn't grasped the dream's shape then, but its meaning was now brutally simple: the torn petal was the breach in their western wall.

  "I regret the necessity of convening court at such an hour," she said, her voice scarcely audible. "But I suspect you have all heard the news..." The Queen of Cynthia's chest rose and fell sharply, twice, as she fought for composure. "Our West Wall has been breached by the Godmans."

  The Hall of Glory remained deathly silent, though truth be told, it had been silent even before the queen spoke. "With all due respect, Your Majesty," Grand Pip began, his normally thunderous voice uncharacteristically subdued. "I question the veracity of these reports. To breach Cynthia's walls—particularly the western section with no gate—stretches the bounds of possibility." Grand Pip Berlid gripped the carved arms of his high-backed chair, his knuckles standing out white. "While the Wall of Cynthia's length is indeed formidable, we have stationed civilian volunteers along its entirety as lookouts. Any siege engine powerful enough to shatter those walls would surely have been spotted." "I concur with my father's assessment," declared Little Pip, rising in solidarity.

  "Perhaps, Your Grace of Halfhill, your long years tucked away on East Kulen Mountain have left you somewhat... out of touch," Duke Snit remarked, his voice dripping with more acid than usual. "By your own admission, those wall sentries were mere civilians. How reliable could such observers truly be? The novelty might maintain their vigilance for a day or two... but by the third morning, they're doubtless dozing in their watchtowers. Furthermore, the messenger pigeons arrived directly from Baron Grace's son—Lord Penlico, who commands the Hilltop Fort garrison. His forces are already preparing for imminent engagement. This is not speculation but established fact."

  "What is the current garrison strength at Hilltop Fort?" the queen inquired. "Originally one thousand men," Baron Grace responded. "Excluding the Kadenford militia volunteers, our family's forces alone would not exceed twelve hundred. Penlico has augmented these numbers since my departure for the capital."

  Claire's fingers tightened around the lion-head armrests of her throne. "And these militia volunteers—how many?"

  "The dispatch mentioned approximately five hundred, Your Majesty. However, I must emphasize these are merely townspeople without combat training. Their equipment consists largely of repurposed farming implements. They give Kadenford's folk a sense of security, nothing more. In a real fight, they're next to useless."

  "Include them in your count nonetheless." (You're only deceiving yourself, Claire.) "By that calculation, Kadenford's defensive capability stands at seventeen hundred combatants, Your Majesty. Even so, this force remains woefully inadequate."

  "...What is our best estimate of the Godman force that has penetrated the West Wall?"

  "We lack precise figures, Your Majesty," Archmage Hamilton extracted a small parchment from his voluminous sleeve. "However, according to recent correspondence from the Shadowgreen Knights, they have already engaged the Godman forces at the breach site. Conservative estimates place their numbers no fewer than twenty-five hundred strong."

  "Bad odds, then," Duke Snit observed dryly. "I beg to differ," Grand Pip countered, eager to rebut his thin-limbed rival. "We hold defensive positions. Seventeen hundred defenders against three thousand attackers does not necessarily presage defeat."

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  "This is Hilltop Fort we speak of, Lord Grand Pip, not your precious Halfhill," Duke Snit retorted, his voice smooth as ice. "Kadenford is flat ground. What high ground is there to hold? And let us be clear: the only real soldiers there are Penlico's thousand or so. That levy is just padding for the roster." Grand Pip turned away, his displeasure evident.

  "What if we incorporate the Shadowgreen Knights?" Claire Grace asked, addressing the Archmage directly. "If every surviving knight beyond our walls were consolidated into Sir Penlico's command, what would our total force comprise?"

  "I had considered precisely that our sole remaining hope—our only recourse to resist the Godman advance. Regrettably, even this prospect has dimmed considerably." The Archmage withdrew another parchment slip. "Commander Lothar Witte has fallen in battle, while his lieutenant, Kelly Bonowell, perished defending their encampment. Put simply, the Shadowgreen Knights' leadership and core strength have been decimated; what remains are merely scattered remnants."

  "How many survive?"

  "Fewer than one hundred fifty souls."

  The strength went out of Claire's grip on the lion heads. "Even as scattered remnants, direct them to reinforce Sir Penlico's command." She closed her eyes, concealing those striking pale-violet irises. "Have we any other combat-ready forces at our disposal?"

  "None, I fear. Our strategic assessment had anticipated the Godmans would concentrate their efforts against the main gate. Consequently, we have massed virtually all our military strength there. Beyond Phyal's immediate environs, our defensive presence is purely symbolic."

  Claire Grace had never experienced such profound anguish—that visceral need to purge herself that remained perpetually unsatisfied. (What course remains open to me?) Instinctively, her thoughts reached out to her late husband. (Teach me, Salt,) her face was a mask of pain. (What must I do?) Rhones Lord's hand grazed the back of hers, a light, steadying touch. "Thank you, Rhones," she whispered.

  "We now face a critical decision," Archmage Hamilton announced, his gaze sweeping the assembled nobility. "Either we dispatch troops immediately to relieve Kadenford, or we concentrate our entire military strength to counter the Godman assault at Pafaheim. We cannot pursue both courses simultaneously."

  Every face in the hall turned to Queen Claire Grace, waiting for her command—or, at the very least, her counsel.

  "I would hear my lords' counsel before pronouncing judgment," she said, turning her palm upward in invitation. (I must first understand their perspectives,) she thought, biting her lower lip, (before rendering my decision. Remain composed, Claire. The crown weighs upon you alone.)

  "Aid must go to Kadenford, and quickly," Sir Loyes declared, magnificent in his gilded plate. "I have personally visited the region—the settlement is sparsely constructed upon flat terrain, circumstances that heavily favor Godman cavalry. Hilltop Fort's elevation provides minimal advantage, and the layout precludes effective urban combat. Considering our numerical disadvantage, without immediate reinforcement, Kadenford will surely fall within hours."

  "I share this assessment," Baron Grace affirmed. "I will lead the relief force myself. If Kadenford falls, the Godmans will pause, refit, then strike for Losmore City. Losmore City's garrison is weaker still; they cannot hope to stand. At this pace, the enemy will be at Phyal's gates in little more than a day."

  "In principle, this reasoning appears sound," Duke Snit observed, idly rotating the emerald ring adorning his finger. "However, I fear the West Wall breach may constitute a deliberate diversion. Diverting reinforcements to Kadenford necessitates diluting our capital's defenses, thereby compromising our capacity to engage Godman forces at Pafaheim or beyond the city limits. Their army outnumbers ours threefold; reducing our strength by several thousand more may prove catastrophic."

  Little Pip suddenly interjected, "But surely, with over three hundred thousand Godmans massed outside our walls, what significant difference would a mere thousand or two make to Phyal's defense?" His father's expression darkened at this ill-considered outburst.

  "Meaning," Claire leaned forward, her voice dangerously soft, "that you consider several thousand Cynthian swords insignificant against the Godman horde? Is that what you are saying, Lord Pip?"

  Grand Pip hastened to intervene. "Your Majesty, my son intended no such implication..."