CHAPTER 450: THE AFTERMATH : RETURNING TO THE PALACE

Prince Alaric rode in grim silence, Lara at his side, flanked by the Norse generals and the soldiers of the Phoenix Legion. Their return to the palace bore no echoes of victory—only the bitter weight of survival.

The city’s great gates opened not to triumph, but to silence. No fanfare, no banners—only the hush of a kingdom holding its breath. Smoke still curled from rooftops charred in the night’s slaughter. Blood stained the cobblestones, unwashed, a grim reminder that the queen’s golden jubilee had become a massacre.

Though Zura had been beaten back, triumph was hollow. While enemy forces swarmed the palace, rebels and bandits had descended upon the city outside, leaving ruin in their wake.

At the column’s center rattled a carriage that bore the kingdom’s broken heart: a queen stripped of crown and dignity, a hollow-eyed princess consort, and an adopted daughter who wept until her body shook.

The queen dared not lift the curtain nor peek out. Her crown was gone, her garments torn and stained in crimson, her face streaked with grime and tears—but her bearing was unbroken. Her eyes, rimmed red, burned with something more dangerous than sorrow: fury sharpened into resolve.

Beside her, Amielle sat like a ghost, lips pressed tight, one arm clutching Ceres as though afraid she would vanish too. Ceres’s small body trembled with every jolt of the carraige, her eyes vacant, her voice lost since the moment her brother’s screams filled the chamber.

Mira was not with them.

The courtiers who gathered in the square whispered her name like a curse. Some mourned her capture, but others spat bitter words—She chose herself. She chose wrong. Perhaps the gods have judged her.

Helga heard every whisper. She said nothing, though her jaw clenched until her teeth ached.

In the banquet hall, the aftermath unfolded like the slow unraveling of a wound that refused to heal.

Helga heard every whisper. Her tongue held still, but her jaw clenched until her teeth ached.

The banquet hall that should have showcased her glory became a tomb of aftermath, its halls echoing with cries of the wounded and the weary.

...

From Silverstone Castle came women who had been hostages—wives, daughters, and daughters-in-law—who refused to return home and instead offered their hands to tend the wounded. Amarin, wife of Sigfred, came among them. With her, the four disguised maids—Lazira, Aryana, Veronica, and Marjan—moved with steady purpose, their quiet efficiency saving lives. Even Rowana had chosen not to return to the Donalton Estate but to remain, watching the four women work with awe before stepping forward to lend a hand.

The palace infirmary overflowed. Only the gravely injured were carried within its walls; the rest of the wounded sprawled across the banquet hall, once a chamber of celebration, now a ward of agony.

It was there Rowana felt a hand clutch the hem of her dress.

"What are you doing, standing idle? Help me bandage this wound," a deep and husky voice reached Rowana’s ears.

She turned, startled, and found herself staring down at General Galahad, Odin’s son. Only hours ago, she had seen him ride strong beside the carriage. Now he lay pale on the floor, one arm bound in a ragged strip of black cloth, his breath short. Was he injured earlier while he carried himself like a war hero?

"You—" she stammered, glancing around, hoping he addressed someone else.

"You. Yes, you." This time, his tone was sharp, commanding. "Aren’t you here to help?"

"I..." Rowana faltered. She had only the most basic skills. But all around her, Lazira, Aryana and the others were bent over men whose lives teetered between breath and silence. No one else would come.

Kneeling, she opened the medicine kit. "Where are you hurt?" She asked?

"My arm." He answered briefly.

He must be in pain.

Rowana thought.

She unraveled the makeshift bandage, and fresh blood welled. The cloth fell away to reveal a long, deep gash that ran from his shoulder to just above his elbow.

Her hands trembled for only a heartbeat. Then she steadied herself, snipped away the fabric, and cleaned the wound with antiseptic. She reached for the salve—

"Stop," Galahad ordered. "You’ll need to stitch it first. Every kit has a suturing set."

Rowana froze. "I can’t—I’ll fetch Lazira."

"Look at her," he rasped, nodding toward Aryana, who knelt over a soldier fighting for his last breath. "She hasn’t time. Consider my skin cloth, and stitch it."

Rowana was speechless. His voice was firm, unyielding. She swallowed hard, her pulse racing. But when she looked around, every healer was already occupied with worse injuries. No one else could come.

Rowana drew in a deep breath. Cloth. Just cloth. With shaking hands, she threaded the special curved needle and began. Each pull of the thread was clumsy at first, but soon the rhythm steadied, her focus narrowing until the rest of the hall vanished and only she and his wounded arm remained.

Galahad watched her, his sharp eyes studying the flicker of every expression across her face. And though blood still dripped from his arm, the corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly.

...

Elsewhere, in the justice hall, the air was heavy as iron. The generals sat in grim silence as Prince Alaric stood at the head of the council table. His mask was gone, his eyes hard.

"We let them escape," he said, his voice measured, but edged like a blade. "The queen, the princess consort, and Ceres are safe. We did not find Mira. She has been taken—or she has chosen. Regardless, she is declared a traitor. Northem has nothing to do with her."

His gaze swept across the council like a hammer striking an anvil. "As you saw at the banquet, the king lives. His health is stronger than the rumors claim. Let no one say Northem has nobody on the throne. Even without my father, I am still here, and so is Alderan."

He folded his arms against his chest, leaning back, his tone turning colder still. "And hear this: Zura will pay. Northem declares war. We will strike them so hard they will never again forget the cost of crossing us."

Silence followed, thick as lead.

At last, Lara spoke, her voice soft, but taut as a drawn bowstring.

"Then we prepare for war."