CHAPTER 407: RETAKING OF CARLES

Night fell like a shroud over the hills and plains of Carles, cloaking the town in a tense, pre-storm silence. A cold wind whispered through the grass, carrying with it the scent of smoke and blood—reminders of battles not yet over.

Night fell swiftly over the plains and the hills, wrapping Carles in a cloak of uneasy silence. Inside the secret cavern, General Marlon sat beside Odin, his arm freshly bandaged, though pain still pulsed beneath the wrappings. A map of Carles lay between them, weighed down with stones and marked with blood.

"We strike before the sun breaks the sky," Odin said, his voice like iron dragged across stone. "No siege. No waiting. No mercy. We scale the walls, take the passage beneath the kitchen. A decoy at the gate will fracture their lines. While they’re distracted, we end this."

"They won’t expect a counterattack so soon," Alaric added. "They’ll believe we retreated for good. We should attack the manor at the same time."

"And if they did expect it," said Lara, stepping into the firelight, "they won’t be ready for us."

Her brothers stood behind her, armored and armed, each one radiating grim anticipation.

Marlon looked across the map, then at his son standing beside him.

"Merlin," he said, voice steady. "You’ll take the western wall. You’ve walked that stone once already. You know the terrain. You lead the breach."

Merlin stiffened—surprised, then slowly nodded. "I won’t fail."

"You won’t," Marlon replied. "Because you’ve already earned this."

He looked at Odin and hesitated. "My men and I can attack the Town Hall."

Odin nodded. "Your nephews will go with you along with some of the Phoenix Legion. I will go with Alaric and Lara to infiltrate the Marquina Manor."

Marlon was surprised. He did not expect that Odin would agree so easily. He did not know that in Odin’s mind, he shied off from touching the Townhall. He wanted Marlon to retake it because it was lost under his watch. He wanted him to have the opportunity to prove his lineage.

Hector and Sevier glanced at Odin at the same time, admiration evident in their eyes.

Just as dawn was breaking, a heavy mist clung to the earth over Carles.

From the top of the rampart, the Estalian guards saw nothing—no banners, no glint of armor. Only silence and fog.

Swoosh!

Swoosh!

Swoosh!

Thud!

Arrows whispered through the mist like ghosts. Guards crumpled silently, dropping without cries. Moments later, shapes emerged—Northern warriors scaling the walls like shadows come to life. Some leapt from the limbs of trees, others used grappling lines and bare hands. There were no horns. No drums. Just breath, sweat, and resolve to take back what was theirs.

In the southwest, Alaric and Odin’s men—no more than thirty—silently overwhelmed the wall guards and unlatched the side gate. With practiced precision, they slipped inside and vanished into the manor like phantoms.

Within moments, two fronts of Northem soldiers flooded into Carles like a tide of vengeance.

General Norse charged the back door of the town hall himself, mounted on a stolen horse and roaring, his blade sweeping wide, felling Estalians like wheat before a scythe. Beside him rode Hector, spear gleaming, shield broken from the last fight, but his will unshaken.

Inside the town call, the Norse brothers and some of the Phoenix Legion soldiers, rounded up the few remaining Zuran and Estalians soldiers who attempted resistance, but it did not take long before they surrendered.

Outside, Marlon and Hector, wounded but commanding, swords in hand, a column of infantry at their back, chased the enemies who were escaping. The people of Carles watched from shuttered windows as their would-be conquerors were driven back street by street.

Marquina Manor fell in the hands of Northem in one sweep. The Zurans and Estalians, who were left to defend the manor, dragged themselves from their beds, still half asleep. Since their leaders left for the war at the capital, they indulged themselves in alcohol, finishing half of Odin’s wine collection. They never thought that the guards assigned to protect the external areas surrounding the manor were useless.

So, how they took Carles down was applied to them that day. Bloodless and swift.

As the sun rose from the east, the Zuran and Estalian soldiers who were patrolling around realized that something was wrong and hurried back to the town hall or to the Marquina Manor.

From the rooftops, Lara and Alaric rained arrows down on Estalian and Zuran formations, picking off commanders and sowing chaos. Abel laughed wildly as he dropped a firepot into a munitions cart, sending it up in a thunderous explosion that rocked the western plaza.

Estalian and Zuran forces scrambled to regroup, retreating to the inner courtyard of the town hall—the last defensible position in Carles.

But it was too late.

Odin, Marlon, and Merlin converged in that very courtyard, their units hemming in the surviving enemies. Among the enemy stood Commander Aldrin of Estalis, bloodied, armor dented, but defiant.

"You think this victory means anything?" he spat. "You hold Carles for now. But Estalis will return. And when we do—"

Odin cut him off, stepping forward.

"We’ve held this land for over five decades. You came here thinking we were weakened, scattered. But this—" he gestured to the Northem soldiers forming around them, "—is our answer."

Aldrin drew his blade. "Then finish it."

Marlon nodded once.

The final clash erupted.

Steel rang against steel as the generals of both sides joined the fight. Merlin faced off against two Estalian lieutenants, parrying desperately until Lara appeared from the shadows, arrows finding their hearts in quick succession.

Odin faced Adlrin in a brutal duel, their blades clashing with enough force to shake the courtyard stones. The Estalian was fast, but Odin was stronger. With a final roar, he slammed his pommel into Aldrin’s face, then drove his sword through the man’s chest.

It was over.

The Northem banner was raised over Carles by midday. Bells rang from the tower that had once flown Estalian colors, now replaced by the sigil of the North.

Civilians came out from hiding, weeping with relief. Healers moved through the streets, tending the wounded. The fallen were buried with honors—Northem and Estalian alike.

Marlon stood at the steps of the town hall, overlooking the city he’d nearly lost. Yes, Estalis has declared Carles a city. Merlin stood beside him, bruised and bloodied, but alive. A leader now.

"We did it," Merlin said quietly.

"No," Marlon replied. "You did it."

Behind them, Odin placed a heavy hand on Marlon’s shoulder.

"This was a victory," he said. "But it’s only the beginning. Estalis will answer."

Marlon nodded. "Then we’ll be ready."

Alaric approached from the gate, blood still streaking his gauntlets.

"Let them come," he said. "Next time, we won’t wait for them."

And so, Carles stood reclaimed—scarred, defiant, and free.