Riveper Friez departed amid roaring acclaim. As the Friez contingent melted away, a chill settled over the assembly. Carl's legs had grown numb from standing, and a disturbing notion gnawed at his mind—an unwelcome urge to embrace that brilliant, horrifying oration. "Pure horseshit," Tyler Wynlers jabbed his companion with an elbow. "Only a lunatic talks like that. What's truly damned is that I can't even articulate why it's so deranged."

  Before Tyler could ask more, a growing clamor nearby drew their attention. Devalosfang Dear was still absent; this noisy welcome was for the commander of the neighboring composite company. A young nobleman strode onto the platform, dressed more for a royal court than a battlefield, hands clasped behind him, his bearing radiating smug self-assurance.

  "Monster," someone muttered. "The whole monster family," Carl corrected quietly. "Not a decent soul in the lot."

  Devalosfang Dear mounted the platform, his hair disheveled as though he'd been dragged from his bedroll. The entire address proceeded with lackluster energy; clearly, after Riveper Friez's masterful indoctrination, the Seventh Composite Company had lost its appetite for military platitudes. But the crucial shift arrived with startling abruptness. "Several additional points require clarification," he cleared his throat. "There will be no slaughter of civilians."

  "What?!" Confusion rippled through the ranks. "No killing of civilians—let me reiterate," Devalosfang pronounced each syllable with deliberate clarity. "We are not barbarians—we are disciplined soldiers."

  "Interesting coincidence. Someone just used almost those exact words, except he permitted—no, encouraged—us to butcher civilians."

  The captain's head snapped toward the speaker. "Where did you hear such filth?"

  "Riveper Friez."

  "Of course. Who else." He addressed the soldier directly: "I don't care how persuasive his reasoning or how eloquent his rhetoric in justifying the murder of innocents—I reject it absolutely. This is my company, and in my company, civilian slaughter is forbidden. That is a direct order. Furthermore," he seemed to fully awaken at last, "any Cynthian soldier who surrenders his weapon will be treated as a prisoner of war. Is that perfectly clear?"

  "He claimed even honorable men should follow his guidance, because—"

  "Any truly honorable man would have slapped that Friez across his damned face the moment such obscenities left his mouth!" Devalosfang's spittle flew with his fury. "If you find his ravings so compelling, transfer to his company immediately. In this unit, you will obey my commands. Understood?!"

  The soldier grunted, clearly displeased.

  After that outburst, even Devalosfang lost track of his own speech. The name "Friez" spiraled through his thoughts, squeezing out reason, crushing logic, leaving only simmering rage. Only when he saw the assembly dispersing did he realize he'd thoroughly botched the address. "Madmen, the lot of them," he muttered, jumping down from the platform.

  "Pay their ravings no mind," Tyler Wynlers hailed him. "Captain."

  "Ah, Tyler. And Carl. Hope you enjoyed the… performance."

  "We wouldn't follow a single word of Friez's doctrine—you know that better than anyone."

  "Yes," he sighed, gazing skyward. "That I do know."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Carl Clawyn abruptly interjected, "Someone described us as mere gambling chips—what exactly did he mean?"

  "Who told you this?!"

  "The white-haired knight. In our company."

  "Jess Hilton." The captain nodded knowingly. "Always the mystic, that one."

  "He called us 'variables in the equation,' claimed we're ultimately expendable, like tokens in a game of chance."

  Devalosfang draped his arms across their shoulders. "Listen carefully. The truth is, he's not entirely wrong. We harbor significant doubts about breaching Cynthia's western wall, even with dwarven assistance—a sentiment I believe you both share."

  "Aye, that we do," Tyler agreed grimly.

  "Yet Raveirmom insists on this elaborate forest march to the western wall because, regardless of whether the 'trebuchet' strategy succeeds, our diversionary presence here serves a purpose. Raveirmom's primary target has always been the main gate; both he and I believe only a direct assault there can secure Cynthia. This isn't mere misdirection. For the Cynthians, whose nerves are stretched taut, their walls represent both their ultimate security and their greatest vulnerability. Our assault here, successful or not, applies psychological pressure—a slow-acting poison of anxiety. We've transported considerable siege equipment and tunneling implements. Beyond potentially exploiting breaches created by the dwarves' bombardment, or initiating subterranean approaches should the wall remain intact, these preparations inspire terror among Cynthia's defenders. The grand strategy aims to fragment their defensive concentration."

  "So we were never truly the 'army of hope'? Not the vanguard destined to breach Cynthia's defenses?"

  "That depends entirely on whether those dwarves exceed our expectations." Devalosfang managed a thin smile. "Keep these insights private—most of our soldiers believe themselves Raveirmom's handpicked elite, his 'force of destiny.' I've no desire to undermine their determination. Nevertheless, we maintain constant readiness. Sometimes opportunity arrives with unexpected speed—we must be prepared to seize such moments..."

  A shattering CRASH echoed, followed instantly by that same monstrous bellow.

  Devalosfang Dear's smile evaporated instantly. "Opportunity has arrived."

  Pain throbbed through his lower abdomen. Lannord rolled onto his side, but the discomfort persisted undiminished. "Up," a voice commanded, seemingly from a great distance. "Up with you, you swine."

  "Wolf," he corrected groggily.

  Stellan delivered a vicious kick to his stomach, forcing his eyes open. "We're under attack, and here you lie, snoring like a hibernating bear."

  "Attack?" He bolted upright. "Impossible. I detected no—"

  "Not our camp being attacked. Cynthia."

  "Oh." His expression remained vacant. "Let them conduct their assault, then. Direct confrontation falls under Cynthian military jurisdiction."

  "It's the wall they're attacking."

  Lannord donned his cloak with remarkable speed.

  "The western wall." Lothar swept aside the map markers with an impatient gesture, jabbing his finger repeatedly at various locations. "The disturbance originates from the western wall. They may have already breached our defenses, leaving us no alternative but to engage them directly beyond the wall perimeter."

  "How could they breach--? No. How are they trying to breach it?"

  "A disturbance of such magnitude suggests either a trebuchet or..." Stellan hesitated, "magic. For now, let's assume the former. If," he arranged several pieces strategically across the map, earning a disapproving glance from Lothar, "they intend to strike the western wall with precision, the Godmans must have positioned their siege engines within the West Wymar Forest."

  "Brilliant deduction," Lannord muttered sarcastically.

  Stellan continued, impervious to the jibe. "The Wymar Forest's dense canopy offers limited suitable locations for massive siege equipment, particularly if accuracy is paramount. Only a single location satisfies all requirements."

  "Wyrm Ember," Lannord concluded with grim certainty.

  The Shadowgreen Knights ultimately divided their forces. With fewer than seventeen hundred men at his disposal, Lothar felt the acute disadvantage of their numerical inferiority. "Your theory had better prove correct, Stellan," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Kelly," he instructed the knight at his side, "take two hundred men and reconnoiter the Wyrm Ember vicinity. Your primary objective is locating and destroying any siege engines—assuming they exist. If you encounter nothing of significance, return to camp immediately... Should we engage the Godman forces, your reinforcement will prove essential."