Everything unfolded precisely as Raveirmom Dear had anticipated—proceeding with a smoothness that bordered on the uncanny. By the second day of the siege of Phyal, Godman forces had already torn open a breach in Cynthia's defenses. From that moment, the protective network around Phyal began to unravel. The Cynthian capital, with its labyrinthine streets and densely packed buildings, severely restricted the effectiveness of mounted knights. Consequently, Duke Dear relied primarily on light infantry as his main striking force in the street-to-street combat. These troops were only deployed after the Gate of Cynthia had been breached—veterans who had survived the brutal conflicts among the southern nations, bringing with them extensive experience in urban warfare.

  Shortly after midday, Phyal's defenders, buckling under relentless pressure, were forced to contract their lines, gradually withdrawing toward Cynthia Palace. Under Raveirmom Dear's command, the imperial soldiers temporarily halted their pursuit, using this brief respite to regroup and replenish. They had already encircled the entire periphery of Phyal; in Dear's estimation, the queen, the princess, and indeed the entire Cynthian royal household had no hope of escape.

  "Reform the lines!" Devalosfang Dear brandished his longsword, directing the knights behind him. Big Mouth Simon's bay horse fidgeted restlessly beneath him, shifting nervously in the confined space. "Why don't we just dismount?" he complained. "Riding in these narrow streets means nothing but bruised knees against walls."

  "You should be grateful we weren't thrown in with the vanguard infantry," Tyler Wynlers said, wrapping his reins tight. "We're just holding the perimeter, not getting our necks broken in the thick of it. Count your blessings."

  Carl Clawyn watched as horrific screams poured from a nearby apartment building, followed by the sight of people leaping to their deaths. He said nothing.

  A sparse volley of arrows whistled toward them, prompting everyone to duck low in their saddles. In that moment of confusion, approximately twelve Cynthian cavalrymen darted past them. "Split up and pursue!" Devalosfang commanded loudly. "They could be messengers, or something worse! Don't let them escape our encirclement—move!"

  The Cynthian riders immediately dispersed, fleeing down two relatively wide streets to the east and west. Simon's horse was the slowest, lagging behind the others. "Why are we even bothering to chase them?" he complained, wrestling with his ill-tempered mount. "It's not like there are any Cynthians left behind us, are there?"

  "Yes, though not many," Tyler replied. "After we broke through their defensive network, some cavalry units remained outside."

  The seven fleeing Cynthian riders they were pursuing wove through the city streets with desperate agility, employing every trick to shake off their pursuers. Several imperial knights joined the chase along the way, but some soon abandoned the pursuit—the Cynthian riders had effectively led them on a winding tour through nearly half the city.

  The chase finally concluded when Carl's group pursued them to Phyal's outskirts. Here, the densely packed buildings no longer impeded them, but their horses were exhausted, nostrils flaring frantically. Near some farmhouses, the seven Cynthian riders halted. They wheeled their mounts around, breathing heavily, drew their weapons, and prepared for a final stand.

  They weren't the only ones preparing to fight. In a small wheat field nearby, about ten peasants straightened their long-bent backs, clutching farming implements, their faces etched with hatred. "Ignore them," Tyler said, drawing his weapon. "Deal with the riders first!"

  The seven cavalrymen proved relatively easy to defeat. Afterward, Carl's group discovered that all seven were already wounded. Tyler Wynlers, with his exceptional swordsmanship, engaged three opponents simultaneously, unseating them all. The remaining four Phyal defenders turned to face Carl, Simon, and the knight who had joined them during the pursuit. Big Mouth Simon was so fixated on the flashing swords of his opponents that he failed to notice the peasants who had crept up beside him. An old man hooked the chain mail on his right leg with a sickle, dragging him from his horse.

  His cry for help was so comically pitched that it would later provoke smiles when recalled. Carl and the other knight were entangled in their own combats and couldn't assist. Several peasants pinned Simon down, raining blows upon him. In a sheer panic, the fat man grabbed his sword from the ground and swung wildly, missing the first time, then connecting on the second, striking the peasant's neck with the flat of his blade as much as the edge. The other attackers retreated, giving him enough space to struggle to his feet, brandishing his sword with an intimidating roar.

  The peasants retreated in unison, but advanced with equal coordination. They rushed toward Simon, striking at him with their improvised weapons. He was forced to grab his round shield, blocking blindly. His bay horse whinnied in alarm, sidling away from the confrontation. Tyler rode behind the peasants, his sword slashing across one man's back, instantly staining the brown homespun dark red. "Leave!" he shouted in the Common Tongue, flicking his bloodied blade. "Get out!"

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  The peasants either failed to understand or deliberately ignored him. The second wave of attackers surged forward like an incoming tide, showing no fear despite Tyler being mounted.

  Tyler Wynlers was compelled to use lethal force. As the peasants fell beneath his horse's hooves, Carl's engagement also concluded—leaving only one problematic situation.

  "Please don't kill me!" The sole surviving Cynthian rider sat on the ground, scrambling backward. "I beg you—spare my life!"

  "I'll admit, I've rarely seen a Cynthian soldier beg," Tyler remarked, nudging his horse closer to the long-haired youth. "You're young. And your Common Tongue isn't half bad." He sighed. "How unfortunate that we meet under these circumstances."

  The young man had retreated to the edge of a well, with nowhere left to flee. "Please—I beg you!"

  "Is that phrase all he knows?" the knight who had joined them interjected irritably. "What shall we do with him?" Carl observed the youth, who held his hands protectively before his face. "Surely we can't... just execute him, can we?"

  Tyler shrugged. "He's discarded his weapon. He has no fight left in him."

  "Remember why we pursued them," the knight reminded them. "Sparing one means sparing all seven. There's no difference." Fat Simon sat some distance away, gasping for breath, oblivious to their conversation. "Indeed," Tyler sighed. "If we let him go, we'd be defying Devalosfang's orders."

  "I won't betray you!" the youth blurted desperately. "I swear I won't inform the outer defenses about your positions, numbers, or plans! I swear by the Goddess Goria! I—I..."

  "Enough, child. Enough." Tyler raised his palm to silence him. "You're clearly inexperienced, and somewhat naive. Do you really think blurting out your entire plan and then promising not to follow it carries any weight, child? What am I supposed to do, follow you back to your lines just to see if you keep your word?"

  "I... I..."

  "Stop wasting words on him," the knight interrupted, pushing between Carl and Tyler as he dismounted somewhat unsteadily. "Yes. This is war," the knight said, his voice hard as he drew his sword and advanced on the youth. "I can see neither of you has the stomach for this. So, I'll do it." The boy's mouth gaped in terror, his ability to speak apparently lost. "I'm sorry, lad," he said, raising his blade.

  "What about the well?"

  Had Carl spoken any ordinary phrase or shouted a warning, the knight's sword would have fallen regardless. But Carl Clawyn's strangely constructed suggestion halted the knight's motion as though by enchantment. "What?" the knight and Tyler exclaimed simultaneously. "What did you say?"

  "Perhaps..." Carl awkwardly articulated his thought, "perhaps the well could serve our purpose."

  They all paused momentarily.

  "I understand your meaning," the knight said, lowering his weapon. The youth's lips compressed into a thin line, stemming the flow of tears. "You suggest we throw him down there, correct?"

  "That's one interpretation."

  "Very well." The knight sheathed his sword. "Let's determine its depth." He picked up a clod of hardened soil and tossed it into the dark opening. No one counted the seconds, but they all registered how long it took for the sound to return—long enough to satisfy, yet also long enough to instill dread. "Your idea has... some merit," Tyler whispered to Carl. "At least it's preferable to beheading him."

  "Alright, boy," the knight gestured toward the well. "Get in. I'd prefer you do this voluntarily."

  "No!" He shook his head violently. "No!"

  "Then perhaps you prefer this alternative?" The knight partially drew his sword again, causing the youth to cry out in terror. "I take no pleasure in killing you, nor does anyone here. So please, spare us the trouble—get in." Under the threat of the blade, the Cynthian soldier reluctantly climbed onto the well's edge. "And remove that pitiful leather armor."

  "No!"

  "You're not a woman—stop this fussing!" His harsh rebuke made the young man cower. "Wearing that will only ensure you sink to the bottom. Quickly—remove it!" The youth complied reluctantly, his movements clumsy.

  "Consider this," Tyler whispered to Carl. "The well is at least a hundred feet deep, with walls too smooth for climbing. Which means he will likely soak in that water until he rots or drowns. It's a slower death than a sword, Carl. Not a cleaner one."

  "At least this way he doesn't die immediately," Carl replied, watching the youth teetering at the brink. "I realize my thinking may seem childish, but I can't bring myself to... take his life so directly. If he shouts loudly enough, someone might rescue him."

  "If his shouts attract the remaining Cynthian sentries, his rescue is guaranteed—and our deaths equally certain," Tyler countered, rolling his eyes. "If that's your concern, we might as well knock him unconscious and leave him by the roadside. No bloodshed that way."

  "We can't render every enemy unconscious, Tyler. I understand reality's constraints."

  "I'm glad you do."

  The young man stared into the abyss, his lips forming fragmented sounds. His thin shirt offered little protection against the autumn wind that scattered fallen leaves around them. Carl could only distinguish the words "no" and "die." "This requires courage," the knight declared, as if delivering a sermon. "The Three Goddesses will grant you strength. Good fortune be with you." He planted his boot against the boy's back and pushed.

  The splash reached their ears after what seemed an eternity.