I'ron, The Primordial Old One

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.