CHAPTER 446: THE RESCUE

Meanwhile, in the banquet hall, steel still clashed, but the rhythm had shifted. The tide was turning.

At first, despair had ruled. The knights of Northem stood frozen, their loyalties cloaked in shadow, watching as the Zurans carved through nobles and servants alike. Screams rang against marble walls, and the hall reeked of blood and spilled wine. Then—like a spark catching dry tinder—a voice rose, raw and defiant:

"For Northem!"

A single blade swung. Then another. Those who had lingered in doubt hurled themselves into the fray, their hesitation burned away by the stench of betrayal. Steel met steel, and the balance of battle cracked.

"Stop!" a Zuran commander bellowed, his voice desperate. "Raise your swords, and the women and children of the Silverstones, the Donaltons, and your nobles will die this night. Their blood will be on your hands!"

But his words faltered as Sigfred and Duke Silverstone strode forward and hurled a limp body across the floor—the corpse of the very commander charged with guarding the hostages.

The Zuran’s face blanched. "How... how could it be?" But he did not have a moment to ponder.

Reinforcements stormed through the banquet doors. Knights who moments before had been statues now fought with fire in their eyes, freed by the knowledge that their kin were safe. The hall became a furnace of violence. Pressed on all sides, the Zurans faltered beneath the renewed fury.

One by one, the invaders fell. Bodies sprawled across marble tiles slick with blood, amid the wreckage of toppled tables and shattered goblets. At last, the final few were dragged down, steel at their throats. Silence followed—a silence heavy with the weight of slaughter.

The banquet hall was won. But the heart of the royal family still lay in peril.

...

Odin’s eyes burned with fatigue, but his voice was steady as he ordered two knights into the corridor to prepare what Turik demanded.

While everyone waited, Lara moved. She crouched beside Reuben and checked on his condition, and her brows furrowed.

Cracked lips. Legs that were bent at awkward angles. Fingernails caked with blood. The crown prince looked so pitiful, and her healer’s heart was stirred.

She rummaged through her backpack and took out her emergency kit. She drew out a hypodermic and slid the needle into his shoulder.

Queen Helga cried out in horror. "What are you doing? That’s poison! You’re killing my son!" She struggled, but the blade at her throat nicked her flesh, and she froze, clutching her neck with trembling hands. Her eyes blazed with hatred as she glared at Lara—still cloaked in the guise of Fernis.

But Lara did not falter. Her fingers pressed to the biggest wound on Reuben’s leg, steady despite the blood. She looked up at her master. "I need something to support his leg. He is badly injured."

Turik sneered, and it did not escape Odin’s watchful gaze.

Jethru fetched scabbards from fallen Northem knights. Orion, grave-faced, crouched beside Lara. "I can realign the bones," he murmured, "but the knees..." His voice trailed off.

Lara gave the faintest nod. She had accounted for the anesthetic—an experiment born of two years working with Orion to draw medicines from plants, distilling them into precious injectables. Their highest priorities where the anesthetic and antivenom.

The drug would be taking hold now.

With Jethru’s support, Orion snapped the bones back into alignment. Reuben groaned but did not wake. Lara’s hands worked swiftly, stitching the torn flesh, applying salves, binding the leg in cloth, then bracing it between scabbards.

Turik’s eyes gleamed as he watched the slender healer wrapped Ruben’s legs in layers of cloth. If he could bring him into Zura how great would it be?

"I want him added to the hostages," Turik said coldly.

Lara exchanged glances with her masters, then with Alaric, who stood silent, his expression unreadable. She rose. With one last look at Reuben, she tossed her kit to Orion. "Master Orion, there’s another knight still breathing. Save him."

Then she turned toward Turik.

"Wait—no!" Odin’s voice broke the silence. He lunged as if to stop her, but Lara’s eyes found his. Calm, resolute, she mouthed: I will be okay, Father.

Her gaze slid to Mira, who was being held by another Zuran commander just beside Helga. For a heartbeat, Mira froze. Those eyes—why did they feel so hauntingly familiar?

Lara stepped forward. Turik shoved Helga aside and seized her, pressing cold steel to her neck. In that instant, she locked eyes with Alaric, her father, and her masters. An unspoken pact passed between them.

"How about me? Please let me go." Ceres shrieked, desperate to be spared. Her cry ended in a gasp of pain as a blade pressed against her throat.

Amielle, pale and hollow-eyed, gave no sound at all.

From outside came a shout: "The carriages are ready, General Odin!"

The bargain was struck.

...

By dawn, twenty carriages stood at the palace’s gates, loaded with grain, wine, silver—spoils of the night. Horses pawed and snorted, their breath misting in the chill air. Some area of the palace smoldered, alleyways blackened with ash and crimson with blood.

Turik’s men spilled out of the fortress, dragging their captives.

Queen Helga stumbled between two armored soldiers, her gown streaked with blood. Amielle, soulless and pitiful, was hauled like a doll, her pale hair matted with sweat. Ceres staggered, her face drained of all color, too frightened even to weep.

And Mira—Mira walked under her own strength, though her wrist was clamped in a soldier’s grip like a shackle. Her head was high, her lips tight, but her eyes betrayed the hollow pit in her soul. She had chosen life. And now, life had chosen chains.

Lara on the other hand, followed behind Turik, two soldiers flanking her with their swords drawn and pointed behind her.

At the palace gates, Turik raised his sword high, his voice carrying over the walls of Northem.

"Behold! The wolves of Zura! We devour, and we take what is yours! And not even your kings can stop us!"

A soldier spat at him. "Loser. Despicable coward."

But instead of getting angry, Turik only laughed, manic and wild. "Loser? This loser has broken your queen and your prince. What does that make you? How pathetic!"

Hidden among his knights, Odin’s clenched fists turned white. Not yet, he told himself. Be patient and wait. My daughter is still with them.

The gates groaned open. The Zurans poured out, their carriages rattling as the whips cracked. Dust rose in choking clouds as the enemy made their escape.

Turik frowned as he surveyed their diminished number.

"Where are the others?" He asked.

"Those who are in the banquet hall are dead, and so those who were in Balai Hamili." A Zuran commander reported but did not dare to look at Turik in the eyes.

Turik’s jaw clenched. "Damn it! How could this happen?"

Even the commander did not have an answer.

And so, the Zurans fled into the dawn.

Turik’s own carriage, black and iron-bound, surged forward, drawn by steeds bred for war. Queen Helga and Mira were inside with him, pressed against the far corner, her hands bound. Turik sat across from her, his grin as sharp as ever.

"You see, little flower?" he said above the roar of pursuit. "You chose life. And life chose me. You will serve, and you will learn—until your poisons are mine, and your loyalty too."

Mira’s stomach clenched. She wanted to scream, to spit, to fight—but all that rose in her throat was silence.

Turik exchanged carriages when he felt that they were far enough to be noticed.

Lara was also riding in the same carriage as General Turik. He wanted to keep him there because, to Turik, the young man was more valuable than the old queen.

But the soldiers of Northem were not content to let the enemies slip away.

Odin’s command rang sharp across the courtyard. "After them! Do not let him vanish into the wilds!"

Hooves thundered. The chase began.

The carriages tore down the valley roads, wheels splintering stone, horses lathered with foam. Behind them came the Northem knights, their armor gleaming like a tide of vengeance.

Alaric rode at the front, his hair whipping in the wind, his blade already drawn. Galahad followed close, eyes narrowed, his mount relentless.

Arrows whistled through the air. One struck a carriage wheel, splintering wood, sending the wagon lurching sideways before toppling into a ditch. Men screamed as they were crushed beneath the weight.

At the rear of the convoy, the battle raged. Knights clashed with Zurans, steel against steel, hooves crushing bone. General Odin cut down two men in a single sweep, his blade singing with fury. Nicolas’ arrows struck true, felling riders who strayed too close to his horse.

Within the chaos, Helga was pushed out of the carriage. Did that man push her? How dare he?

A knight’s hand caught her wrist, pulling her to safety before she fell into the dirt, gasping, as Amielle and Ceres were pried from their captors in turn.

For a heartbeat, hope broke through the smoke of war. The queen, her daughter and daughter-in- law were free.

But Mira and Lara were not among them.

Alaric’s gaze tracked the black, unassuming carriage speeding ahead, dust trailing in its wake. His jaw tightened. "Watch out for that carriage. It is where Turik is."