"A single unremarkable letter can alter the tide of battle in mere moments."

  —Salman, historian, The Annals of Godma, Volume II, Chapter 3: The Courier

  The sky stretched clear and endless above. The Godma forces had rested since dawn, stirring only after noon passed. Two hundred riders formed the second reconnaissance wave, crossing the river in hopes that daylight would reveal the Cynthians' secrets. Across vast plains and scattered woods, steel sang against steel, while screams and battle cries provided a grim chorus. By dusk, scattered cavalry limped back to Eoch and his commanders, bearing only one bitter report: "Our losses were grievous." From the second foray, merely five wounded knights returned.

  "They materialized from nowhere," one knight gasped from his stretcher to Eoch. "Tree shadows, wheat fields, abandoned houses - anywhere that offered cover held their warriors. Arrows seemed to rain from the very air." He coughed bloody phlegm, three shafts protruding from his flesh, though none struck vital points. Shortly after his report, blood loss claimed him.

  The other knights offered little more insight. "Their cloaks... they melded with the trees, the crops perhaps. I cannot say, my lord," said one knight, his right hand severed - fortunately, he favored his left. "They must employ some manner of concealment magic." This earned a caustic laugh from Eoch. "Perhaps I'll conjure you a new arm while I'm at it."

  Nevertheless, whispers of "Cynthian sorcery" spread through the ranks like wildfire, with Big Mouth Simon fanning the flames. He regaled all who'd listen with tales of uncanny sights - red-eyed bats hanging inverted from branches in the night. Others joined in, speaking of strange wolves in the forest, their eyes blazing like lanterns, watching unblinking. Soon every beast imaginable joined the tales: smirking serpents, laughing wildcats, tree-climbing ravens, even flying earthworms - though that last stretched credibility too far. The rumors grew wilder still: "Cynthians turn invisible at will," "Cynthian flesh turns aside steel," even "Cynthians shift shapes like druids of old."

  Eoch and his officers tried to stomp out the rumors, but it was like pissing on a bonfire. The third and fourth scouting parties came back with nothing but bloody noses, and every screw-up drove morale deeper into the dirt.

  Five days passed without gain.

  To preserve strength and stem losses, the Godma forces withdrew to the Doby Stream's southern bank, abandoning further probes. This retreat only deepened the army's discontent. Young soldiers grumbled at lost glory, while veterans brooded in silence. Yet salvation arrived on the seventh day, as reinforcements from Crivi began trickling in. The first wave brought three thousand - one thousand horse, two thousand foot - with promises of more to follow. With fresh strength, Eoch could finally act. Through sleepless nights they planned, dispatching larger scouting parties into every contested region. The tenth day saw five thousand more arrive, their presence breathing new life into the camp. At last, numbers favored them. The Godma forces began mapping the land in earnest - marking each region's breadth, noting every hill and hollow, counting enemy strongholds and garrisons. Slowly but surely, they advanced. Knights led the river crossing, followed by ranks of footmen. Though progress came in fits and starts, they pressed forward. Some of the lads, after spending half the day wading through the river, came out with trout stuck to their arses like unwanted hitchhikers.

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  Yet victory remained distant. At their current pace, securing Cynthia's sprawling outskirts would consume a month at least. Their supplies depended entirely on reinforcements, and even should they take the outskirts, the city proper loomed insurmountable. Already provisions ran low, while more mouths arrived daily from Crivi. The Cynthians could wage a war of attrition, their city stores lasting a year or more. But the Godma forces, freezing and starving outside the walls, had no such luxury. Winter's arrival would spell their doom.

  So they prayed and waited - for one person's coming.

  On the twenty-seventh day, their prayers found answer.

  She drew a deep breath.

  "Your Majesty?" her lady-in-waiting whispered. "If you're unwell, perhaps you should forgo court today?"

  Claire pressed her forehead, forcing steady breaths. "I'm fine," she said through chattering teeth. "We proceed."

  Blancheless watched the queen with concern but signaled the guards to open the doors. "Her Majesty, Queen of Cynthia and Princess of Dovirel!" she proclaimed.

  Guards lining the carpet struck their axe-hafts thrice against stone in perfect unison. The assembled nobility dropped to one knee. "Long live the Queen!"

  "I thank you all for attending despite your pressing duties. Your presence honors me." Supported by her maid, Claire ascended the throne. Her fingers immediately sought the carved lion's mouth in the armrest, as if the throne might reject her claim. Rhones Lord and Sir Pawasid stood sentinel at her sides. Seeing her settled, Blancheless melted into the shadows. (Bless me, Salt,) the queen prayed silently. (This day proves crucial. I must not fail.)

  "You shine like the morning star, Your Majesty," Sir Kevon offered with a broad smile.

  "You're too kind, Sir Kevon," the queen returned his smile.

  "Your Majesty," Archmage Hamilton stepped forward. "Today's matters of state prove more intricate than usual. Might I preside over our meeting?"

  "By all means, dear Archmage," Claire nearly sagged with relief.

  "You have my thanks, Your Majesty." The Archmage cleared his throat. "First, this morning Duke Grand Pip of Halfhill Fort arrived at Phyal with his remaining forces. This adds three thousand five hundred warriors to our cause."

  "We are deeply grateful to Duke Grand Pip for honoring his oath and rushing to our aid in this dark hour," she recited mechanically. (I don't recognize him.) Panic fluttered in her chest. (I'll pretend the crowd obscures him.)