"We must withdraw," Lorraine announced to the refugees. "But our former captain gave me explicit instructions: you are to have a choice. This is your country," she paused, letting the weight of her words settle, "and any who wish to defend her, step forward now."

  Roughly a dozen men emerged from the huddled masses of the displaced. Though uncertainty clouded their expressions and their eyes sought reassurance from companions nearby, their strides betrayed no hesitation. After the men had formed their line, several women joined the ranks of those choosing to remain. Blake Barinder cast furtive glances at the knights who had escorted him to Pafaheim, hoping to divine something from their countenance. He contemplated joining the defenders himself; he admired their valor, though he suspected he might lose more than courage between the first clash of steel.

  The girl to whom Gamlin had gifted his battle-axe gently pried her little brother's fingers from her skirt and moved toward those who would stay. "Let go," she mouthed silently. "I'm staying."

  "You'll die!" the boy refused to yield. "I won't release you."

  "If we all run, the country dies faster. Can't you see that?" She kept her voice low, avoiding attention. "Quickly—let go."

  "What about me?!" he wailed. "What becomes of me if you're gone?"

  The girl's determination faltered; this consideration had escaped her. "The lad speaks truth, lass," Gondolin said, approaching them. "You cannot abandon him."

  She flushed, her composure fracturing. "Then..."

  "And you most certainly cannot bring him into battle alongside you."

  "I refuse to simply flee. That's compromise. Surrender," she lamented. "My mother chose compromise, and she died for it. Died with no dignity at all."

  "And your father chose resistance, did he not?" She nodded slightly. "At Triumphant Fort?" Another nod—more reluctant this time.

  "We all pray he survives," the dwarf said, carefully selecting his words. "But given what we've seen of the fort, hope wears thin."

  "You're suggesting," the girl said, ignoring her brother who now clutched her thigh, "that whether one compromises or resists, death awaits regardless?"

  Gondolin shook his head firmly. "I'm not claiming to know which side—justice or evil—will ultimately prevail. Sometimes wickedness falls before righteousness, other times the unworthy prosper. What I mean is, there are many ways to resist. Sometimes, knowing when to yield is the wiser form of strength. I'm not prohibiting women from combat," he gestured toward the brave few with his thumb, "nor do I harbor prejudice. But you are exceedingly young, and your brother depends on you. Often, those who refuse to bend are the first to break, while those who yield and adapt survive—to harden later when circumstances favor them." As he finished, his gaze met Blake's. The diplomat offered an appreciative smile, gratitude evident in his expression.

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  The girl weighed his counsel against her circumstances, her resolution visibly wavering. Gondolin's eyes wandered unbidden to the axe secured across her back—Gamlin's sacred relic. He swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed, as the runes etched onto the axe seemed to lift and swim before his eyes, shimmering with their own inner light. The boy noticed the dwarf's longing gaze and nudged his sister's hip. "Oh—of course." With her brother's assistance, she loosened the binding cord. "This axe. I should return it to you."

  Gondolin fumbled awkwardly, unprepared for this development. "I—" Dwarven honor dictated refusal. The weapon had been the commander's gift to bestow; he possessed no right to reclaim it on Gamlin's behalf. Yet the runic axe called to his very soul, assaulting his honor and principles with relentless intensity. "I cannot..." His hands trembled visibly at his sides. He recognized that accepting might dishonor the fallen Gamlin.

  "Forgive my mistake—I misspoke," she corrected herself. "Then I give it freely to you, Captain of the Gambril Oathsworn."

  How desperately Gondolin yearned to kiss her hand in gratitude for her perceptiveness. "I, Gondolin Browal Hasfeng, captain of the Gambril Oathsworn, accept your generous offering." He received the runic axe with both hands, his weathered fingers tracing the carved symbols repeatedly, sensing both the subtle magic that clung to its surface and the reassuring weight of its blackened metal. "Your hand, my lady." He dropped to one knee, adopting the formal courtesies of human knighthood. The girl half-crouched to extend her hand, which he raised gently to his lips.

  "I accept your gift, young one," he said. "With this axe," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion, "I will defend Pafaheim to the last. But you and your brother must go to Phyal. That is my condition for accepting your gift. You must accept it."

  "Rather clever, aren't you?"

  "Not all dwarves are honest fools. I, for one, know how to bargain."

  She offered a wry smile. "I accept your terms."

  Thus did all survivors within Goria Temple choose their respective paths. Lorraine led the majority of refugees, accompanied by Blake and a small contingent of dwarven guards, out of Pafaheim under night's protective shroud, bound for the capital city of Phyal. Those electing to remain joined Captain Gondolin in supporting the Duke of Pafaheim and the soldiers commanded by Little Pip Berlid, throwing themselves into the desperate conflict.

  The battle raged until midnight. Later, when Gondolin was dragging the Duke’s body back behind a pile of hay for cover, he told him that Gamlin was still alive, just with half his skull caved in. The Duke gave no sign he'd heard, neither joy nor sorrow flickering in his empty eyes. As midnight struck, brilliant flames erupted atop the watchtower on Mount Pafaheim, and the long-silent alarm bell resumed its urgent peal. Duke Ricard Pafaheim sacrificed his life defending the city that bore his name, fighting valiantly until his body was pierced by numerous arrows. Gondolin Browal Hasfeng orchestrated an orderly retreat of fewer than two hundred dwarves and a cluster of knights, intending to regroup at Phyal for a counter-offensive. Little Pip Berlid dispatched men to evacuate his grievously wounded father while he personally held the eastern residential district against Godma's ferocious onslaught; ultimately, father and son perished together within the charred ruins of a collapsed building. And Gamlin Browal Hasfeng, confused by the absence of half his brain matter, sang the final verse of the ancient dwarven war song and, with one eye drifting sightlessly, witnessed all the blood and tears that had been shed—before exhaling his final breath.

  Pafaheim had fallen, irrevocably and completely.