All through the night, Asher remained seated beneath the scorched canopy, his back pressed against the rough bark of a tree. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim moonlight; brooding, thoughtful.
A storm brewed within him: anger at what had been lost, desperation at what might come, yet a strange, unexpected calm threaded through it all.
Had he been granted just a few more days…
Whitewood Town would have stood as more than rubble. It would have risen into a true stronghold, walls reinforced, defenses bolstered, its heart beating with the strength of two thousand souls.
He could see them in his mind's eye: one thousand disciplined footmen braced for war, eight hundred archers darkening the skies with their arrows, a hundred mages weaving death with every gesture, and a hundred healers standing ready to mend the wounded.
Had he commanded such an army, the outcome might have been different.