Perspective: Freya Van Daalen
Freya didn't understand.
She truly didn't understand what she had done.
The question had seemed simple — almost innocent — in her mind.
But the look Aslan gave her right after made her rethink every single word.
It wasn't a look of hatred.
She didn't believe he would attack her for it.
But there was something else there… something far worse.
It was as if she had committed a heinous crime.
As if, somehow, with just one sentence, she had murdered his entire family.
Aslan's eyes were filled with pain.
Pure, deep, silent pain.
Freya felt as though she had spat in his face.
As though she had humiliated him publicly before a crowd that existed only in his imagination.
It caught her completely off guard.
Far too much.
And the silence that followed was heavier than the suffocating air of the room.
Luckily, it didn't last long.
The man before her let out a long sigh — deep, weary, and filled with something she could only describe as resignation.
The sound of someone forgiving not just that mistake, but every mistake she had ever made in her life.
And still choosing to simply let it go.
Even though she had no idea what she had done to deserve such judgment.
Finally, he spoke — his voice low, controlled, but firm:
— "No. I'll go first. I'll draw the attention of all four. Once they surround me, you attack and finish them. That's the best strategy for our roles."
Freya nodded immediately.
She didn't dare argue.
Even if, in her mind, it made no sense for him to take on so much alone, the memory of that look was enough to silence any attempt at reasoning.
All she could do was accept it.
Perhaps that was it, after all — men always trying to prove their strength,
even if it meant carrying more than they should.
Or at least, that was the thought that crossed her mind in that brief instant as she prepared to follow him into whatever came next.
Though this was the first time Freya had ever partied with a tank since she started playing The Black Tower — not exactly the most popular class, after all — she had a fairly clear idea, or at least thought she did, of what tanks were supposed to be.
She knew, like any player with minimal gaming experience, that tanks were the front line — the living shield of any group. They held the defense so others could attack.
But in the Tower, things were different.
And Freya knew that perfectly well.
That's why she never believed tanks here could truly keep their defensive role intact, like in other games.
Her reasoning rested on a few points.
The first was simple: armor exclusivity.
She herself wore light, practical leather — a personal choice.
But she knew warriors could wear either metal armor, like tanks, or leather, like archers. Even the default warrior gear was a hybrid: metal plates interlaced with reinforced leather.
In practice, that meant that while a tank was heavier and better protected, a fully armored warrior wasn't that far behind in defense.
Which made it clear — metal wasn't anyone's exclusive privilege.
The second point was even more important: reality.
The Tower didn't romanticize armor weight.
It was useful, yes — but not magical.
Against a tank covered in iron, if someone was fast enough to aim for weak points — a gap between joints, an opening at the neck, a slit at the hip — the result was obvious.
The strike went through, and the tank fell like anyone else.
It wasn't like other games, where armor flatly reduced all damage.
In the Tower, precision mattered.
Where the strike landed mattered.
And even if she had never done it herself, she had seen videos of agile players pulling it off — killing tanks as easily as they killed mages.
Following that line of thought, Freya never believed warriors and tanks were truly that different.
In her eyes, the difference boiled down to one word: shield.
And to her, a shield wasn't invincible.
It was something that could be overcome with agility.
After all, why block a blow with a piece of metal when you could simply dodge it?
That's how Freya thought.
At least… until she saw Aslan in action.
When he charged forward, drawing the four guards to himself, Freya finally understood.
It wasn't about armor.
It wasn't about blindly withstanding hits.
It was about turning the battlefield into a board.
What unfolded before her eyes was unlike anything she had ever seen.
He wasn't like the clumsy tanks in videos who got pummeled until they fell.
He wasn't like the overconfident warriors who tried to be everything at once.
He was something else.
Technical.
Precise.
Methodical.
A completely different style of combat from the raw violence and fury he had shown when slaughtering those three idiots near Durnholde's gates.
Aslan moved like a cog in a war machine.
Every step he took was calculated so his shield could block two guards at once.
With the right pivot of his body, the shield extended just far enough to disrupt a third, choking off his movements.
The fourth — the only one with room for a direct strike — was met by the axe, steel clashing against steel, each blow echoing like thunder through the room.
Nothing was random.
Nothing wasted.
Deflections, counters, short shoves that broke the enemies' rhythm — everything was deliberate.
Every attack landed exactly where he wanted it to.
Every opening that emerged was shut down a heartbeat later.
It was like watching a dance.
A brutal ballet — but beautiful in its perfection.
And then, just as Freya was completely entranced by the sight, his voice pulled her out of it:
— "Sith, now!"
She blinked, shaken from her trance.
Yes — he was a tank. A real tank. A masterful one.
But now it was her turn.
If he had shown her what it meant to wield a shield with mastery, then she would show him what it meant to swing a sword as a warrior.
Freya didn't hesitate.
She rushed forward immediately, a fierce smile spreading across her lips.
She owed it.
To the warriors.
To the defenders of her own class.