Lord Lysandros' fist slammed against the wooden table, his face twisted in frustration. "How much longer," he growled, his voice thick with anger, "will I have to sit here and bear the knowledge that while we linger, our lands are plundered and put to the torch? That our people are being butchered like cattle? That our fields—our lifeblood—are being stolen by the very men we swore to defeat?" His eyes burned as he turned toward the others in the dimly lit tent, searching for someone to give him an answer that could dull the rage coiling in his chest.
"Aye," Lord Gregor said, his arms crossed, his expression equally grim. "How long before the promised aid arrives? We were told we only needed to hold, that we would not stand alone. But as the days stretch into weeks, all I see is our strength withering while the enemy grows bolder." His gaze settled on the one man who had yet to speak—the priest.
