(Villagers' Perspective)
Smoke still clung to the air when the sun rose over Ashgrove. The fields, once golden with grain, now lay trampled with boot prints and blood. The northern gate was shattered, the edges of the village blackened where flames had eaten through roofs. Yet amidst the wreckage, the bell of the chapel tolled — slow and steady, calling the living to gather.
The survivors came, their faces lined with soot, ash, and grief. Mothers carried children with tear-streaked cheeks. Men and women dragged buckets of water, dousing the last stubborn flames. The wounded were propped on makeshift cots, tended by those with steady hands.
At the center of it all stood Borin Ironhand, Eira Ashenvale, and Thalos the Miller. They bore wounds of their own, but none dared rest while their people still needed them.
---
Borin's hammer leaned against the well, chipped but unbroken. His broad arms were streaked with blood and sweat, but his voice carried like steel.
"We held," he said to those gathered, his tone firm though his eyes were tired. "We sent those cursed hunters running back to their masters. They came for our guests, and they found Ashgrove's fury instead."
A murmur of pride rippled through the crowd, though it was laced with sorrow.
An older woman, clutching a child to her chest, stepped forward. "And at what cost, Borin? The north quarter is gone. My husband… he didn't come back."
Silence fell. Borin lowered his head, guilt tightening his chest.
It was Eira who answered, her voice sharp yet steady. She stood with her arm bound in a bloodied sling, her dark hair tangled with ash. "The cost was heavy," she admitted. "But listen to me: we could have surrendered. We could have given them Seraphina and the boy. If we had, perhaps the flames would not have touched our roofs. Perhaps fewer of us would grieve today."
Her gaze swept over the villagers, fierce and unflinching. "But had we done so, what would Ashgrove be? A village that barters lives to save itself? A place where fear rules over honor? No. Better to bleed with pride than to live in shame."
The crowd stirred, nodding, murmuring agreement.
---
Thalos stood tall despite a bandage around his arm. His voice was quieter than the others, but it carried the weight of truth. "We did more than fight. We proved something. Seraphina is not just the cursed daughter of Medusa, not just a hunted thing. She is a soul worth saving. And because of her, Ashgrove has shown it will not bow to the cruelty of the Order. That will be remembered."
The villagers fell silent. Even the children stopped their sobbing for a moment, as if the words carved themselves into the morning air.
---
By mid-day, Ashgrove began to rebuild. The strong carried fallen beams, raising walls anew. The women patched roofs with tar and clay. Children gathered stones to mend the broken gate. Each action was done with quiet determination, as though by labor they could stitch their community's heart back together.
At the forge, Borin stoked the fire again, hammering scraps of steel into new nails, new tools, and new blades. His face was grim, but his hands never wavered. "The hunters will come again," he muttered to himself. "Next time, Ashgrove will be ready."
In the square, Eira trained the young men and women who wished to learn bow and spear. Her own arm ached, but she ignored the pain. "If you can stand, you can fight," she told them. "If you can't fight, then you learn to heal, to build, to guard the children. Ashgrove has no bystanders."
And in the mill by the river, Thalos gathered the weary, telling them stories of his soldiering days, stories of survival. His calm steadiness reminded them that even scarred villages could endure.
---
As dusk fell, the villagers lit lanterns not for mourning, but for remembrance. Each flame was placed on the river, the lights drifting away on the current. For every soul lost, a lantern sailed into the night.
Eira watched them go, her hand resting on the hilt of a borrowed blade. "They'll find peace," she whispered.
Borin stood beside her, arms folded. "And we'll find vengeance, if the hunters dare return."
But Thalos shook his head. "Not vengeance. Justice. Ashgrove's justice."
---
When the last lantern vanished beyond the bend of the river, Elder Ryn lifted his staff. His voice trembled with age, but his words rang clear.
"Tonight, we are fewer. But tonight, we are stronger. The hunters thought Ashgrove weak, but they were wrong. This village is no longer just a name on their maps. It is a flame they cannot snuff out."
The villagers raised their hands, their tired voices lifting in unity.
"Ashgrove stands!"
The cry echoed into the night, carrying across the hills like a promise.
And so the village that bled refused to break. Its scars became its armor, its grief its resolve. In the ashes of fire and death, Ashgrove was reborn — a place of defiance, a place of guardians, a place that would forever protect its own.