The thunder of many hooves approached the north gate of the fortress. Triumphant Fort, the ancestral seat of their house, stood sentinel at the very heart of Pafaheim City, scarce eleven hundred yards shy of Cynthia's imposing main bulwark. When selecting his design, the first Duke of Pafaheim had chosen a proper stronghold over the elegant manor houses favored by most Cynthian nobility—a pragmatic decision born of knowing that Pafaheim stood more vulnerable to enemy incursion than any other settlement in the realm. "Late as ever," Ricard Pafaheim called out jovially as he emerged from the corridor into the keep's garden, embracing a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested knight who had just dismounted with surprising agility for his bulk. "You've kept me waiting again, Pip," he added with a playful edge. "I nearly saddled up to face the Godmans myself out of impatience."

  "Then I would surely pray for your soul," Grand Pip boomed with laughter. "Pray those ancient bones of yours didn't crumble to dust before you even passed through Cynthia's Gate."

  "Your concern is touching, Berlid. Though if you squeeze any harder in greeting, I may well disintegrate right here in your arms."

  Another knight of equally imposing stature dismounted and approached Ricard. "Boy, I hope your embrace lacks your father's crushing enthusiasm." They shared a briefer hug. "It's been too long, Little Pip." Ricard Pafaheim appraised the young man, noting the vigor that radiated from him. "Grand Pip, Little Pip—identical names for identical father and son." His laughter rang across the courtyard. "It makes me wonder if I'd christened my own boy Ricard, would he have grown to be my mirror image?"

  "Not likely," Little Pip Berlid replied with a mischievous gleam. "I'm nothing like my father—he's the one who once had his posterior chased halfway across a meadow by a Child Ghoul."

  Ricard chuckled appreciatively. "Ah, that particular tale has graced my ears countless times."

  "Indeed," Grand Pip conceded with a rueful smile. "My son surpasses me in at least one arena—the fine art of mockery."

  Helmos Pafaheim finally appeared from behind his father. "Well met, lad." Grand Pip embraced him warmly. "You've grown considerably since our last meeting—taller and more solidly built."

  "A product of necessity," Lord Pafaheim replied with characteristic brevity. "In this place, even weeding the garden requires personal attention. The weak simply don't endure." Grand Pip shot Ricard an exaggerated grimace. "You see? Your boy's tongue is equally sharp."

  Then came Little Pip's turn. The two young men assessed each other briefly before exchanging a perfunctory embrace. "Brother." "Brother."

  "Escort Little Pip and his retinue to Sunset Hall for refreshment," Ricard instructed his son. "See to our guests properly. You understand when personal attention is warranted."

  Only Ricard and Grand Pip remained in the garden now, save for servants bustling about their duties. "Many years have passed," Ricard observed as he guided his old friend up the steps to the wall walk. "So many that I've lost count of the time since we last stood together." He gestured thoughtfully to his beard. "I recall it was merely this white then," he indicated with his hand. "Now it has advanced to this complete surrender."

  "Many years indeed," Grand Pip agreed, his gaze lingering on the worn stone steps with evident nostalgia. "The journey from Halfhill Fort down to Cynthia remains as treacherous as ever."

  "True enough. That accursed Monster Mountain crawls with abominations." Ricard nodded in understanding. "And I note your voice remains thunderous enough to make a man's ears throb."

  The count laughed good-naturedly. "A mountain dweller's necessity. In the desolate expanse of Kulen Mountain, a man's cries for help go unheard unless they shake the very stones."

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  "It's remarkable that you've journeyed to the capital without stopping here first."

  "Circumstances demanded haste. The queen's summons arrived with unexpected urgency. I scarcely paused for breath between Halfhill Fort and Cynthia Palace."

  "Indeed, everything accelerates. The Godman nature has always been plainly visible, yet we collectively averted our gaze." Duke Pafaheim surveyed the scattered dwellings beyond the wall, his imagination transforming each modest home designed for a family of three into the overcrowded shelters now housing upwards of thirty desperate souls. "How many men accompany you?"

  "Seventeen hundred. Fearing your modest fortress might strain to accommodate them, I've ordered the majority to establish camp beyond your walls."

  Ricard nodded in acknowledgment. "Your assessment is correct—Triumphant Fort cannot possibly shelter such numbers. I've already surrendered half the keep to farmers displaced from outlying homesteads. Though if memory serves, your command normally comprises a considerably larger force."

  "I've distributed troops liberally. Some here, others there. You understand the necessities."

  Indeed he did. For a time, neither man seemed eager to pursue further military discourse. "Age has marked you, Ricard," Grand Pip finally observed, breaking the comfortable silence. "I'd heard rumors that your appearances at court have grown even rarer than my own in recent years. I dismissed such talk initially, but now I see—time truly grants no exemptions."

  "During my last hunting expedition, a would-be bandit mistook me for some decrepit, doddering ancient. I sometimes wonder if his bones still rest at the bottom of the Doby Stream." Ricard Pafaheim's tone remained light despite the grim implication. "Yet it's not merely physical decline that keeps me from court. Regardless of age, I've never found comfort among the nobility when matters of state arise. Not from disdain or antipathy—I simply never felt I belonged in such circles. Whether formal court, royal council, or war deliberations, the sensation remains identical." He released a weary sigh. "After all these decades, I've finally accepted that I prefer the solitude of my chambers—immersed in books or testing my remaining vigor on the training grounds. The intricacies of courtly existence simply elude me."

  "I comprehend your sentiment," Pip Berlid replied thoughtfully. "For a considerable span, I believed such isolation constituted true contentment. Nevertheless, I consider it regrettable—a mind of your caliber absent from Cynthia's council chambers represents a genuine loss to the realm."

  Duke Pafaheim erupted in hearty laughter. "You've always possessed a silver tongue, brother. I've never considered myself particularly wise—my own son regards me as the most obstinate, foolish old timber in the forest. In truth, I have complete faith that the nobles currently guiding Cynthia's affairs possess ample wisdom for effective governance. My role is merely to execute their directives faithfully. Perhaps therein lies its own humble wisdom."

  "A comfortable existence inevitably breeds complacency, which inexorably leads to stagnation. My years sequestered in Halfhill Fort taught me this lesson thoroughly."

  "What precisely are you suggesting? That I've surrendered all ambition and vitality to comfortable routine?"

  Grand Pip faltered momentarily at Ricard's pointed inquiry. "Perhaps you've articulated my intended meaning more eloquently than I could have, Ricard." They entered a tower chamber, and Ricard dismissed the guards with a casual gesture. "I perceive now that what has truly aged you extends beyond mere chronology—it's the unchanging tranquility of your circumstances."

  Ricard Pafaheim retrieved two glass vessels and filled them with amber malt beer, maintaining complete silence throughout the process. Grand Pip Berlid suddenly wondered if his candor had caused offense. The duke slid one cup toward his guest before draining his own in a single, decisive swallow. "Your observation may hold merit," he acknowledged, surprising his companion. "I recognize the imprudence of indulging in spirits on the eve of potential conflict, but occasionally sampling forbidden pleasures causes minimal harm." He settled into a chair. "Time inevitably claims its due. However reluctantly I admit it, from the morning I awoke unable to recall the previous day's breakfast, I recognized that youthful vigor had abandoned me irrevocably." Ricard replenished his glass before continuing. "There is more than a kernel of truth in what you say. Since that… less than glorious… frontal assault by the Fullorens, Cynthia has indeed basked in too many years of unbroken peace. And the strangest thing, my friend… though the body withers, the memories remain sharp as new-honed steel. My father's chestnut charger, Duke Snit and his ill-fated brother Ludovico, the bloated corpses that bobbed like grotesque lilies upon the Doby Stream… all of it, as clear as if it were but yesterday."

  Grand Pip Berlid gazed into the golden depths of his untouched beer, his already somber brown eyes darkening further with evident regret. "I must apologize," he confessed softly. "I failed you all profoundly."