The atmosphere on the ramparts was thick with a tension that rivalled the carnage on the fields below. Callom's fury had reached its boiling point, his eyes fixed on the distant figure of his daughter as she followed William into the fray.
To him, every step she took further into the monster tide was a death sentence, and the blame rested solely on the shoulders of the mysterious porter.
He was a man driven by paternal instinct, and in this moment, the strategic weight of the war meant nothing compared to the safety of his child.
His suppressed rage and despair finally exploded in front of his father's face. Callom knew that if not for William, his beloved daughter wouldn't have gone down there to face such immense danger.
He didn't care about any logic or tactical necessity. He didn't consider any reason or the potential for a miracle.
