"I still cannot fully comprehend why the Gambril Oathsworn would pledge their blades to Cynthia's cause," Blake Barinder remarked, signaling the lead knight beside him to quicken their pace. "I've encountered mercenary companies of every size and reputation—nearly all fight exclusively for coin. They gravitate toward whoever offers the highest purse, frequently changing allegiance even mid-contract. A company with your illustrious reputation must surely have attracted Godma's attention."

  "Your assessment is entirely accurate, Blake. Emperor William Davidow indeed attempted to secure our services—offering more than triple your kingdom's price."

  "Then what compelled you to choose Cynthia?"

  "Because," Gamlin said, his face alight with a fierce pride, "not all sellswords live and die by the clink of coin. We of the Gambril Oathsworn fight for justice. We fight in righteous wars. It is the only way." He pounded his chest resolutely, visibly satisfied with his pronouncement. Blake showed little surprise at this explanation, yet inquired nonetheless, "Does wealth truly hold no significance for your company?"

  "It matters—naturally it matters. In truth, our services command considerable expense. Without such compensation, how would we sustain our kinfolk? However," he emphasized, "above material concerns stands justice. Consider the conflict between Godma and Cynthia—even if it necessitates leaner meals and simpler garments, we would invariably support your cause."

  "For such principles, I offer my profound gratitude, Gamlin." Blake's smile radiated genuine warmth. "Yet I wonder—how do you determine which cause embodies justice? Having participated in countless campaigns throughout your history—can you truly assert that every banner you've followed represented righteousness?"

  "We cannot make such a claim." The dwarf's forthright admission caught Blake unprepared. "Every warrior has his own compass for what is just—how he sees it, how he tells right from wrong. We typically resolve our participation through voting procedures—though not through universal suffrage, which would prove both foolish and inefficient. The senior officers meet, we argue the points, and we vote. We decide which side holds the cause of justice, and then we give that cause our swords. However—" His voice carried a weighty inflection, laden with an emotion difficult to precisely identify. "We have occasionally erred in judgment, a fact I freely acknowledge. During the southern territorial disputes, we once served the Godman forces. In retrospect—an egregious misjudgment."

  "Davidow has systematically absorbed every neighboring state within his reach..." Blake exhaled contemplatively. "His dominion now exceeds even the Ptolemaick Dynasty at its zenith."

  "Territorial expansion represents the aspiration of every crowned head—not my primary concern. What truly provokes our revulsion toward Godma is their approach to warfare. They slaughter not only surrendered prisoners—but also massacre civilians, women, and infants. Their barbarism isn't about killing soldiers; it's about erasing people from a ledger. They aren't taking lives, they are simply subtracting numbers. It sickens me, because it reminds us of... of our own past."

  "What precisely do you mean—reflections upon yourselves?" Gamlin offered no further elaboration. He flicked his beard decisively; ornamental silver rings produced a melodious chime. Then with surprising agility, he sprang from the saddle. They had reached the city outskirts—unpaved terrain—and the uneven ground caused the dwarf to momentarily lose balance upon landing. Blake raised his hand in a silent command. The knights immediately reined in their mounts.

  "HALT!" Gamlin's commanding voice resonated with gravelly authority. The dwarf-warriors ceased their battle chant instantaneously. "COMPANY—HALT!" The rhythmic marching terminated with military precision. The dwarf approached a whitewashed dwelling, positioned his hands assertively on his hips, and inhaled deeply, preparing to demand entry. Before he could vocalize, he noticed a small head at the window—a boy. Gamlin locked eyes with the child, his slightly cross-eyed gaze conveying a wordless command to open the door.

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  The portal swung inward to reveal a young girl, with the boy clutching her skirt from behind—his height reaching only to her posterior.（ Ha! Shorter than me, ）Gamlin thought, and a victorious smile broke across his face.

  "Sir," the girl initiated the conversation. Her face was liberally adorned with freckles. One hand braced against the doorframe; the other protectively shielded the boy peering cautiously from behind her. "Are you... the reinforcements we've been awaiting?"

  A standard-bearer hastily elevated the battle colors—having previously secured the weighty banner to his saddle for convenience. "Indeed we are. Reinforcements—straight from Godma." Gamlin couldn't resist the sardonic jest.

  "You have a sharp tongue, Master Dwarf," the girl said, her eyes unmoved. She had already seen the banner—the bobtail lion of Cynthia's royal house.

  "True enough, lass. Humor has become a scarce commodity these days." Gamlin absently scratched the back of his head. Whenever his caustic remarks failed to elicit the intended reaction, he invariably became awkward—and prone to irritation.

  "I implore you, Master Dwarf—help us," the girl beseeched, her eyes conveying desperate supplication. "They've already breached the city—the Godmans."

  "I'm well aware, lass. But I must first ascertain their advancement. Can you provide such information?" She glanced meaningfully at the boy sheltering behind her. "Or perhaps your son possesses knowledge that might assist us?"

  "He is my brother, sir."

  "Ah—forgive my imperfect vision." Blake Barinder suppressed an amused smile. "What of your parents?"

  "Father enlisted in the army. Mother is deceased." Her tone indicated unwillingness to elaborate on the circumstances.

  "They've taken the Grand Market." The boy's voice was a shock—not the bright, loud sound of a child, but something thin and heavy, like the slow current of a river moving under a sheet of winter ice.

  "The Grand Market?" Blake stroked his jaw pensively. "Troubling development. The Godman advance proceeds with alarming rapidity."

  Gamlin briefly considered requesting a map before deciding on a more direct approach. He dragged a substantial bundle of timber to the threshold, mounted it deliberately, performed several preparatory stretches, then launched himself upward to grasp the eaves—hauling his compact, muscular frame upward through sheer arm strength.

  "Sir?" the girl exclaimed in alarm, rushing outside alongside the others to observe the dwarf's surprising acrobatics. "What possible purpose does this serve? You risk serious injury." Blake raised his voice in attempted dissuasion. It seemed barely two minutes had elapsed before the dwarf was already navigating precariously along the chimney's edge. "Has he consistently demonstrated such behavior?" Blake inquired of a nearby Oathsworn warrior.

  "Hmph. The captain's climbing prowess ranks among the company's finest. Even intoxicated, he outmaneuvers a Tangle-tailed Monkey with ease."

  "Please descend immediately, Master Dwarf," the girl called anxiously. "A fall would result in considerable pain, do you comprehend? You might even compromise our roof's structural integrity."

  "I merely intend a brief reconnaissance of your Grand Market, lass."

  He located his objective expeditiously—the renowned Pafaheim Trade Market. Strategically positioned near the main gate, it had evolved into Cynthia's largest commercial center—designed to accommodate patrons from both within and beyond the city walls. He navigated deftly back down the chimney. "The market stalls are smashed, with bright spices and strange fruits bleeding their colors into the mud. Chickens are running wild. The fortune-tellers have fled, leaving their cheap glass orbs behind. Bolts of fine silk, bright and thin, are either blowing down the street like ghosts or lie in charred heaps. That's what I see." He appeared thoroughly satisfied with his observational capacity. Blake recognized the dwarf had deliberately omitted mention of mutilated corpses. "Your assessment proves accurate, young one." Barely two minutes had elapsed before Gamlin returned to his previous position. "They have indeed secured the Grand Market."

  "The situation appears increasingly dire, Gamlin. Triumphant Fort stands in immediate proximity behind that position."

  "Which readily explains why the Duke of Pafaheim dispatched no welcoming party—they're already engaged in combat." The dwarf strode purposefully toward a water bucket and plunged his hands into its contents. The girl began to warn him that the same receptacle had transported horse manure earlier that morning, but observing his evident satisfaction with his ablutions, she tactfully withheld comment. "Fortunately, dwarven warriors require no ceremonial reception," he declared, vigorously shaking moisture from his hands. "TO ME, BROTHERS! IT'S TIME TO EARN OUR PAY!"