CHAPTER 447: ESCAPED?

Of the twenty carriages, only six managed to break through the chaos. Among them was the most unremarkable of all—the one carrying Turik. They managed to escape because the Zuran soldiers, mounted on horses, did their best to block the pursuing soldiers.

In the earlier struggle, Lara’s mask had been torn away.

Mira’s eyes widened, her voice breaking into disbelief.

"You....It is you." But almost instantly, shock gave way to calculation. A glint of cunning lit her gaze as she turned to Turik, her tone suddenly honeyed, the same tone she used to beguile Reuben when she wanted something.

"Let me go. I’ll only slow you down. Take her instead! She’s General Odin’s daughter." Mira’s trembling finger pointed toward Lara.

Lara’s gaze turned frigid, her eyes locking onto Mira’s like shards of ice.

"Even now, cornered as you are, you show no remorse," Lara’s words cut like a blade. Mira flinched but forced her chin higher, masking her fear with bitterness.

"She is also Prince Alaric’s betrothed," Mira spat. I was forced to marry the crown prince as his second wife. Do you know what that means? A lowly status, forever beneath her.

"You do not deserve the Norse name," Lara replied coldly, her voice dripping with disdain.

"Ha ha ha!"

Turik’s laughter slashed through the carriage, thick and menacing. Mira shuddered.

"Odin, Odin... your luck rots," Turik sneered. "Who could have guessed your precious daughter would fall into my hands?" His hand snaked toward Lara’s face.

But his fingers never reached her. In an instant, his wrist was caught, trapped in Lara’s iron grip.

"Mmm, a fiery little vixen," Turik drawled, forcing a grin, but sweat prickled his brow. He pulled, twisted, strained—yet he could not break her hold. His left hand drifted toward the dagger strapped to his thigh, but before he could draw it, she released him.

Her eyes narrowed, golden with fury, and for a heartbeat Turik swore Odin himself stared back at him through her gaze. A chill raced down his spine.

"Don’t you dare touch me with your filthy hands," Lara hissed.

Turik’s mouth opened for a retort, but the carriage jolted violently, stealing his words. He barked curses over the grinding of iron. Lara sat perfectly still, posture deceptively submissive, eyes downcast. A far cry from the earlier fiery girl—a falcon pretending to fold its wings.

Opposite her, Turik sprawled lazily, knife tapping against his thigh, his grin jagged like a wolf’s snarl carved into human flesh.

"So quiet now," he taunted. "A caged falcon waiting for its cage to open. But I’ll break you, as I broke your queen, as I broke your prince."

Lara lifted her gaze at last—calm, unreadable. She was waiting. Beyond the valley, they would cross Savadra’s borders, into Turik’s reinforcements. Time was running thin.

Turik leaned forward, wanting to seize her chin and crush her defiance beneath his fingers. But memory of her earlier strength halted him. He reclined back, his grin curling.

"Tell me, daughter of Odin—my falcon. How does it feel to know your wings belong to me?"

Her lips curved—into something that was not fear, something sharper. An amused smile.

"It feels," she whispered, voice like steel, "like you’ve mistaken the hunter for the prey."

Her knee shot upward, driving into his ribs with brutal force. Turik doubled over with a guttural curse, air torn from his lungs. Before he could recover, Lara wrenched his wrist, twisting the knife free. For an instant, her instinct screamed to plunge it into his thigh—but no. This wasn’t her kill. This was her father’s.

She spun the dagger once in her palm, then released it. The blade sang through the air, grazing Turik’s cheek, passing through the curtain before burying itself in the back of the soldier driving the carriage.

Chaos erupted. The carriage lurched violently, horses screaming. Lara moved like lightning. She vaulted out the door, a flash of steel in her hand as she flicked a dart into the horse’s hind leg.

The carriage screeched to a halt in a maelstrom of dust and shouts.

And then—they were there. Odin. Alaric. Galahad. The father met his daughter’s eyes for a single heartbeat. He saw she was alive. Unbroken. But of course, she was his daughter. Nothing would happen to her given her strength.

Then he tore open the door, sword blazing in hand. His gaze locked onto Turik.

The Zuran general staggered from the carriage, dazed, blood trickling from his temple.

Mira cowered in a corner, wishing she could vanish into the shadows. After what she had done, there would be no place left for her—neither in her palace nor in her family. Had she chosen wrong?

Odin stepped into the dirt road, his sword glinting in the cold morning light. Around them, Northmen and Zurans encircled, voices dimming to silence.

Across the valley, new columns of dust rose—reinforcements thundering in from both sides.

"O Turik of Zura!" Odin’s voice rang like thunder echoing against the cliffs. "You mocked my queen in our halls. You broke my prince in our territory. You dared lay hands on my blood." His sword leveled, his words like judgment. "Now face me, and suffer for every insult you uttered in that chamber."

Turik spat into the dirt, sneering. "A dog barking for scraps." His blade hissed free of its sheath.

Steel clashed, sparks flew, the valley itself quaked with the rhythm of death. Odin fought with the ferocity of a general and a father, each blow thunderous with vengeance. Turik reeled, parrying clumsily, his earlier arrogance shredded beneath Odin’s storm.

The duel dragged across the dirt, Odin driving him back step by step. At last, with a brutal twist, Odin knocked Turik’s blade aside and swept his legs from under him. The Zuran General crashed to the ground. Odin’s boot pinned his chest, his sword at Turik’s throat.

The valley held its breath.

Odin’s voice dropped to a growl. "You wanted to humiliate. To strip my people of their dignity. To grind them into dust." He leaned closer, his blade pressing until blood welled at Turik’s neck. "Now you will crawl back to Zura—broken. A jackal with no teeth."

He circled Turik, then drove his boot into his ribs. The man crumpled onto his knees, facing north—the direction of the palace. Another savage kick flattened him into the dirt.

The Zuran soldiers bristled, blades half-drawn, but Alaric’s command cut through them like thunder.

"This is between your general and ours. Take one step forward, and it will be your last." Already, Zuran corpses marked the invisible line—arrows piercing their chests. The rest froze.

Turik staggered upright, sword trembling in his grasp. But each time he rose, Odin’s merciless kick sent him crashing back into the dirt. Until he had no strength left.

At last, Odin raised his sword high, then brought it down—not to kill, but to cripple. The blunt edge slammed across Turik’s knees. Bone cracked. Tendons snapped. His scream tore across the valley like a dying beast’s howl.

Odin turned his back on him, his voice a sentence.

"Bind him."