In total, more than one hundred and thirty-seven good men had fallen that day, thirty of them from Goldenveil's guard, the rest from the militia.
One hundred and thirty-seven for nearly three thousand five hundred enemies was a formidable exchange in the eyes of any strategist, but no one there felt any reason to celebrate.
Some had lost friends, others brothers, and there were even those who mourned the loss of their fathers.
The bodies were carefully prepared to be returned to their families, where they would lie in state and receive burial with all due honors.
The families, naturally, would receive generous pensions for their service.
Ethan watched it all with a cold gaze, his face impassive as the wind swept across the battlefield.
"My lord, we have five hundred men ready to march right now. Should we set out for Whitefall?" Doran approached with a grave expression, his voice low.
