The Friez warriors beyond the windows, observing the renewed silence within the tavern, grew increasingly restless and unleashed a chorus of primitive, savage howls. The howls were short, sharp, and forceful, their tempo quickening, weaving a suffocating tapestry of mounting tension and dread. The bald farmer, overwhelmed by panic, stumbled over a toppled chair and sent a table crashing to the floor, scattering crockery in all directions. The Friez erupted in satisfied, predatory laughter.

  "Well now, Master Monster Slayer," the fat farmer ventured, a tremor of fear in his own voice, "can you deal with them? I mean, just hold them off long enough for us to spirit the women away?"

  "Might there be tunnels beneath this place?" Banli grasped at his final thread of hope. "We have a cellar, aye, but it's a dead end," Frantans stated, her words a pinprick to their ballooning hopes, delivered with weary finality.

  Roche the dwarf opened his mouth to speak, then chose instead to await Irene's response.

  "Do you wish me to kill them?" she asked with clinical detachment. "No—I don't want you taking lives, Irene," Frantans interjected hastily. "Though I confess I can conceive no alternative solution."

  "Did you not see what they did to Carnegie and Danwen? They are our foes, these damned Godmans, these cursed Friez! Of course I wish them all dead, every last one of them, down to the deepest pit of hell!" the fat farmer declared with desperate urgency, terrified she might reconsider.

  "Then," Irene inquired with professional gravity, "you are formally commissioning my services?"

  "What precisely do you mean?"

  "We Monster Slayers operate exclusively upon contractual agreement."

  Understanding flickered in the fat farmer's eyes. "Ah! Yes, Master, you speak true. This is my commission to you. Given these desperate straits, the matter of payment can wait until this... unpleasantness is concluded."

  The female Monster Slayer nodded with formal acknowledgment. "And the task, then, is the extermination of the monsters outside this tavern, is that correct?"

  "…Yes, precisely. The monsters outside this tavern. If it can be done, slay every last one of them."

  "The terms are understood." Monster Slayer Irene methodically adjusted her leather harness, ensuring both sword hilts were properly secured across her back. (Precisely so,) she reflected grimly. (They possess human faces, human flesh, yet they are not human.) Her gaze drifted one last time to the abomination that was the 'Girl on a Lance', and an uncontrollable tremor, born of a white-hot fury, coursed through her entire being. (Whether they have shed their humanity, or if humanity itself can curdle into such a grotesque form, I cannot say. This much I know: they are not men. Not in any sense that matters. They are naught but monsters, no different, in essence, from ghouls or Drowned Ghouls. Nay--they are worse, far worse.)

  "Reconsider this course," Roche implored earnestly. "The dwarf speaks wisdom, miss," Banli concurred. "Even a Monster Slayer cannot prevail against such overwhelming numbers."

  "This represents our sole viable option." She pivoted to face them. "This is the only path that doesn't end with all our deaths. For someone like me, the location of my demise holds no significance. But you—you are different." A humorless smile touched her lips, a thing of such poignant beauty it twisted like a knife in the heart of every soul who beheld it. "In this world, there must always be something… something worth fighting to preserve."

  "But that burden need not be yours," Frantans said, her voice gentle with sorrow. "You could walk away with us. Now. This very instant. Flee through that door and commend your soul to Goria."

  "Sister, like." The words rang out with crystalline childish clarity. Kitty stared at her younger sibling in astonishment. Her sister, not yet two years old, frequently uttered those simple words, but now her intended recipient was unmistakably Irene. "Sister, like."

  Irene averted her face, concealing the moisture gathering at her eyes. So few words, yet they clawed at memories she had consigned to the deepest, darkest mire of her soul, memories deliberately entombed fourteen winters past. "Depart now," she commanded with steadying breath. "Mister Roche, I entrust them to your protection."

  "Rest assured," the fat farmer chimed in, his voice oozing false reassurance. "I shall personally see to their every need and safety."

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  After receiving confirmation from both Roche and Banli, the Monster Slayer advanced steadily toward the main entrance. "Miss Irene," Roche called after her. "Are you truly resolved to pursue this course?"

  Irene offered no response, continuing her measured approach to the door.

  "Well, well." The sneering Friez beyond the threshold bared yellowed teeth, observing Irene's emergence. "I was wondering what grand stratagem you lot were hatching in there, quaking for so long, and here you send out a wench as your first offering." He leaned his weight on the steel sword he'd thrust into the earth, his eyes raking over the female Monster Slayer from head to toe in a lewd, appraising sweep. "Rather pleasing to the eye, Wenloff. Though she bears implements no proper woman should possess."

  "And what game do you play, little bird?" the long-haired Friez drawled, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Not going to invite us in for a taste of your ale, then?"

  Irene maintained absolute silence, her gaze methodically cataloguing each Friez warrior. (Twelve in total,) she counted with professional precision. (Therefore Carnegie and Danwen accounted for two.)

  The sneering Friez's expression soured. "What is there to stare at, you slut?" Seeing the unnerving stillness in Irene's demeanor, his own bravado began to fray. "What scheme are you contemplating?"

  The Monster Slayer calculated tactical priorities. (The archers must be neutralized first,) she analyzed each footman's equipment with practiced eyes. (Among the remaining forces, only four bear bows upon their backs.) Her focus settled upon the sneering Friez. (Their formation is dispersed, maintaining considerable distance. However, if I eliminate the nearest target first, the Flower Dance technique should enable me to evade three, possibly four arrows from the remaining archers.) "Answer me, woman—are you deaf or perhaps struck mute?" The sneering Friez drew his gore-encrusted blade. "Perhaps instruction in proper Friez etiquette would prove educational."

  "I am here to see a contract fulfilled." Her Common flowed, measured and clear.

  "A contract?" The sneering Friez hesitated momentarily. "Explain this meaning."

  Irene withdrew a glass vial from her right hip, containing luminescent blue liquid that seemed to pulse with inner light. "The citizens of Kadenford have retained my services—to exterminate all monsters currently infesting the vicinity of their tavern." She removed the cork stopper and consumed the contents with the casual ease of someone drinking wine. "What in all the hells are you swilling down now, bitch?!" The sneering Friez leveled his sword at Irene, while a few of the archers nervously fumbled with their bowstrings. "An alchemical draught." Wiping a stray azure droplet from her lips with the back of her hand, her voice became a low, strained whisper. The empty vial slipped from her fingers, shattering upon the ground. Irene collapsed to her knees, her body wracked with violent tremors, features contorting in apparent agony. "Tears of Nira."

  The sneering Friez maintained his weapon's ready position but refrained from approaching; some primitive instinct warned him this woman had become exceedingly dangerous. Irene pressed both palms against the earth, saliva trailing from her lips to pool beneath her. Wenloff watched with cold, reptilian indifference, passing the 'Girl on a Lance' to a nearby rider without a word. (Gods, the pain.) She bit down so hard on her lip she tasted blood, as the agony, a searing inferno, ignited in her lower belly and spread like wildfire through every fiber of her being. (Endure this, Irene. The transformation will conclude momentarily.) She felt her core organs burning with supernatural fire, the intensity exceeding her most severe menstrual agony by orders of magnitude.

  The sneering Friez watched the Monster Slayer's apparent suffering with growing amusement. "I remain ignorant of your beverage choice," he taunted with malicious glee, "but presently you resemble nothing more than a bitch in heat." Irene emitted a low, animalistic groan. Azure veins suddenly became visible along her throat, pulsing momentarily before vanishing completely.

  "I claim this female," Wenloff Friez announced with proprietorial authority, gazing down upon her diminished form. "I wish to see her suffer. I will break her, piece by piece, until her screams are ten times more wretched than the pathetic whimpers she utters now. And when I am done, I will have her head." His attendants exchanged uneasy glances and swallowed hard; they all knew precisely what foul use he had in mind for Irene's head. Or, to be more precise, for her mouth and throat.

  "Wenloff," the long-haired Friez observed, studying the crossed sword hilts visible across Irene's back. "She bears twin blades—possibly indicating Monster Slayer training. Such individuals typically prove exceptionally hazardous."

  "Alternatively, she could be merely a common thief," the sneering Friez suggested dismissively. "Seduce a pair of soldiers, pilfer their weaponry, then profit handsomely in black market transactions."

  The Monster Slayer's labored breathing gradually stabilized. "Torturing a female Monster Slayer holds a certain… appeal. As does defiling that cursed mouth and throat of hers until they are naught but ruined flesh," Wenloff mused, his voice a silken rasp of cold sadism. "I have decided—this woman belongs to me." The long-haired Friez averted his gaze, recognizing the futility of opposing Wenloff's determination.

  "This will be the last, and gravest, mistake you ever make." The voice that answered was hollow, resonant, not entirely her own.

  "What did you say?" Wenloff's attention sharpened upon Irene.

  "Nothing of consequence." Monster Slayer Irene braced herself upright, slowly raising her transformed visage. Her once cornflower-blue eyes now pulsed with an unnatural, inner luminescence, the pupils narrowed to black, predatory slits, like those of a hunting cat. Down her pale cheeks, tears the color of lapis lazuli traced glistening trails.

  "Monsters," she purred, her voice now a low, silken drawl imbued with an unearthly resonance. "Now… it is time to dance."