"We can fight."

  "Hmm?" Gamlin turned toward the girl, brow furrowed. "Did you speak, lass?"

  She worried her thumbnail between her teeth, tension evident in every line of her body. "I said—we too can take up arms."

  "Your father perhaps. That I would never question." He offered her a kindly smile tinged with patronizing warmth. "But not you, lass. Children and women are not meant for warfare."

  "Why are you so certain of this, Master Dwarf? Is that not a dwarf-woman standing there?" She gestured toward Lorraine with quiet dignity.

  "That's entirely different, lass. We are dwarves—and Lorraine has undergone rigorous training. She is a warrior born and made."

  "Perhaps the difference is not as great as you think. We have our hoes and our pitchforks. We have iron pots, and tables, and chairs. When it is your own land you are defending, anything can be a weapon."

  "This is no moment for jests, lass." Gamlin's countenance hardened, features becoming immobile as stone. "I respect your courage—but such improvisations cannot suffice. This very morning the Godmans breached Kadenford's formidable walls. I've received reports detailing their subsequent actions. The suffering inflicted upon those townspeople exceeds your capacity to imagine. And I can assure you—the Godmans presently rampaging through Pafaheim have descended into even greater madness, stripped entirely of human restraint."

  "Did Kadenford's people emerge to defend their city? The common folk, I mean."

  The dwarf's mouth remained half-open as he gazed into her resolute dark eyes. "To my knowledge—few, if any at all."

  "Therein lies the crucial distinction." The farm girl spoke with preternatural composure, her voice transcending fear as though observing it from an elevated vantage. "They live in Kadenford, sheltered in the heart of Cynthia. All they see are the stars, protected by their great walls. But we, the people of Pafaheim, we see the same stars, but we also see the frontier. We see the dangers that lie beyond it. A single gate is all that separates us from the invaders. So we live always on a knife's edge. What they call paranoia, we call survival. We were born in hardship, and we will not die in comfort." Her eloquence faltered momentarily, yet Gamlin absorbed every syllable with profound attention. The girl gently guided her brother aside, then knelt gracefully to position her gaze level with Gamlin's. "Sir—I present no impetuous demand that you incorporate women among your martial ranks. Yet in our darkest hour—when Pafaheim faces its ultimate moment of truth—I implore you to grant us the dignity of choice. Some will choose to run, and they will carry their fear with them to whatever refuge they find... But others will choose to stay. They will stay, with their farming tools and kitchen knives, with nothing but their own small courage, to defend the very earth that gave them life. This represents my sole request, Master Dwarf—simple yet profound."

  Her words, and the unwavering fire in her eyes, broke through the calloused, wild heart of the old dwarf. "DID YOU HEAR THAT, LORRAINE?"

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  "EVERY WORD, GAMLIN!"

  "Lass," the dwarf pronounced, newfound respect resonating through his gruff tone. "I, Gamlin, commander of the Gambril Oathsworn, hereby grant your petition." He reached behind his back and withdrew a single-bladed hand-axe of exquisite craftsmanship. "But you will not face them with a pitchfork. This is my own axe. I want you to take it."

  "This..." Her gaze alternated between the intricate runic patterns adorning the axe-head and Gamlin himself. "I cannot possibly accept such—"

  "You must, lass. Consider it my solemn gift." Gondolin had unconsciously clenched both fists, observing the exchange with visible tension, as though witnessing the surrender of his rightful inheritance. "Ease yourself, Gondolin! I shall commission another forged in time. You shall receive my axe—when you have earned my complete approval." His nephew's hands gradually relaxed.

  The girl accepted the ceremonial weapon with appropriate reverence and gratitude. "Remember—when peril descends, swing it without hesitation. Every dwarf among our company stands spiritually at your side." She offered a grateful smile, her expression illuminated with newfound resolve.

  The dwarven contingent had arranged themselves into precise formation, poised for immediate deployment. "What role am I to fulfill?" Blake Barinder inquired abruptly.

  "You?" Gamlin appeared momentarily startled by his presence. "Ah, my esteemed Blake. You shall accompany Lorraine—to the sanctuary of the temple."

  "But surely I—"

  "Oh—naturally. Your knights shall remain with you as well." He stroked his elaborate beard contemplatively.

  "But I serve as the queen's appointed envoy!" Blake gestured expansively, visibly distressed. "By all diplomatic protocols, I should remain at your side throughout, Gamlin. Any alternative arrangement compromises my official position!"

  "Blake, my friend," Gamlin said, slapping the man's leg with the easy condescension of a warrior to a scholar. "We both know what you are. You're a man of books and letters. You write histories, maybe even poetry. But you are not a soldier... Your fight is on the page, not in the mud. Don't throw your life away in a place you don't belong."

  "...I see. You have all the persuasive power of a roaring lion, and I am merely a mouse in its path." Blake gestured toward the assembled knights. "But what of these warriors? How should they be deployed?"

  "However you deem appropriate. They answer to your authority—not mine."

  "Allow us to join the battle," a knight proposed. "Permit us to confront the Godman forces. We can provide critical reinforcement to Duke Pafaheim's defensive efforts."

  "You should indeed proceed," Blake concurred. "I shall maintain position at the temple—awaiting your... victorious return."

  "Perhaps retain several knights in your vicinity—as precaution against unforeseen developments."

  The strategic allocations were finalized with remarkable efficiency. From the direction of Triumphant Fort came the resonant blare of war-horns and thunderous percussion—Duke Ricard Pafaheim leading his remaining forces into what might represent their final confrontation.

  Blake Barinder, accompanied by a handful of his retainers, methodically canvassed individual dwellings alongside the dwarven contingent, urging residents toward the protective sanctuary of Goria Temple. Periodically, he lifted his gaze toward the setting sun and distant city gates. He experienced unexpected astonishment upon discovering Pafaheim's previously unnoticed splendor—a beauty he had somehow failed to perceive until this moment.

  (Perhaps a city is never more beautiful than when she is violated, torn apart, and dying—yet still resists, still holds her head high, defiant to the very last breath.) Harboring this profound reflection, he gently lifted a fragile young girl onto his chestnut mount and, accompanied by an ineffable melancholy permeating his soul, proceeded toward their final sanctuary.