"Aren't you afraid of being discovered?"

  "We've considered that risk," Roche replied. "The Gambril Oathsworn number nearly two thousand strong—even if not all participate in this war, two additional men would hardly be noticed. We need only join the fighting when it begins, then blend into their ranks afterward to collect our share. Though..." he mused, "if we could acquire some of their emblems to wear, that would be ideal." Banli nodded enthusiastically. "And some armor, shields, weapons too. With just these few axes between us, no one would mistake us for genuine mercenaries."

  A spark ignited in Emry's eyes.

  "No, Emry!" Roche exclaimed hastily. "I wasn't asking you to pilfer badges or gear for us... Gods preserve us! Are you eager to have your other leg broken?" He pulled the halfling back firmly. "Listen carefully—this isn't your concern, lad. Banli and I took you in because we couldn't leave a halfling with a shattered leg abandoned in the street, could we? But that doesn't make you one of us, Emry. Now that you're healing properly, you should return home."

  "I swear they'll never even know I was there."

  "You should go home, boy."

  "I'll perform better than before..."

  "You are NOT the Burglar!"

  "I've got no home."

  "..."

  "Nor any kin."

  A softness crept into Roche's gaze. "I'm an orphan too," he admitted quietly.

  The tavern was short-staffed. Besides Lady Danwen—who maintained a certain elegance despite her advancing years—there was only Frantans's eldest daughter, Kitty. Lady Danwen's husband worked as the cook, having lost an eye to war in his youth, which explained why seasonings frequently ended up in the hearth rather than the food. Plump Frantans approached with breakfast, only now noticing the twin swords strapped across Irene's back. Despite the evident weariness and hunger that had taken their toll, one could still discern refined features and an innate nobility in Irene's countenance—particularly those striking cornflower blue eyes, whose brilliance no hardship could entirely dim. "Your breakfast," Frantans announced, settling beside her. "I've just realized, miss—you're a warrior. A warrior who bears two swords."

  Irene had no time for courtesy, lifting the apple cider to her lips before attending to anything else. The landlady observed the color rising in her cheeks, head tilted curiously. "Drink doesn't appear to agree with you, miss."

  "I'm no warrior," Irene retorted, scrubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand before turning her attention to the rough-spun bread. "But those swords on your back—two of them!"

  "I'm a Monster Slayer."

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  "Ah." Plump Frantans was sure she'd never heard tell of such a peculiar trade. "Monster Slayer," she echoed, tasting the word. "And what sort of work might that be?"

  "As a rule, we don't trouble ourselves with dragons -- they rarely harm humans unless provoked. Though circumstances sometimes force our hand." The Monster Slayer used her cider to help down the food. "Our quarry is more often the witless sort of monster, the kind that preys on folk: Drowned Ghouls, Ghouls, maddened Child Ghouls, Vargoyles, Short-coated Griffins, even Winged Sirens... and," she paused, letting the word hang, "men."

  Frantans drew a sharp breath. "Did you say... men?"

  "A jest," Irene said, her tight facial muscles managing something that might pass for a smile. The landlady let out a sigh of palpable relief.

  "I have encountered someone of your kind before," plump Frantans reminisced. "Once, Kadenford knew prosperity—though monsters plagued us then. I was but a girl, yet I recall the lord summoning a man bearing twin swords, much like yourself, to rid our city of the menace. He possessed snow-white hair and cat-like eyes—but if Monster Slayer is truly a profession, you two could scarcely be more different."

  Irene merely shrugged. "Not every Monster Slayer is cut from the same cloth. Besides, I've seldom crossed paths with others of the trade."

  "I heard he refused the contract upon learning it targeted a Naiad," the landlady recalled. "And thus the matter ended."

  "Naiads aren't monsters. They're merely elves with an affinity for lakes."

  Frantans shrugged indifferently. "Who concerns themselves with such distinctions when a purse of gold is offered?"

  Kitty, the buxom elder daughter, smoothed down her skirts and tied her kerchief, ready for the day's work. "Ma," she called, tugging along her younger sister, who was still licking her fingers. "I'm here to help."

  The girl's voice served as an unwelcome reminder—Frantans suddenly realized she'd forgotten to warn her daughter. "Well, well," Carnegie smirked, raising a hand in a vulgar salute. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of you for days, sweetling. Looks like that sickness finally passed, eh?"

  "I wasn't ill." Kitty directed a withering glare his way that would have frozen most men in their tracks. "Mother," she said accusingly, "what tales have you been spreading?"

  "Too late for that now." The landlady sighed heavily. "Help as needed, but maintain distance from Carnegie. Leave him to Lady Danwen—she knows how to manage his sort."

  Carnegie's gaze remained fixed on Kitty. As Lady Danwen poured his ale, the militia man brazenly grabbed her backside. Kitty responded with nothing but a frigid smile.

  Frantans gathered her younger daughter onto her lap. "Why," Irene inquired between mouthfuls, "did you fabricate an illness for your daughter to that man?"

  The younger girl made a greedy grab for a roasted potato on the table, but her mother stopped her hand. Still, Irene softly pressed the slice into the child's waiting palm.

  "That man's reputation is abysmal—in truth, few among them possess any redeeming qualities," Frantans explained with resignation. "The regular soldiers have all gathered at Hilltop Fort with Lord Penlico, leaving order in Kadenford to be maintained solely by the village militia. The monkeys now rule the trees—these men swagger through Kadenford daily, contributing less for their food and drink than you provided last night. As for that particular specimen—Carnegie—he becomes violent when intoxicated. Rumor suggests his wife vanished following one such episode. Mere gossip, perhaps, but I've witnessed his rages firsthand. The mere thought of my daughter serving his kind..." She poured herself a drink with trembling hands. "Sends ice through my veins."

  The Monster Slayer's chewing faltered. "Do you need him dealt with?"

  Plump Frantans nearly dropped her cup in alarm. "We could discuss compensation," Irene added flatly.

  The landlady clutched her child protectively to her bosom. "Fear not," Irene offered a stiff approximation of reassurance. "Merely another jest."