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.
Perhaps victory could have been wrested from the jaws of ruin.
