ing the scene. Her presence alone commanded respect, and everyone trembled at her sight. Julian and Juliet froze the moment the she stepped out of the car. She carried herself with an

ive, and he was here. The crowd froze, and their gasps filled the air. "It's him!" someone blurted out. "Asher Blackmoor... he's alive?" another murmured in disbelief. "I thought he died on the battlefield," said an older man, clutching his chest as if the sight alone was too much to handle. "Dead? Look at him! He's a storm ready to strike," muttered a younger man. "This is bad... really bad," a woman whispered, her eyes darting toward Juliet. Meanwhile, as Asher stepped out of the car, his sharp eyes scanned the scene before him. His heart skipped a beat, no, it stopped entirely. His breath hitched as he caught sight of two frail figures on their knees, faces etched with despair, surrounded by jeering onlookers. For a moment, he froze, his mind refusing to connect the dots. His parents? The parents of Asher Blackmoor, the Protector of Drakmont, reduced to this, humiliated, degraded, treated like filth? It couldn't be. Surely, this was some kind of sick misunderstanding. "No," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. Who would dare? Who would even try? Whoever it was wouldn't live long enough to explain their audacity. But as he took a step forward, the bitter truth unraveled before him. The closer he got, the clearer it became. The lines of his father's weary face. The trembling shoulders of his mother as she tried to shield him from the taunts. Reality hit him like a thunderclap, the weight of it nearly bringing him to his knees. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't a dream. It was real. Asher clenched his fists so tightly it felt as if his bones might break, his entire body trembling. The jeering voices faded into silence in his ears, replaced by the roar of his own fury. Without thinking twice, he rushed to where his parents knelt, the scene was unbearable. His eyes stung as a single tear slipped down his face, a rare show of emotion. His chest heaved, his breath uneven, and even a stray strand of mucus escaped his nose but he didn't care. His entire body burned with rage as he took in their humiliation. The crowd whispered around him, their words sharp daggers to his heart. "Is that really Asher Blackmoor? He's crying?" one man muttered, disbelief coloring his tone. "Whoever did this is done for. Look at him, he's about to explode," another added, stepping back instinctively. "I can't believe someone dared to touch his parents. They might as well have signed their death warrant," an older woman said, shaking her head. Asher knelt, his hands trembling as he placed them on his father's shoulders. His voice cracked. He knelt before his parents, his hands trembling as he gently held his father's frail hand. The man who had once been a tower of strength now looked like a shadow of his former self. His mother, always so lively and vibrant, seemed so distant, her face etched with exhaustion and grief. "Father... Mother..." Asher's voice cracked, the words feeling foreign on