Asher scanned his surroundings as his horse walked through the icy streets. He could see people clothed in thick fur coats moving about and attending to their tasks.
Some of them paused to look at him, their expressions puzzled. On their way, they saw frost layered on the weathered walls of their buildings and a group of soldiers occasionally passed by.
Although they were far less powerful than his troops back in the county, their discipline was noteworthy.
"Where is Lord Winter?" Simon asked, addressing one of the fur-padded soldiers.
"In the chapel," the soldier replied. "He's worshipping."
Asher raised his eyebrows in response and his curiosity piqued when they arrived outside the chapel's guarded walls. There, through the open doors, he saw an elderly man with snow-white hair kneeling before an altar.
The altar had two towering statues, each with four wings. One figure faced left, the other right, their enormous wings reaching to the far edges of the open hall.
"By the look on your face, you're not a believer," a voice interrupted.
Startled, Asher turned to the fur-padded soldier, who he thought had entered the chapel but was somehow standing behind him.
It seems like Winter Stronghold wasn't as he had expected.
The soldier chuckled and turned to walk away, but Asher called after him.
"Who is being worshipped here?"
"I Am," the soldier replied. "Known as the Father. The creator of the Soul Scroll, the divine relic that governs Tenaria."
Asher shrugged and was about to turn when his gaze snapped back to the altar. One of the statues—one of the winged figures—seemed to look directly at him!
At that moment, every hair on his body stood up and a chill went down his spine.
For the first time, Asher felt fear!
However, as quickly as it had come, everything reverted to normal. The statue's gaze was still as if it had never moved.
Right then, Lord Winter rose up and walked out of the chapel and the rhythmic tapping of his staff against the stone floor fell into Asher's ears.
'How does that old man withstand their presence? Does he know those things might not be mere statues?!'
Asher frowned deeply.
"Why the frown?" Lord Winter asked with a soft tone as he walked out of the building.
Simon and the fur-padded soldier dropped to one knee in deference. Cynthia and Moses, still on their horseback, remained still.
Asher hesitated but bowed slightly, prompting a brow rise from Lord Winter.
Simon introduced, "My lord, this is Count Asher Ashbourne, lord of the wastelands. He commands over twenty thousand strong."
"Well if he has twenty thousand men what is he doing here with a bodyguard and a maid? We need soldiers, not one man," the fur-padded soldier scowled.
Lord Winter shot him a glance. "Respect our guests."
Turning back to Asher, he smiled warmly. "Welcome to Winter stronghold, young man."
Asher nodded in response.
"Shall we move on to the castle?" Lord Winter asked, gesturing ahead.
Asher sat in the meeting hall alongside Lord Winter, Simon, Isaac—the fur-padded soldier—the hand of Lord Winter and Anderson, the strategist.
"You are the Count?" Anderson, a man with long black hair, a golden headband, vambraces, and boots tilted his head and asked.
His dressing was leagues ahead of others, including that of Lord Winter's.
"I am," Asher replied firmly.
Anderson sighed, his disbelief evident. "My lord, this kid clearly has no experience. How on Tenaria is a kid still wet behind his ears supposed to help us?"
"He's smart." Lord Winter replied with a soft smile.
"Smart? If Jacob, your Knight, were still alive, we wouldn't have needed this," Anderson muttered, shaking his head.
"You are 149, Anderson," Isaac said with a scowl. "Eleven years younger than Jacob but you can't even hold a candle to his strength. And still, you bash others."
Anderson glanced at him with a hardened expression.
Meanwhile, Asher was shocked beyond belief. He couldn't believe Anderson, who looked like he was still in his mid-thirties, was 149 years old!
Asher even doubted if Anderson had reached the imperial rank, yet how was he able to live so long?!
Simon interjected. "I informed Lord Asher of our dilemma. His presence here means his troops can be called over at any moment. They won't let their lord die."
"That is a plausible opinion." Anderson agreed with a begrudging nod.
"What we face, after all, is potential annihilation at the hands of the rat beastmen."
"The rat beastmen?" Asher raised an eyebrow. "The weakest of them all is the threat?"
Isaac chuckled. "Your knowledge is little. Though the rat beastmen have weaker bodies, their numbers are massive and have attained greatness in armour forging. In Bashan, they rank at the top. Meanwhile, all we have is leather armour."
"How good is their armour?" Asher asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Good enough to make a squire strong enough to beat ten of our veteran knights," Isaac replied grimly.
Asher's eyes widened. While he trusted the armor worn by his troops, the armor these men of the council spoke of seemed even more powerful.
His men's armor protected and aided in the smooth flow of battle force but it seemed as if this armor made by the rat beastmen empowered the wearer alongside enhancing protection and flow of battle force!
"But they are at war with those Dothan barbarians," Simon pointed out.
"Those barbarians might not have armor, but their skin is tougher than any leather armour out there," Andersons said, leaning his head against his palm with a nonchalant expression. "According to Jacob, their Freeman Clan have the ability to cover themselves in the hides of fearsome beasts, making it hard to cut through them."
Asher thought, 'I now understand why Zorah wanted me to come here. Bashan truly isn't like the high plains, where everything relies solely on professions and disciplined armies.'
"To fight against Edom, we need at least 5000 knights," Isaac said, turning to Asher. "Can you provide that?"
The others around them followed suit, their gazes heavy with expectation.
Anderson smirked slightly. "It's time to prove yourself."
Asher sighed. "Actually… I came here as Asher Ashbourne, not as a lord. I have no armies—just myself."
"What!" Issac slammed his palm against the table and rose in anger.
"Did you come here to mock us?!" He clenched his teeth as his voice grew sharper.
Anderson's expression turned unreadable as he studied Asher deeply. At 170 years old and as the hand of Lord Winter, Issac was abnormally strong but for some reason, he rarely displayed his full might.
Perhaps the restriction was the reason he was always angry and picky, but Asher might have clearly struck a nerve.