CHAPTER 384: THE PATH TO REDEMPTION - FATHER AND SON

Marlon who sharpened his resolve, was traveling across the hidden route in the slopes of Ourea. Because Arabella was expecting, only Galahad and Bener along with the Eagle Team, volunteered to escort Marlon to the alternative land route. After that, Galahad returned to Calma, while Bener and the Eagle Team secretly followed Marlon and his group.

When Asael and Bener were wrongfully accused, and the Eagle team learned that they were rescued, they left the capital and moved south. They knew that the Norse generals would be heading back to Calma and they wanted to meet them there. And they did and had pledge their allegiance to Prince Alaric.

...

At a hidden campsite behind the boulders of Mount Roca, Merlin Norse brooded inside the war tent. The flicker of the sunlight painted his face in sharp angles, revealing a man both regal and weathered beyond his years. His long, unkempt hair hung over his eyes as he studied the map sprawled across the table. Carles. Mount Roca. The enemy’s banners were marked in red ink, their guards position on the walls were marked by red flags.

Merlin’s hand trembled as he traced the lines. He hated that tremor—hated that weakness had become his father’s favorite word when speaking of him.

"Merlin, he is indecisive," Marlon had once told Odin, thinking him out of earshot. "He feels before he thinks. A leader who bleeds too much for others will bleed out before his army does."

Those words had cut deeper than any blade.

But Merlin was not soft. Not anymore. Or so he told himself.

Outside, his soldiers, or rather, his father’s soldiers —mercenaries and loyalists both—waited for orders. Some were veterans of the campaign from two years ago, their faces hardened by years of steel and death. Others were farmers pressed into service, their hands still raw from plows rather than swords. They did not follow his father out of love. They followed because he bore the Norse name and the promise of coin.

Merlin turned to the man standing in the shadows of the tent. General Hector Valuz, his father’s second-in-command, was watching him with wary eyes. He wanted to turn him over to the court but Merlin convinced him that he would rather die claiming back Carles than rot in prison.

For once, Merlin has earned Hector’s admiration so he permitted him to stay with him disguised as one of his soldiers.

"Your father, should be arriving soon. Let us await him, before we move."

"Did Malik really gave father the order to attack Carles?" Merlin was worried. What if Malik was preparing a trap for them?

"They’ll expect us to delay the attack on Fereya," Hector said, his voice quiet but steady. "But we won’t give them that fight. Not yet."

Merlin tilted his head. "Then what’s your plan, General Valuz?"

Hector’s eyes burned as he looked at the map again. "I’ll strike their flanks. We’ll use the arrows to clear the guards near the western walls of Centro, facing Roca, then we infiltrate from there and release the prisoners."

Merlin smiled faintly. "That’s not a bad plan. But Father... he might not approve as the archers would be in danger."

Hector’s expression darkened. "Then, what do you suggest? If not for you, we should not have been in this predicament."

Merlin’s face turned red. He looked down in embarrassment and did not say more.

...

By noon, word of Merlin’s movement reached Villa Familia. Odin and his sons stood together on the northern balcony, overlooking the distant horizon.

"I don’t think Marlon knew that his son joined his men in Roca." Odin said, his tone unreadable. "Hector is leading the soldiers. He would definitely take the western walls of Carles."

"But Father, he should know that we fortified that with a lot of sentries because that’s Carles weakest link," Galahad said.

"Hmmm. But Hector is not reckless, he should have a plan. But Merlin, in his haste to retake Carles and redeem himself, he migh intend to take Carles Creek."

"But that would be suicide, Father!" Gideon exclaimed.

"Merlin is reckless," Galahad replied, the weight of failure pressing against his words. "He leads with pride, not with wisdom. Pride will get him—and everyone who follows him—killed."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps pride is the only thing keeping him standing." Odin replied.

"Father, Brothers, Alaric would like to have a word with us." Lara’s melodious voice caused all the Norse men —Asael, Galahad, Gideon and the twins— to turn around and gazed at Alaric walking beside Lara.

General Odin frowned when he saw the prince’s hand was clasped with that of his daughter. Yet, he could not deny the fact that should there be a man worthy to stand beside his daughter, it could only be Alaric.

...

That night, the sky tore itself apart. Thunder rolled like the war drums of vengeful gods, and lightning split the Mount Roca into shards of blinding white, each flash illuminating the battlefield as if some celestial hand were painting scenes of carnage. Rain came down in sheets, turning the earth to black mire and soaking the living and dead alike.

Merlin stood at the mouth of a narrow pass, hemmed in by jagged boulders that rose like sentinels around him. His cloak was plastered to his shoulders, heavy with rain, his hair dripping into his eyes. Across the ridge, enemy fires flickered weakly, their flames choking under the relentless downpour, like dying breaths of defiance.

Behind him, his men whispered, their voices trembling—not from the cold, but from the kind of fear that chews at the spirit. Some murmured that they would never see another sunrise.

"I’ll prove them wrong," he muttered, almost to himself. "I’ll prove all of them wrong."

To the north, General Hector Valuz and his forces clashed with the Estalis soldiers. Hector had believed their camp hidden, nestled deep in the folds of the mountain, but the attack had come like a knife in the dark. A spy. There had to be a spy among them.

Forced to retreat, they had stumbled into this narrow throat of stone—a place that could just as easily serve as their tomb. Yet Hector found himself oddly grateful for the storm; the rain turned the cliffs slick and treacherous, keeping the Estalis soldiers from swarming the heights and crushing them from above.

Merlin, of all people, had surprised him tonight. The man Hector once dismissed as a coward was suddenly sharp, commanding his small band with precision and foresight. They had cut down scores of Estalis soldiers, not losing any of their own. But then the Estalis stopped charging and began strategizing —trapping them in this corridor of death.

By the time Hector regrouped with Merlin at the southern end of the pass, both men knew the truth: they had to break the enemy lines before the rain stopped. If the skies cleared, their doom would come swiftly.

And then—

the rain stopped.

The world held its breath. Water dripped from the rocks in ghostly silence as Hector and Merlin exchanged a grim look. They readied their swords, their last arrows long spent. If they were to die here, it would be steel against steel, face-to-face.

On the ridge above, the Estalis archers took aim, their bowstrings taut and hungry.

But before the arrows could fly, a fog—thick, unnatural—rolled in from nowhere, curling like smoke between the stones. The battlefield vanished into a pale, ghostly shroud. When it cleared, the Northem soldiers were simply gone.

"Damn it! What is this sorcery?" the Estalis commander roared, his voice raw with confusion. He rubbed at his stinging eyes, now watering as if from unseen smoke.

"I don’t know, Commander," one of his deputies rasped, squinting through the haze. "Our men... they can’t see. Their eyes are burning—tearing."

A scream cut through the mist. A soldier collapsed with an arrow lodged in his thigh. Then another. And another.

"Shields up! No—retreat! Retreat!" the commander bellowed. They were under attack, but from where? The arrows came like whispers from the dark, striking unseen.

The Estalis soldiers broke, scattering down the ridge, leaving their dead behind.

When silence returned, Marlon and his men emerged from the fog like wraiths, bows in hand, their faces painted with mud and shadows.

Marlon lowered his bow, the tension of battle still humming in his veins, and stepped forward from the mist. His men followed, silent as shadows, but Marlon’s eyes were fixed on the man standing before him, dripping wet beneath the dying storm.

"Merlin...Son...What are you doing here?" His voice was hoarse, as if the name itself were too heavy to say.

Merlin turned, his face pale but resolute, streaked with rain and grime. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still around them—no wind, no whisper of soldiers, only the faint hiss of water sliding down the stone.

"Father," Merlin said, and his tone carried a weight that made Marlon’s chest tighten. "I have to come. This should be my battle, not yours."

Merlin met his gaze with something Marlon hadn’t seen before—a fire, a quiet strength. "I couldn’t stay. Not while you were out here, not while family’s legacy is about to be ruined because of me." His voice was low, but unyielding. "I’m not the boy you left behind, the boy you always protected. I’m done hiding, Father."