CHAPTER 383: THE PATH TO REDEMPTION - FORGIVEN?

The storm of indecision gripped Marlon Norse like a vice. He stood at the manor’s threshold , staring past the horizon where the distant mountains cut the sky like jagged teeth. Two days. That was all the time left before his forces assembled. If he stayed, they would lose precious hours. If he left now, his body—already fraying from days of sleepless marches—might fail him before he reached them.

"General," Seveir’s voice broke the silence, low and urgent, "you must rest. You’ve been in the saddle for a few days without pause. You cannot lead men into battle if you collapse before it begins."

Marlon clenched his jaw. "But—"

"No," Odin interrupted, his tone firm enough to cut through Marlon’s stubbornness. "Stay the night. The horses are spent, and so are you. Galahad and Bener know a shorter route—faster, safer. If you leave tomorrow, you’ll still reach Mount Roca in time. Push any further tonight, and you’ll break both man and beast."

Marlon’s hands tightened into fists at his side. He hated weakness—especially his own. But Odin’s words rang with truth. His muscles trembled from exhaustion, and every breath felt like fire.

Before he could argue, General Odin approached, his presence like a wall of iron. "The matter is settled then," Odin said, his voice deep and calm, yet leaving no room for defiance. He turned to the butler. "Prepare a villa for General Norse. He is our guest tonight. See that meals are delivered promptly."

Odin’s gaze fell back on Marlon. "Rest, Marlon. A battle is not won by the fastest blade, but by the one who survives to wield it. You know that very well. It was what Great Grandpa Beor often told us when we were children."

He did not wait for thanks. With a brief nod to the butler at his side, Odin turned away, his black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. At his side, Freya walked with an expression carved from cold stone. Rage burned behind her eyes, the kind that years could not extinguish. She would not look at Marlon. She did not need to.

The sight of Marlon—his very presence—was still poison to her.

Lara’ Manor— The Helias Manor

Lara’s touch had transformed the old mayor’s manor into something almost regal. The estate sprawled across 800 hectares of rolling land, bordered by a dense forest that whispered secrets at dusk.

Villas lined the eastern and western wings, each crafted with elegance and intent. They were not mere houses but sanctuaries, with five to eight rooms apiece and gardens that spilled over with life.

The biggest villa, named after the Northem’s Godess of Family, — Familia, boasted a garden with blooming flowers, an infinity pool five meters across, its waters spilling gracefully into a carp-filled pond that shimmered in the sunlight. It is where Odin, Freya and their sons except Asael were living. Asael and Arabella occupied a separate villa.

The first time Odin and Freya saw the infinity pool, they were awed the their pride swelled when they learned it was Lara and Peredur who designed such beautiful and functional decoration.

Marlon’s quarters were simpler, but far from humble. His villa, named after the God of War, Gierro was designed for the generals and commanders who visited Carles. It has twelve sunlit rooms and a small garden of greeneries and shrubs, was more than he had expected. Considering the pain he had caused Odin’s family, he felt an unexpected gratitude. This kindness—silent but deliberate—spoke more than forgiveness ever could.

For the first time in weeks, the weight on his shoulders seemed lighter. Odin’s actions told Marlon what words did not: the past, while not forgotten, was no longer a chain around his neck. He would ride into the Carles battle with a steadier heart and without reluctance.

Meanwhile at the living room of the Villa Familia, Freya was still livid.

"How could you bring that snake into your daughter’s home?" she demanded, her voice slicing through the quiet. "Are you forgiving him? Odin, have you forgotten what he’s done? You could have all died on the road to Fengsel!"

Their children watched in silence as Odin, standing by the wide window, only smiled faintly, as if weathering a storm he’d already endured. He reached into his pocket and drew out the Norse family seal—a heavy piece of history, its engravings of a rider with a spear, framed by a ring of flame, worn smooth by generations of hands.

"Who am I, if I cannot forgive?" Odin said softly, almost to himself. "Great-grandfather Beor would be rolling in his grave if I let stubborn pride blind me."

He held the seal in between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted it for his family to see.

"Marlon gave me this—the Norse Family Seal, passed down through the firstborn sons of our line. I accepted it because, despite his flaws, Marlon still carries the strength of our blood. Merlin, however..." Odin’s gaze hardened. "Merlin is not worthy. He is too weak. Too easily swayed."

His eyes shifted to Asael, seated beside his pregnant wife, Arabella.

"This seal belongs with someone who can protect the Norse legacy. Even though Merlin is firstborn, I would trust Asael—or any of our sons—before I’d place it in Merlin’s hands."

Finally, his gaze fell on Lara, sitting beside her mother. His lips curled into a thin, knowing smile.

"Even Lara," Odin said quietly, "is stronger than Merlin."

...

The next morning, the mist over Helias Manor clung low to the ground, veiling the land like a shroud. Marlon stood at the edge of the garden, staring eastward, toward the unseen Carles Plains beyond the Alta-Sierra range, where blood was destined to fall. He could almost hear the distant echo of war drums, though perhaps it was only his own pulse pounding against his ears.

Carles, a strategic seaport was not a battlefield anyone chose willingly. It was a cursed stretch of land where kings had bled armies dry for centuries. The earth there was dark, rich with iron—and with the bones of those who had fallen.

Men said the soil itself drank blood greedily, as if remembering each life it had claimed. Mount Roca, the rock mountain that served as the backdrop to Carles was said to have siphoned the blood of soldiers who died in Gwamuros, the plain outside the walls of Carles.

Marlon tightened his grip on his gauntlets, the cold leather biting into his palms. He could feel the weight of what was to come pressing down on him like an anvil.

This would not be a simple clash. This was a reckoning—both for him and for the Norse name.