History has a convenient habit of erasing wounds," she said bitterly. "But I remember every moment. Frostmere was losing. Our men were dying. Azarion pushed through our outer defenses faster than any strategist predicted."
"The north was losing."
Neris blinked, startled. "Losing?"
She nodded. "Badly. Azarion's forces were relentless. The man was younger then, but his ambition burned even brighter. He wanted conquest. Dominion. Not just of Ashmere. Of all five realms."
Her expression grew distant, as though she could still see the battlefield.
"He pushed northward like a wildfire, consuming everything he touched. Frostmere's warriors were brave, but the Southron forces… they fought like men who believed the gods themselves marched with them."
Neris felt cold wash over him. "Why did Father never speak of this?"
"Because," she said gently, "kings do not often speak of the times they nearly lost everything. Those were there greatest moments of weakness."
