"Check the place," Asher commanded, his voice calm but resonant.
"Eleazar, take the north with ten n. Simon, the south. Levi, go west. Moses, the east.
Nero, stay here with the rest and hold the center."
"Yes, My Lord!"
"Yes, My Lord!"
"Yes, My Lord!"
"Yes, My Lord!"
The four chief paladins responded in unison, voices sharp and resolute. Without delay, they moved out, shields at the ready, spears angled toward potential threats.
Asher strode toward the lord's residence—the so-called stronghold of this place. With a gentle push, the wooden door creaked inward, dry hinges groaning as he ducked beneath the low fra and stepped inside.
The air was stale, thick with dust and old wood. He found himself in a narrow hall, sparse and spartan. Nothing about it surprised him—Eden was never ant for comfort.
This was a land ant to forge lords. A trial ground where only those with vision, strategy, and strength could rise. Success here translated to power in Tenaria, and at present, Aaron and Reuel were climbing fast.
The advantages they had gained here, resources, artifacts, knowledge—had shifted the balance. If they pushed further, they could subjugate entire domains, even House Ashbourne, should they dare go all out.
But they hadn't. Not yet.
They had glimpsed the might of House Ashbourne, and now they sought greater leverage, knowing that once their forces surpassed Asher's in outfits and numbers, even his personal strength might not be enough.
Asher's eyes scanned the shadowed corners of the hall. He bent and picked up a charred torchstick lying on the stone floor. With a flick of his fingers and a quiet command, it ignited.
Light spilled across the walls, dancing on splinters and dust.
At the far end of the hall stood a simple wooden dais, barely raised from the floor. Upon it rested a rough throne, more a crude chair than a seat of command. But what caught Asher's attention was the carving behind it—etched deep into the wall in the old Tenarian script, faded but still legible to those who knew.
He stepped closer, torch held high, and read aloud:
"Call out your na."
He straightened, glanced around. Nothing happened. The silence persisted, broken only by the soft crackle of the fla.
A small crease ford on his brow. He looked back at the carving, then narrowed his eyes.
"Asher Ashbourne."
Still nothing. Not a flicker, not a hum. Just more silence.
His gaze sharpened.
"Mig'dal-el."
He didn't shout, but the force behind the words reverberated in the room. A subtle tremor ran through the floor. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, cascading in fine streams like old sand through an hourglass.
And then—
The walls quaked.
A low rumble stirred beneath the earth, wood creaked and groaned, and the torchlight flickered violently as if pulled toward sothing unseen. The throne trembled. The carvings on the wall began to glow faintly—dim lines of golden light weaving along the old words like veins awakening after centuries of slumber.
Asher lowered the torch, his hand now resting on the hilt of Leviathan.
The crest of House Ashbourne ignited to life behind the throne—a white wolf head roaring defiantly at the skies. The crest seed to be carved out of pure silver.
Before Asher's eyes, the lord's residence transford.
The fragile wooden walls shuddered and cracked, giving way to rising stone as if pulled from the earth by invisible hands. The air thrumd with raw energy. A new throne, hewn from a single slab of a gray stone, replaced the crude wooden chair, now seated upon a polished dais.
But the change wasn't confined to the inside.
Outside, the village trembled. A new structure assembled itself with blinding speed—logs rolled, beams rose, and straw dummies snapped into place like soldiers obeying orders.
A barrack now stood firm.
And from its stone-capped walls, the banner of House Ashbourne unfurled, proud and unwavering. It was now the only building in the village of Whitewood clad in stone, and with its towers and archery marks, it resembled a true outpost—a foothold in the wilds.
Asher stepped out through the newly widened doorway, no longer needing to duck. He was removing his coat as he addressed the soldiers still gathered.
"Our enemies know our location. I don't know when they'll co," he said, tossing the coat aside and beginning to remove his armour, piece by piece. "But if we are to survive, this village must be more than straw and mud. We need a wall."
Once freed of his plates, he strode forward, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the white-trunked forest beyond.
Snake eye Nero stepped forward, following his lord's lead. One by one, the others did too—unstrapping their armour until only their gambesons, pants, and boots remained. They rolled their sleeves, gripped their spears, and silently walked with Asher beyond the village edge.
BOOM! BOOM!
The sound of falling trees thundered through the woods. Dust exploded into the air, startling small beasts into flight. When Eleazar, Simon, Levi, and Moses returned with their teams, they took in the sight for only a mont before joining in.
Spears t bark. Wood cracked like thunder.
"Cut from the bottom," Asher ordered. "Leave the stumps behind."
And they obeyed.
Ti passed in a blur of sweat and muscle, the n taking shifts—so chopping, others hunting. Roasted at was shared in silence before returning to the work. Sunlight bled across the sky, and by dusk, over two thousand great white trunks, each nearly ten ters tall, lay felled around the village.
Each one was massive—three n joining hands could barely wrap around a single trunk.
Asher stood in the center of it all, shirt soaked in sweat, sword slung across his shoulder. He gazed at the forest-cleared plain around the village, eyes gleaming with a sharp light.
They thought he would be defenceless when they would arrive, before them would be a wall, a sturdy one.
[Would host like to upgrade the nonexistent wall of Whitewood Village to a fortified wood palisade? Yes or No?]
A smirk touched his lips.
"Yes."
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