CHAPTER 381: THE PATH TO REDEMPTION

The applause that followed Turik’s speech was firm and respectful, echoing through the hall like the steady beat of war drums. Yet beneath the surface of celebration, every commander in that room knew this was not the end. Carles was only the beginning.

General Turik, rather, the supreme general, raised a hand silencing the room with a single gesture. His gaze swept over the Estalian and Zuran commanders—some scarred, others young, but all sharpened by war.

"Now," he said, his tone shifting from pride to command, "we prepare for the second phase."

A bulky Zuran commander stepped forward. His name was Commander Scarface, known for his blunt speech and fearless charges. The scar on his face, that run from his right to check to his right forehead made him appear scary.

"Do we march northwest to pressure Fereya’s defense or strike at Hainai while their defenses are stretched thin?" Scarface asked.

Turik gestured toward the large map unfurled on the table behind him. Red markers dotted the Northern border. Blue flags marked Estalian strongholds. The green pins—Odin’s forces—held the eastern and central line, but that was in the past. Now those were under Lord Malik.

"Neither," Turik replied. "We ride north. We attack Savadra directly."

A murmur rippled across the room.

"But Supreme General, defense must be strong in the capital," one of the Estalian officers said, furrowing his brow.

Turik’s smile was thin. "Exactly. But let us fake an attack in Fereya and let the rebels attack Hainai. Then we instigate the bandits to create chaos in the towns west, north and south of the capital. The people we planted at central Northem should create chaos until their forces are exhausted. Spread thin from defending and subduing the insurgents."

Scarface raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Turik leaned forward, his voice a quiet razor. "When they are busy with our decoys, we surround the capital and before they realized what hit them, Northem will fall—and it will fall under our name."

A sharp silence followed.

Scarface smirked and murmured to himself. Clever bastard. I like it. Good thing I found this cousin of mine. Otherwise I would still be trafficking children instead of enjoying the privilege of a commander.

...

Back at Fereya, as the morning sun painted streaks of gold across the valley, General Marlon’s company crested the rise of a ridge. His cloak whipped in the wind as he scanned the terrain below—a narrow pass that led into the fragmented outskirts of Northem’s borderlands of Fereya and Hainai.

He had ridden through the night with a small contingent—only his most trusted officers. The rest of the soldiers under his command would follow days behind, under cover of shadow and fog and meet them at Mount Roca.

Seveir rode up beside him. "Reconnaissance confirms that Turik’s forces are regrouping at Carles. He’s calling in Estalian and Zuran commanders to centralize control."

Marlon’s jaw clenched. "Then he intends to move soon. Faster than I expected."

"Do we intercept?" Seveir asked.

"No. We continue south. But share the report to Malik and the rest of the generals, though I think they should already have the same information as you got."

He glanced south, toward the distant glimmer of mountains.

"Let us move as soon as the horses recovered. We don’t have time to lose." Marlon’s facade looked weary but his voice showed a quiet resolve.

Seveir nodded but looked at his general with worry in his eyes. The man who once saved his life has grown older in matter of days. The burden he carried was clearly visible in the lines on his forehead.

...

At that very moment, far to the south in the jagged peaks of the Roca Mountains, General Odin stood atop the highest ridge, the wind howling like a restless spirit as it tore at his heavy cloak. The cold bit into the stone, but Odin remained unmoved, his eyes narrowed against the wind. Beside him stood his children—his legacy and his strength.

Peredur squinted through a long, brass telescope, its lenses glinting with intricate modifications—his own inventions, forged under the sharp tongue and sharper expectations of his master, Hephastus.

"Look, sis!" Peredur said, beaming. "I finally did it. I can see the guards at the town hall... Ha! They’re riding those bicycles like drunk goats!" His laughter rang across the peaks, snatched and scattered by the icy gusts.

Asael stepped forward, his brows drawn.

"Father, are you certain we’re not retaking Carles?"

"With the soldiers still stationed there, we could crush them with ease," Galahad added, fists clenched with restrained fire.

But Odin raised a hand, silencing them with a simple gesture.

"We do nothing—for now," he said, his voice as steady as the stone beneath them. "Let Reuben and those pampered court ministers stew in their pride. They need to feel the sting of the consequence of betraying us."

His gaze drifted toward the town hall, its structure newly rebuilt, standing like a defiant monument to a fragile peace.

"They’re not destroying what we built. That buys us time—but not much. We move to the capital within a month. By then, Turik will be there, sowing chaos."

He turned from the wind, his cloak billowing like a shadow. "Come. We’ve seen enough and gathered the info we needed. Let us return to Calma."

Beneath the mountains, a secret river wound its way through the earth—a subterranean path that Lara had discovered a year ago. It sliced the travel time between Roca and Ourea in half. If they took it, they would reach Calma by sundown.

The subterranean river emptied just a kilometer from the ford where the Lenard siblings used to enter Ourea. It was hidden behind a huge boulder and thick bushes, that even Jethru in his many years in Ourea failed to uncover it.

...

Meanwhile, at Alaric’s palace, a breathless messenger burst through the archway, holding a sealed scroll, the wax bearing the mark of urgency. Alaric broke the seal and read quickly. His gaze turned sharp and the room’s temperature dipped.

He handed the parchment to his second-in-command, Angus.

"Turik is moving," he said flatly.

Angus scanned the message, his expression hardening. "Do we reinforce the walls?"

"No," Alaric replied, his voice low and dangerous. "He’s not rallying support—he’s seizing power. And his sight is set on the capital, not us."

He turned his eyes northward, to where the capital’s was. His thoughts churned with both dread and resolve.

"Turik’s war is no longer about borders," he said. "It will change the history of Northem, Estalis and Zura." The corner of his lips curled up into a small smile. "He thought he had the upper hand with General Odin’s exile but he is in for a surprise."

One morning, an unexpected presence stirred Lara’s manor—General Marlon Norse, once a rival, now a visitor bearing humility. His arrival at the northern gate had caused a stir. The guards wouldn’t let them enter. And it wasn’t until Asael and Galahad personally came to escort him that he was granted entry.

Like Connor and Balder Vidal, Marlon Norse was equally surprised to see the new Calma. He now understood why Alaric calmly accepted his banishment to the south. He was building something bigger than Savadra. He was creating not just a kingdom but an empire.

He was amazed at the smooth cobblestone on the side streets where commoners passed by in a blur, pedaling their bicycle like it was an extension of their bodies.

Did King Heimdal knew? Marlon knew that behind the king’s cold facade he wore in front of Alaric, he loved his son with Astrid more than anyone else. Did he foresee Alaric’s future when he decreed him exiled and granted him the towns in the southern border as his fief?

Marlon was pulled back from his thoughts when they entered the gates of huge manor. From a distance, he saw the structure glistened from the morning sun. Was it Alaric’s palace?

"Uncle Marlon, Welcome to Lara’s manor." Peredur, the youngest of his nephews greeted him not with the usual warmth but with cold detachment. He felt that something clenched his heart. The twins were the closest to him. But he could not blame him. When his father and brothers were framed and judged unfairly, he only stood by and watch. In fact he was one of the key figures in the framing of the Norse family.

Then a realization hit him. The manor belonged to Lara?

"This... this manor belongs to your sister?" He asked wide-eyed. How could a woman own a property?

"It is Alaric’s betrothal gift to her." Asael did not beat around the bush and divulge it directly in an indifferent manner. He hated his uncle for betraying them but their upbringing did not allow him to show blatant disrespect.

Marlon did not ask anymore. Alaric must have amassed a lot of wealth to be able to gift such a sprawling estate to Lara.

"I seek audience with your father and to all of you." Marlon said in a small voice. After spending time facing the portrait of his great grandfather Beor, he was truly humbled.

Peredur left to call his parents and his other siblings. He had not witnessed how his father and his brothers suffered. Perhaps it was because of this that he was the least resentful of his uncle.

"You should not have come to Calma, General Marlon Norse!"