CHAPTER 449: THE AFTERMATH: MIRA AND THE VOICES WITHIN

Mira curled tighter against the carriage wall, knees pressed to her chest as if the wood might swallow her whole and bury her in silence. But silence would not come. Their voices still echo in her ears—Asael’s contempt, Galahad’s shock, Lara’s cold condemnation. Words sharper than any blade, cutting deeper because they were true.

They know. They all know. The thought came like a growl, low and gruff, reverberating inside her.

Her breath comes ragged, uneven. She pressed her palm against her mouth to keep from sobbing too loudly, but the sting of her torn skin reminded her of what she had done. The blood seeped hot between her fingers, warm against the chill air. It was almost comforting. Pain at least kept her grounded.

But was she truly wrong?

No, you are not wrong. You just wanted to live. To clutch at breath when death loomed so near. That voice again—firm, almost kind.

"Whose there?" Her gaze darted around. The Zuran soldiers were slumped in uneasy slumber, firelight carving strange shadows across their faces. No one stirred.

If the sword had been turned on them—on Alaric, on Lara, on Galahad— do you think they would have stood still, noble and proud, welcoming death with open arms? Of course, they would have bargained, begged, bartered—just as you did, so you need not feel guilty about it.

Mira’s throat tightened.

They wouldn’t choose the way you did.They are strong. They are Norse. And you... You are nothing. A second voice, slick and mocking, slithered through her mind.

She clutched her head, nails digging into her scalp, desperate to drive out the voices.

Doesn’t the weight of their judgment crush you, press you deeper into the shadows? You are Mira, the coward. Mira the traitor. Mira, the selfish, who chose herself. The voice laughed inside her head.

"Stop it," she whispered, half-grunt, half-plea.

The name Norse clings to you like a cloak too grand for your frail shoulders, one they are eager to strip away. But who are they to judge? You are a Norse, too. The first voice pressed back, defiant.

How dare they judge you when they do not understand? None of them were there when Turik’s eyes fell on you, when death wrapped its cold fingers around your throat. None of them felt the terror of being torn apart between survival and sacrifice. Not Asael, nor Galahad, not even your adoptive father, Odin.

They cast you aside so easily. They spit your name like venom. Even Galahad—the cousin, who once doted on you and lovingly called you sister—looked upon you with horror. They do not deserve you. None of them does.

A sob shuddered through Mira, but she choked it back, curling tighter, nails digging into her palms until blood drips anew. The pain sharpened her. Hardened her.

Yes, Mira, you are wicked for choosing life. If it were Lara—proud, untouchable Lara—she would have embraced death with honor. The mocking voice sneered.

"Stop it!" Mira cried out.

Her eyes flew open. She had dozed. Just a dream.

For one fragile heartbeat, she prayed it was all an illusion—she desperately hoped that she would wake in her chamber, sunlight spilling across the silken sheets, the crown prince’s breath steady beside her.

You still dream of him? Of waking at his side? You damned him, Mira. He will never walk again—because of you. The second voice sliced through hope, each word a knife stabbing her heart.

Reality surged back, heavy and cold. Shackles bound her wrists. The carriage floor was bare, the seats torn out so General Turik could lie down comfortably. There was no palace. No husband. Only chains.

Mira let out a bitter laugh, hollow as the darkness around her. Was this her life now? Shackled, despised, hollowed out? Yet beneath the shame, beneath the choking guilt, something smoldered.

Anger.

Her voice was barely a murmur, spoken to no one but herself. "Can’t they forgive me? Am I not their blood?"

She wanted to hate them. She did hate them. But hate could not drown the ache—the raw, endless ache—for their acceptance. For one hand reaching out, one voice telling her she was not lost.

But then Lara’s words returned, cold and unyielding. I would have saved you, but you forfeited that when you betrayed me. You sold me to Turik when you told him I am Odin’s daughter and Alaric’s betrothed.

Tears burned hot down her cheeks. She bit them back with ragged breaths. She had only wanted to survive—and for that, she had lost everything. Her family’s trust. Her people’s honor. Even her name.

Her grief coiled tight, hardening into something jagged. Slowly, sorrow curdled to scorn. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile, though her tear-glossed eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.

Cowards. Hypocrites. They brand me a traitor, yet none of them would welcome death with open arms. Not one.

In the shadows of the carriage, Mira no longer looked like a frightened girl. She looked like something else entirely—crushed, yes, but coiling, sharpening. A spark, waiting for the wind to turn her into fire.

Her gaze swept over the half-sleeping Zuran guards, their breaths uneven in the firelight.

Inside her head, two halves tore at each other. One longed to crawl back to her kin, to plead, to beg them to see her still as family. The other whispered to let them choke on their honor until they knew what it meant to fear death

Which half will win, she did not know.

"Damn it! Are you deaf?"

Turik’s roar cracked through the cramped carriage like a whip, jolting Mira from the fog of her thoughts. His voice was raw, jagged with fury and pain, each word carrying the weight of command. "I called you several times, and you sit there like some lifeless statue. I am in pain, —make it stop."

Mira’s pulse lurched. She fumbled at once with the battered medicine kit the Zuran soldier snatched from a healer. Her fingers closed around a small pill, and she turned toward Turik, hand trembling.

But his eyes—sharp as whetted steel even in exhaustion—snapped to hers. His glare froze her.

"You want me to choke, is that it?" His teeth ground together. "Help me sit."

Mira flinched at the order, instinct driving her forward. But the cold bite of the shackles around her wrists tugged her back, and with it came a sudden, calculating thought.

Lowering her gaze, she whispered gently, almost meekly, "Forgive me, General. I am shackled. I cannot move freely."

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, Turik braced his massive arms against the carriage floor. His breath rasped as he heaved himself upright, veins standing out along his arms, sweat glistening on his brow.

Only when he was propped up, trembling, did Mira lean forward. With deliberate care, she slipped the pill between his lips, then lifted the waterskin to guide the drink down his throat.

Turik swallowed hard, grimacing, then sagged against the wall.

And Mira smiled. Small. Sly. Hidden in the shadows of her bowed head.

He was not untouchable. Not unbreakable. The mighty General Turik would not be so difficult to control after all.

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