The long-haired Friez could feel his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. In raw strength, he was no match for Wenloff; in skill at arms, Wenloff surpassed him by leagues; and in sheer, brutal savagery, Wenloff was a master where he was but a novice. Perhaps only in trivial cunning might he claim some modest advantage. "Whether one constitutes an exception depends entirely upon the basis of comparison," he ventured, cobbling together fragments from half-remembered texts. "I cannot say if I represent any significant deviation among the Friez lineage, but I am certain that in the eyes of the ancient gods, none of us qualify as exceptional—we are merely undistinguished mortals all."

  He paused deliberately, awaiting some reaction. Irene offered absolutely none. She simply stood with arms crossed, her cornflower-blue feline eyes fixed upon him with unnerving intensity. Wenloff Friez lay motionless upon the blood-soaked earth.

  Gauner remained convinced the Monster Slayer intended his death. Gauner could not fathom whence the absurdly hopeful notion -- She might actually let me live -- had sprung. Was it merely because he had kept to his saddle, had not offered her blade or insult, and, crucially, had not personally struck down a single soul before her very eyes? The moment he recalled impaling a fleeing farmer with his lance in the tavern yard while she witnessed the act, he recognized the futility of mercy. "I recall an ancient proverb," he attempted his final gambit. "The gods judge not by deeds alone, but by the intentions harbored within."

  "I shall evaluate neither," Irene replied, her voice arctic, gaze incandescent. "But I will offer prayers on your behalf—that you might be spared eternal torment in Oris's infernal realm."

  Gauner's fingers instinctively drifted toward his sword hilt.

  "You are permitted to depart," Irene pronounced with measured deliberation. "But the Girl on a Lance remains."

  Gauner strove to maintain an outward show of calm, but beneath his Friez leathers, a river of cold sweat was already trickling down his spine. "My restraint stems not from your eloquent appeals, but from my current lack of weaponry."

  "Wenloff still wears his sidearm… a fine blade, by the looks of it…" The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he could have bitten off his own tongue for his folly. "I appreciate your thoughtful suggestion. However, I maintain a personal aversion to wielding another's steel."

  After a protracted hesitation, Gauner pulled gently on the reins, guiding his mount into a half-turn. As he prepared to depart, he cast a final glance backward, suspicion evident in his wary expression. "Relinquish your burden," the Monster Slayer reminded him with quiet authority. "Then ride beyond my sight and consideration."

  "With genuine pleasure. I never harbored any fondness for this... object." He released his grip. The girl—Nina—hung suspended for a heartbeat before crashing to the earth with sickening finality, raising a cloud of dust. The long-haired Friez dug his spurs into his mount's flanks and vanished beyond the tavern's wooden palisade.

  (It is done,) Irene thought, her gaze sweeping over the charnel landscape around her. (Not one Friez still draws breath. It is truly over.)

  Despite the continuing chorus of agonized screams and Godman battle cries reverberating from nearby, she could spare them no immediate concern. The Monster Slayer approached Nina—the bride-to-be, the Girl on a Lance—and tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. In her emotional devastation, she failed to notice how these tears were gradually losing their supernatural azure hue. Irene sank to one knee beside the violated girl and tried to draw out the brutal spear, but it was lodged too deep, its cruel head snagged fast against rib or sternum. "Monstrous bastards," she whispered, abandoning the futile effort and gently cradling Nina's head. "I am so sorry, little one," she murmured, and with infinite gentleness, her fingertips brushed across the girl's ravaged face, softly closing eyelids that were frozen wide in a final, silent scream of terror and unimaginable pain.

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  Irene turned toward the tavern, but after just a few faltering steps, her legs betrayed her completely. The extended, brutal combat had depleted her reserves entirely, and the rapidly fading effects of the Tears of Nira only accelerated her collapse. (Damn this weakness...) Her arms trembled uncontrollably as she attempted to push herself upright. (Overdosed on the elixir...) The pain was returning with savage intensity—particularly her wounded left ribs, a sticky, burning sensation as fresh blood welled forth. (Curse it all... curse...) Unable to stand, the Monster Slayer half-crawled, half-dragged herself toward the tavern entrance. The agony radiated outward, no longer limited to her injuries, but seemingly emanating from every muscle, every joint, every cell in her body. (Must... find somewhere... to sit... to rest...)She understood all too intimately the aftermath of this arcane concoction, especially when its enhancing properties dissipated completely.

  She recalled vividly how, years earlier, while Wilmeister slept, she had secretly consumed the potion to practice alone among the training posts near the castle walls. For the first quarter of that night, she had moved with transcendent grace, mastering techniques that had previously eluded her, her movements fluid and perfect. But throughout the remaining hours, she had lain immobilized atop those same wooden posts, weeping silently in excruciating pain beneath the indifferent stars. "I see you enjoyed a productive evening," Wilmeister had remarked at dawn, crouching beside her with knowing amusement. He had told her then that the Tears of Nira were a weapon of last resort, a desperate gambit for a Monster Slayer backed into a hopeless corner. Named for the goddess of the forge, this elixir could temporarily enhance one's reflexes, agility, strength, and other faculties to superhuman levels, but the consequences proved invariably severe. Indeed, to his knowledge, few Monster Slayers ever risked employing it in actual combat. The only widely recounted instance was that of old Labu Brad Udanus, a legend from the two-hundredth year of the Grand Era. At the ripe old age of one hundred and seven, whilst watering his faithful steed by a lonely riverbank, he was set upon by a ravening pack of thirty-two Drowned Ghouls. He had, it was said, resorted to the Tears. Though every ghoul perished in the ensuing battle, the aged Monster Slayer soon followed them into death, claimed by both grievous wounds and the potion's merciless toll.

  She managed to drag herself to the doorway, clutching desperately at the arrows embedded in the wood. The shafts cracked beneath her weight—after four consecutive failures, she abandoned the attempt. Irene collapsed against the door, which swung inward, depositing her unceremoniously upon the tavern floor.

  Emry the halfling stared at her prone form for several stunned moments before comprehension dawned. "You're wounded!" He scrambled toward her, anxiously examining her blood-soaked side, then her ashen, sweat-drenched face. "What must I do?" He spun in frantic circles, utterly adrift. "Please, miss, what action should I take?"

  "Help me... to a bench," the Monster Slayer gasped, each word requiring extraordinary effort.

  To describe his assistance as "helping" would strain generosity—the diminutive halfling could barely raise her arm, much less support her weight. And so, the wounded Monster Slayer was hauled across the filthy floorboards like a sack of grain, low moans of pain escaping her lips despite her every effort to stifle them. "My sincere apologies, miss." Emry eventually maneuvered her alongside a long wooden bench, and with her remaining strength, Irene hauled herself onto the seat.

  "What follows next? How might I assist you?" Emry practically danced with nervous agitation, stamping his feet. "Your bleeding continues unabated! Should I attempt to stanch the flow? By what method?"

  Irene murmured something barely audible.

  "I beg your pardon?" The halfling leaned precariously close. "What instruction did you impart? Please endure, miss! Tell me what you—"

  "I said be quiet," Irene managed, her voice fractionally stronger. Emry's mouth snapped shut immediately. "Forgive me. I'm simply overwhelmed with concern. I lack any relevant knowledge..."

  "Fetch me spirits."

  "Fetch you what?"

  "Alcohol."