"It was not your doing, lad. The fault is not yours to bear." The Duke of Pafaheim, with a sigh, wiped a fleck of ale from his silvered beard with the back of a weathered hand. "The one who was late was your father, Pip... Ah yes, you share the same name. But regret serves no purpose now. My father perished in that campaign, as did Ludovico. Even then I understood—there is no single party to condemn, no individual to shoulder the blame. The failure stemmed from our collective inadequacy. I never sought to assign culpability, so you too should cast aside this burden of guilt."

  "Perhaps you alone think thus," Grand Pip replied, setting down his empty cup and reaching for the bottle. "Young Edmund has never forgiven, never forgotten his uncle's end. To this very day, in the King's own court, he takes every chance to remind me of the shame he believes House Berlid cast upon the name of Cynthia in the disastrous Battle of the Doby Stream."

  "I comprehend why he and his late father remain fixated on that engagement. House Pafaheim has dwelled in Pafaheim since time immemorial. Before the emergence of the Shadowgreen Knights, we constituted Cynthia's primary bulwark. Given that reality, had I fallen on the banks of the Doby Stream, I would have merely fulfilled my sworn obligation. But Snit's position was fundamentally different, Pip. House Snit bore no inherent duty to stand with us in battle. They mobilized solely to supplement your family's forces. Consider poor Ludovico, wrenched from his tranquil existence by his elder brother's summons, compelled to don armor and march to war. The unfortunate soul had scarcely announced his betrothal—who knows when he had last wielded a blade in earnest?"

  "I understand completely. That is precisely why I seek redemption—for my father's actions, for my house's grievous missteps..." Pip Berlid paused, searching for the right words. "To make amends for all that transpired."

  "When flesh returns to earth, only bones endure," Ricard Pafaheim quoted, his voice taking on the lilting cadence of ancient elven verse. "You cannot rectify the past, nor should you attempt such folly. Your responsibility lies with the future—Godma's or Cynthia's, you must choose which path to serve. But atonement manifests in myriad forms. You need not disperse your forces or perish in a suicidal frontal charge. There exist countless means to serve Cynthia—for instance, fortifying the Throat Road with overwhelming force, ensuring not a whisper of Godman breath passes through that vital artery."

  "The Godmans might not make a beeline for the Throat Road. Every omen, every scrap of intelligence, points to them hurling their full might against Cynthia's walls, prepared to pay any butcher's bill. That is why I left but a token force to hold Halfhill Fort and marched the bulk of my men here with all haste. I live in dread of being too late, Pip, as our fathers were, all those eighty bitter years ago."

  "Gamma Hill scarcely offered a more advantageous position than your current Halfhill Fort."

  "In truth, Halfhill Fort represents the greater challenge," Grand Pip observed. "I initially presumed the journey from Halfhill to the Doby Stream would prove more expeditious than from our ancestral holdings at Gamma Hill. However, after numerous descents, I've discovered the difficulty of descending from Halfhill vastly exceeds the simple act of marching through Cynthia's gates."

  "I've maintained for decades that Kulen Mountain remains fundamentally uninhabitable. That conviction stands unshaken." The Duke of Pafaheim shook his head with grim certainty. "I've encountered the ghouls that infest those heights—each twice the size of their counterparts in Cynthia's outskirts. A single mountain ghoul matches two from the lowlands."

  "It is indeed no ordinary mountain. Otherwise, the ancient elves would never have bestowed upon it the name 'Monster Mountain.'"

  "That you have managed to carve out an existence at Halfhill Fort for all these turning seasons earns my deepest respect, Pip. I confess, such a life would break me."

  "If," he remarked thoughtfully, "Kulen Mountain were not the forbidding realm it is, King Sanolint would never have selected it as my father's place of exile. Life becomes tolerable through acclimation—particularly regarding phenomena that would horrify lowlanders. I've long since grown accustomed to such terrors."

  "Even being pursued by a Child Ghoul?"

  "Indeed, even that." Earl Berlid's lips curved into a wry smile. "Though you'll recall, I ultimately prevailed in that encounter."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Ricard Pafaheim leaned back in his chair and released a resonant belch. "I would greatly appreciate hearing those tales in their entirety, should opportunity permit."

  "Certainly." He took another contemplative sip. "Child Ghouls represent merely one facet of the mountain's denizens—numerous other peculiar entities dwell in those heights."

  "I imagine such accounts would prove most captivating."

  "Indeed they would, indeed they would."

  Silence descended, punctuated only by the occasional sound of drinking.

  "I understand Kadenford's walls have suffered a significant breach," Ricard Pafaheim observed, replacing the bottle's stopper with deliberate precision.

  "That is correct." Grand Pip pushed his cup aside with finality. "Sir Penlico has already departed with reinforcements."

  "Does his son maintain the garrison at Hilltop Fort?"

  "Yes. Shawn commands the Penlico forces defending Kadenford, though their numbers are modest. I've allocated a contingent to support his father, and the queen herself has joined the expedition."

  "The queen?" The Duke of Pafaheim raised his head sharply. "She has personally gone to the front?"

  "Indeed. Most remarkably, she has forsaken court dress in favor of battle mail."

  "Ah, well, she has the blood of Alaxia in her veins, does she not? With such Argonian lineage, her warrior spirit is hardly a shock. Yet, it means our own burdens grow heavier still. Before the Queen returns to us, she must find Pafaheim held fast by Cynthian hands, not overrun by the Godman wolves."

  "Precisely why I stand before you now." Grand Pip thumped his armored chest with conviction. "Kadenford's fate hangs in precarious balance. Pafaheim absolutely must not fall. I need to understand your strategic conception, Ricard."

  Ricard Pafaheim contemplated briefly before sweeping the silver serving tray aside, leaving only a few drinking vessels arranged before them. "We shall reserve detailed discussion for the war council—for now, a general outline must suffice." He manipulated the cups into a rough approximation of positions. "We will permit the Godmans to initiate hostilities. Our limited forces preclude effective control of territories distant from our primary fortifications. According to the Shadowgreen Knight's final intelligence report—may the gods preserve those valiant souls—Ronnar and the Sida district have fallen almost entirely into enemy hands. Only Wafflo remains partially under our control, with modest troop presence and reasonably effective defensive emplacements. Though Godman forces have begun penetrating Wafflo's perimeter, I believe their primary concentration will materialize at the border between Sida and Wafflo. The accuracy of this assessment shall become immediately apparent once we ascend the walls for observation."

  "I concur with your analysis."

  "Our total defensive force amounts to approximately fifteen thousand combatants, including your contribution." Grand Pip Berlid nodded solemnly. "Merely one-tenth of Cynthia's theoretical military capacity." "Precisely," Ricard Pafaheim continued, "After accounting for siege engine operators and essential logistical personnel, we can field perhaps thirteen thousand effective fighters in Wafflo and Pafaheim combined—predominantly infantry formations."

  "The Godmans likely face similar compositional constraints—infantry constituting their majority force."

  "That may well be true, but do not for a moment forget, Pip," the Duke Pafaheim said, his voice hardening, "that the Godman army arrayed beyond our gates numbers some three hundred and twenty thousand strong. And that, mark you, is a conservative reckoning. Their reinforcements arrive with a speed that chills the blood, leading one to suspect they have yet more legions lurking in the shadows of Wymar Forest."

  "Three hundred and twenty thousand," Grand Pip repeated, the enormity of the figure requiring verbal affirmation. "Three hundred and twenty thousand."

  "Exactly so. Their cavalry contingent alone may exceed our entire combined force in numerical strength."

  "Such overwhelming disparity renders conventional resistance virtually impossible." Duke Berlid exhaled deeply. "Fifteen thousand against three hundred thousand."

  "That figure represents their aggregate strength," Ricard clarified. "The Godman command will not commit their entire force in a single assault—particularly given the questionable likelihood of initial success. My estimation—and I emphasize this remains personal conjecture—suggests their first wave will comprise between thirty and fifty thousand combatants."

  "Your assessment presupposes their initial attack represents merely a probing action?"

  "Precisely. And I consider such an assumption entirely reasonable. The Godmans lack practical experience assaulting Cynthian fortifications and possess limited intelligence regarding our defensive capabilities. Their first wave will inevitably serve as reconnaissance in force. Any commander possessing rudimentary tactical acumen would adopt identical methodology."

  "A sound analysis in general terms," Grand Pip Berlid observed, his brow furrowing. "However, should they fail to achieve rapid, decisive penetration, the strategic advantage gained through the western wall breach may prove largely squandered."