Ivan Northes kept his eyes closed, drawing a series of deep, deliberate breaths. Raymond Noytra and Kendrick Mackenzie haunted his every waking moment. Whether in blazing daylight or the depths of night, the instant his eyelids fell closed, their spectral forms materialized before him. (So this is death,) he silently acknowledged. (Sudden death.) Unheralded.

  "You look like a man consumed by fever, Papa Northes." The Grey Knight beside him delivered a sharp shove that nearly toppled him from his saddle. "If cowardice has taken hold, I possess the authority to send you back. But understand this—I command here, and I lead the vanguard, Ivan. There are sound reasons I've placed you at my back, commanding the first rank. You successfully delivered Duke Dear's correspondence to Crivi. I require Grey Knights of your exceptional caliber."

  "I am sound, Gloucester." Ivan methodically adjusted the buckles of his brigandine. "I trust I am equal to the task."

  "I shared that conviction previously, though now I harbor considerable doubt." Gloucester possessed a warrior's compact build, his jaw meticulously shaven, revealing no trace of stubble against his weathered complexion. "While this may not constitute a grand formation, it represents the spearhead of our siege assault—the most critical element of our strategy. Our offensive cannot be permitted to collapse, Ivan. Should we falter here, no subsequent force shall emerge to continue the fight."

  "Surely Duke Dear has not wagered all our hopes upon this single attack." Ivan Northes spoke with obvious uncertainty. "He must have devised contingency plans."

  Gloucester shook his head with grim finality. "In past campaigns, Raveirmom invariably maintained backup strategies—this much is true. However, this assault differs fundamentally from all previous operations. The siege presents unprecedented challenges, employing entirely untested tactical innovations. Should we fail here, insufficient time remains to organize another force of comparable strength. By the time we could regroup, the Cynthians will have thoroughly reinforced the West Wall breach. We would then face their complete military might."

  Ivan lapsed into troubled contemplation. "Do not permit the ghosts of the past to shackle your resolve," the formation commander counseled. "You comprehend precisely what I mean. Death is simply death—an omnipresent reality of warfare."

  "Yet I failed to return their remains to Godma for proper burial. I could not even fulfill that most fundamental duty to fallen comrades."

  "If I fall in the fray anon, my own corpse will be lost to the carrion birds and worms. The dream of bringing a fallen brother home to lie in hallowed ground is a comfort few soldiers can afford." Observing his companion's continued silence, Gloucester moderated his tone. "You still bear obligations to the living. Raymond and Mackenzie—their families await your return, expecting you to explain the circumstances of their deaths." Ivan acknowledged this with a solemn nod.

  "But that responsibility does not concern us now. Our immediate imperative demands complete focus upon this assault. Every thought, every breath must serve this single offensive. Victory or martyrdom—no other outcomes exist." Gloucester delivered a firm clap to Ivan Northes's armored back, the contact of steel gauntlet against mail producing a sharp, metallic ring. "Are you prepared for what lies ahead, Ivan Northes?" Ivan confirmed his readiness.

  "Excellent." Gloucester pivoted toward the waiting messenger. "Signal that the Seventh Formation stands ready for battle."

  Irene moved with a speed that defied belief, so swift that even Wenloff Friez, second son of the infamous House Friez, was left momentarily stunned. In the precise instant his words concluded, Irene's steel blade materialized from its scabbard, her left foot establishing a pivot point as she spun with lethal grace, opening the Sneering Friez's throat from ear to ear. No mortal eye could follow such celerity; even the Friez archers, bows already drawn, loosed their shafts a full two heartbeats too late. Their arrows flew wild and erratic; the Monster Slayer rotated her wrist with practiced fluidity, bisecting a shaft that would have struck near her feet. The Sneering Friez performed three complete revolutions before crashing to the earth. (Eleven remain.)

  "I warned you this woman meant trouble!" the long-haired Friez exclaimed in panic, struggling to draw his weapon while controlling his increasingly agitated mount. "Hold your nerve, Gouner! Stop whimpering like a green girl. Have you never tasted true battle before this?" Wenloff Friez calmly retrieved his long-hafted war axe from an attending squire, meeting Irene's luminous azure gaze with cold calculation. Those unearthly, azure tears continued to trace silent pathways down her stark white cheeks.

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  "Loose your arrows, damn you!" Gouner shouted at the retreating bowmen. "What delays your aim?!"

  The three surviving archers released their black-fletched shafts with renewed precision—this volley found its mark, three projectiles converging upon the Monster Slayer. (Flower Dance.) Gripping her sword in both hands, Irene rose onto the balls of her feet, her body a whirlwind of motion, each sweeping revolution of her blade sketching a deadly, silver circle in the air. It was a dance of breathtaking elegance, a lethal blossoming of steel. Every incoming shaft was shorn in two. (One barrage deflected.) She could perceive her heart's thunderous rhythm echoing in her ears. (The next exchange will demand everything I possess.)

  "A commendable flourish," Wenloff conceded, a hint of cold amusement in his voice. "Most artfully executed."

  The surviving Friez warriors advanced in crescent formation, systematically constricting her operational space. (The archers remain the primary threat.) Irene's gaze swept the approaching enemies with tactical assessment. The spearmen pressed closest, their extended reach providing lethal advantage. "Continue your exhibition," Wenloff commanded with mock courtesy. "I am most curious to observe how long this particular dance may last."

  She accepted his challenge with deadly grace. Among the four spearmen arrayed before her, Irene selected the warrior bearing his weapon at the highest angle as her unwitting partner. She began with the low, gliding steps of a tango, dipping beneath the tarnished point of his spear, then, with a predator's explosive surge, closed the distance under his guard to stand toe-to-toe. Before terror could fully register in his eyes, Irene drove her blade in a rising diagonal from lower left toward his exposed throat. The Friez stumbled back, his balance lost, and thus Irene's blade, meant for his throat, instead bit through the thin leather guarding his armpit and chest. With an agonized shriek, he abandoned his weapon and collapsed in convulsions.

  The spearman to her left immediately thrust forward; Irene's supernatural reflexes carried her back to her original position in a single fluid bound. She held her sword at the ready before her breast, blade angled downwards -- the classic guard of the Plow. Unlike conventional swordsmen, she refrained from adjusting her footwork—her combat space had compressed to absolute limits. A single step toward the tavern's wooden wall meant certain death.

  Three spearmen advanced with methodical precision. The long-haired Friez observed with evident anxiety, while Wenloff maintained an expression of casual interest. He gestured for the archers to withhold their shots. "Allow them to finish her properly," Gouner muttered with impatience. "We waste precious time—this decrepit tavern has detained us far too long already." Wenloff provided no acknowledgment. Gouner released an exasperated sigh. "You invariably make such declarations. This is not some arena spectacle." "Do you not wish to observe human behavior when pressed to absolute extremity?" Wenloff inquired with detached curiosity. "Particularly that of a female. Besides," he added with casual cruelty, "those women in the arena invariably met their doom regardless."

  Relentless pressure forced her retreat until her heel contacted the wall's rough timber. (Damnation.) It was the spearman to her left again, the hulking brute with the face of a gargoyle beneath his dented helm, who launched himself at the Monster Slayer in a reckless, all-out charge. Irene anticipated his movement pattern, sidestepping left with perfect timing. His spear embedded itself deep in the wooden wall. Seeing her opening, Irene lunged, seeking to press her advantage. But the brute, with surprising presence of mind, abandoned his embedded spear and wrenched a short sword from his belt, lashing out at her with a flurry of wild, desperate cuts. Irene was compelled to alter her stance, deflecting his frenzied assault until his momentum betrayed him, allowing her to drive her point through his midsection. Before she could extract her weapon, searing heat blazed across her right flank—a spear had opened a significant gash.

  Yet Irene experienced no pain whatsoever. The Tears of Nira not only numbed physical trauma but caused even potentially fatal wounds to cease bleeding instantaneously. She continued weeping those supernatural azure tears as she wrenched her blade free from the dying man's flesh.

  "Run her through!" a crop-haired archer bellowed encouragement. The spearman whose attack had drawn blood pressed his advantage with renewed aggression, advancing steadily. As he approached the window opening, a wooden barrel exploded outward from within the tavern, striking his skull with devastating force. His helmet flew away in pieces; clutching his bloodied scalp, he staggered in excruciating agony. Irene seized this golden opportunity, stepping forward to deliver a precise cut across his vulnerable throat. The final spearman began his retreat.

  He appeared oblivious to the source of his mortal danger. Roche the dwarf vaulted through an adjacent window with surprising agility, burying his hand axe deep in the spearman's exposed neck. The three remaining archers frantically nocked fresh arrows. "Ah," observed Wenloff's hulking lieutenant with cold amusement, "now we have acquired a dwarf as well."

  "Make that two dwarves," Banli announced boldly, materializing at the tavern's main entrance. "We refuse to permit her to face you worthless scum without proper support."