CHAPTER 379: THE SHAME OF A GENERAL

The corridors of the royal keep stretched before General Marlon Norse like a tunnel carved from judgment itself—stone walls on either side, lined with flickering braziers and whispering shadows. The clamor of the throne room faded behind him, but the sting of disgrace clung to his skin like sweat after battle.

Each step echoed with the rhythm of defeat.

His boots struck the cold stone floor harder than they needed to, a desperate attempt to drown out the voice in his mind. You were entrusted with Carles. You let it fall without a fight.

It wasn’t just the prince’s fury that haunted him—it was the truth of it.

Why did it ended like this? Hadn’t he planned it so well? The abduction of Lara and Mira being adopted were all his calculations.

When he thought that he was about to reach the top, suddenly he felt that he was spiraling down.

Reaching the outer courtyard, Marlon paused beneath an arched window overlooking the south eastern horizon. From here, the ridges of the Northem valley were visible, stretching out like a body laid bare for the vultures. Somewhere beyond those hills, Estalis banners now fluttered where Northem’s crest once flew.

He squeezed the sill with calloused hands.

Merlin...

The name flared in his chest like a wound. His son—hotheaded, stubborn, too trusting for the world he’d inherited—had fallen in love with a woman who smiled like spring and cut like winter. A woman Marlon had dismissed as harmless. "Let the boy have his girl," he had once told his aides. "A soldier needs softness in his life."

Fool.

He could still hear the voice of Reuben echoing in the high-vaulted chamber: You dare pin this catastrophe on your son’s whore?

Marlon gritted his teeth. He’d accepted blame in silence. As a general, as a father, he had failed. But he would not go quietly into disgrace. He would not be remembered as the man who lost Carles to a bedchamber betrayal.

Footsteps approached behind him. He turned to find a wiry figure in a travel-stained cloak waiting near the archway—his aide, Seveir.

"Your horse is ready, General," Seveir said, then hesitated. "And... there’s news."

Marlon’s eyes narrowed. "Speak."

Seveir looked around, lowered his voice. "The woman, Merlin’s lover—was seen with a Zuran scout just before Carles fell. Not Estalian. The markings on their cloak matched Zuran infiltration units from the Southern Range."

Marlon felt a pulse of cold spread through him. "So Dakota was right."

Seveir nodded grimly. "At least partially."

Marlon stared at the distant mountains for a long moment. "And Merlin?"

"Alive. Last seen retreating toward the foot of Ourea. No word since."

That landed deeper than he expected. Shame he could bear. Humiliation, he could outlive. But the thought of losing his only son—his only legacy—in the chaos of betrayal... that was a different wound.

He exhaled through his nose and turned from the window.

"Send riders south. Discreetly. I want my son found—and the woman dead."

"Understood."

Marlon started toward the stables but stopped, eyes shadowed beneath his battle-worn brow.

"And Seveir... have the scouts watch Zura’s border, not just Estalis. If Dakota’s right, we’re looking the wrong way."

As Seveir departed, Marlon mounted his warhorse, his movements slower than usual—no longer with the pride of a decorated general, but with the heavy burden of a man trying to rewrite his name before it’s chiseled into stone.

How had it come to this?

Carles. His city. His responsibility.Gone.

And for what? His son’s love-struck blindness? His own misjudgment?

Marlon’s breath misted in the air as he descended the narrow stairwell into the under-levels of his manor. He didn’t go to his quarters. He couldn’t bear the silent eyes of the servants or the pitiful stares of his commanders.

He went instead to the Ring Of Fire—an old training hall beneath the manor, long abandoned, thick with dust and memory. It was here he had trained Merlin as a boy. Here where his son had learned the blade. The same boy who now danced on strings pulled by a foreign spy.

He reached the center of the hall and stopped. There, leaning on the wall, was a dulled training sword. He picked it up, felt the weight, and without thought, began the old forms—sweeping arcs, pivots, strikes. Muscle memory surged like blood in his veins.

Each motion was sharper than the last.

Cut. Turn. Parry. Strike.Again and again.

He fought against ghosts. Not Estalian soldiers—but his own.

The ghost of the moment Merlin introduced the woman. She was smiling and too beautiful, eyes too clever, too quiet.

He should have known.

He did know.

And still he said nothing.

The sword slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground. He fell to one knee, chest heaving, rage rising—not against the court, not even Prince Dakota.

Against himself.

"Father."

The voice froze him.

He looked up.

Merlin stood in the archway, pale and drawn, eyes ringed with sleepless guilt. The man, his only son—was changed.

He no longer carried the arrogance of the only heir or the easy charm of youth. Instead, he looked like someone who had just watched the world burn.

"When did you arrive? I thought you hid in Ourea?" Marlon said quietly.

"It was too dangerous in that mountain. I was almost attacked by a tiger. I would rather face the court than become prey to the wild animals."

"You have been summoned by the court. They want answers. They... they might put you on trial."

Marlon crossed the space between them, staring hard into his son’s face.

"Do they know you are here?"

Merlin hesitated. "Not yet. I haven’t told anyone."

"Then don’t." His voice was like stone "Let them think you are still at large."

Merlin blinked. "But—why? If they know you could be—"

"Because I’m already damned," Marlon growled. "I was your commanding officer. Your father. I let her get too close. I let you trust her. And now an entire town is gone."

He grabbed Merlin’s shoulders, rough but steady.

"Listen to me. The crown prince has relieved me of direct command. But there is still a chance to redeem myself. I will not let them rip everything from us, including the legacy of the Norse name."

Tears welled in Merlin’s eyes. "I am sorry, Father. I dragged you down. I regretted it."

"I know," Marlon said softly.

There was silence between them, heavy as iron.

"Go now," Marlon said, voice hollow. "Stay at the right wing. I will go south to join Malik in Fereya. I will try to redeem our name."

Merlin turned, shoulders hunched, and disappeared down the corridor.

Marlon remained, alone.

He looked to the sword on the floor. Picked it up again.

And this time, he didn’t train.

He threw it—full force—across the hall. It hit the far wall with a clang and fell in silence.

He stood there, fists clenched, heart breaking beneath his armor.

There was still one more thing he could do.

But first, he had to decide:Would he fight for redemption...Or prepare for vengeance?