"We were making south," Nate said, his brow furrowed in thought. "Then one of the dwarves... aye, Lord Green Varmint... he heard horses coming up behind and warned us all."

  The boy stole a quick glance at his mother, drawing courage from her slight nod. "Since we couldn't determine whether they were friend or foe, Lord Fendi decided that he and Lord Sorin would remain to confront the riders, while the rest of us concealed ourselves in the forest." The duke gestured for him to continue.

  "I couldn't rightly hear what they said..." the boy said, his brow tight with the effort of remembering. "Only that near the end... when the two Godman soldiers were making to help Lord Fendi and Lord Sorin onto their horses... they cut them down." A heavy silence descended.

  "And the dwarves who remained with your wagon—they went back to aid their companions?" The boy nodded solemnly.

  "Nate," Raveirmom Dear said, resting a reassuring hand on the child's shoulder. "Think hard, Nate. Was there anything about them that marked them as Godman soldiers? A badge, a device... like the Three Sacred Swords, perhaps?"

  Nate shook his head. "They did show a shield to Lords Fendi and Sorin. The emblem looked like... a white rose, I think." He glanced toward his mother uncertainly. "A white rose with something else atop it—though I couldn't discern it clearly, my lord," she added.

  "A white rose pierced by a lance?" "Yes, exactly! A lance!" The boy's expression brightened momentarily at the recognition.

  "House Duke..." Raveirmom stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I understand now."

  "So they truly were Godman soldiers?" the boy pressed anxiously. Upon receiving the duke's affirmation, tears welled in his eyes. "Then why would they kill the dwarves?!" "Nate!" his mother cautioned sharply. "Weren't they sent to help us?!"

  "Nate," the duke spoke with measured calm. "The original plan was mine. From the beginning, I intended for a Godman cavalry unit to escort the dwarves safely back to Crivi once their mission was complete. That intention never changed. However, complications arose. My error was entrusting the entire operation to Duke Duke, the current governor of Crividsylvan."

  "Duke Duke..." the woman whispered, unconsciously clutching the fabric of her skirt. "The same lord who summoned us alongside the dwarves?"

  "One and the same. My duties keep me at the war front, so I sent word to him by messenger, laying out my plans, my needs. He followed my commands... in his own way. So, the riders sent were his own men."

  "Are you suggesting..." the woman's voice trembled, "...that Lord Duke's riders not only failed to facilitate our evacuation, but deliberately murdered the dwarves?" Horror etched across her features as her hands clenched spasmodically before she self-consciously smoothed her skirt. Raveirmom Dear offered no contradiction. "And not merely the dwarves." The woman felt an icy chill trace down her spine.

  "I suspect you understand Duke Duke's motivation. The dwarves surely confided in you—their reward for this mission held profound implications for their entire race's standing. As Crividsylvan's governor, with aspirations to become Grand Duke, someone with Duke Duke's notorious hatred for humanoid races would never permit the dwarves to achieve their objective. I meant this as a chance for the dwarves of Crivi to win back their pride, their place..." The Duke let out a long breath. "And instead, I have sent them to their graves."

  The woman lowered her gaze, her thoughts turning inexorably to her family's precarious future. She recognized that the dwarves' aspirations had already dissolved into historical footnotes, their dreams extinguished beneath Godman oppression. Fear gnawed at her as she contemplated what fate might await her and her children following this conversation. If the commander before her harbored inclinations similar to Duke Duke's, perhaps she and her son would never again witness dawn's first light. Silently, she offered desperate prayers to the ancient Gods.

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  "Enough. I comprehend the situation fully." Raveirmom Dear's voice carried weighted gravity. "Now I must request your absolute discretion regarding this matter—specifically, the circumstances surrounding the dwarves' deaths at the hands of Duke Duke's men." His penetrating gaze assessed them both. "You surely appreciate the significance of this request, for the honor of Godma itself. I could, naturally, employ more definitive methods to ensure your silence—yet I am not inclined toward such unnecessary bloodshed. Moreover, you are not merely innocent bystanders, but heroes who facilitated the dwarves' successful breach of Cynthia's Wall." He noted the subtle shift in Nate's expression. "Therefore, I merely ask for your discretion. It is the minimal respect due to those who served faithfully." The woman murmured repeated thanks, addressing either the duke or the ancient deities—perhaps both. "Understand this: Duke Duke will not let this rest. His hounds will likely be loosed to find you. But if you hold your tongues, I will see you safe." Both mother and son indicated their solemn understanding.

  "Regarding the promise made to our dwarven heroes," Raveirmom continued, "I will personally ensure The Humanoid Act is suspended within Crivi's borders, even if temporarily. I do not break my pledged word—this much they have earned. As for yourselves," he addressed the woman directly, "what would you request as recompense for your participation? Forgive my oversight in considering only the dwarves' reward while neglecting our own people."

  The woman appeared startled by the question. "To be honest... we require nothing special..." "I want a new house!" Nate exclaimed impulsively. "A big house!" "Child!" his mother admonished, clearly mortified. "He speaks childish nonsense, my lord."

  "Very well then—a grand house shall be yours." He proceeded, ignoring their expressions of astonished delight. "Such accommodation should provide a superior existence for you, your son," his gaze shifted briefly, "and the infant you carry."

  "The other child?" the woman echoed, startled. "Oh... that one... she's not mine." The words were out before she could call them back.

  "Not yours?"

  "I mean... what I intended to say..."

  "The baby... Yes, I recall now. There was a Crivian woman among your party—a single mother with a newborn child. This must be her infant?"

  The woman recognized the futility of deception before this man. "Yes, my lord. This is indeed her child."

  "And where is this woman currently?" Raveirmom Dear inquired with evident concern. "I must speak with her. She too deserves recognition for her contribution to our cause."

  This moment represented the most critical juncture for the woman; never had she experienced such overwhelming pressure. She understood intuitively that her response would determine the fates of two distinct groups: her immediate family, and the memory of the dwarves. Fragments of that fateful night flashed through her consciousness. Nate observed his mother intently, somehow knowing her decision before she voiced it. "The young woman succumbed to dysentery during our journey," she stated with remarkable composure.

  "...Dysentery?" His gaze narrowed slightly.

  "Yes, my lord. Disease claimed her. By the time we reached Wyrm Ember with the second contingent, she had already passed."

  "The dwarves cared for her baby afterward," Nate added, recalling Toyef Bilinski's account from that night. "Only when we arrived did they entrust the infant girl to my mother's care."

  "...A profound tragedy. She might have shared in our imminent victory, enjoyed her well-earned rewards, and raised her child in comfort. May the radiance of the Three Sacred Swords illuminate her path even in the Underworld." He shook his head regretfully. "What of the child now? Are you willing to adopt her?"

  "I believe I can manage that responsibility, my lord."

  "Excellent." Raveirmom's attention shifted briefly to the sounds of assembly outside his tent. Rising to his feet, he continued, "I shall arrange appropriate accommodations. When the next supply convoy departs, you will be notified. I assure you," he promised the woman solemnly, "this time you will receive comprehensive protection—no harm shall befall you." Mother and son bowed deeply in gratitude. "Now, our assault against Cynthia commences shortly. Nate," he crouched to the boy's level, "would you care to observe the battle from our forward position?"

  Before the boy could voice his enthusiastic agreement, his mother interjected anxiously: "The frontlines are perilous, my lord!"

  "Merely the observation tower, madam. No danger will threaten him there." Seeing her son's barely contained excitement, she reluctantly acquiesced.

  Nate took a wife at twenty-one, welcomed a son at twenty-three, cradled a daughter at thirty-one, buried his beloved at thirty-six, and departed this world at fifty-eight. Even in his final hours, he enthralled his children with vivid recollections of that magnificent battle he had witnessed as a twelve-year-old boy—a dreamlike spectacle forever etched in his memory.