CHAPTER 535: A WHISPER OF CHAINS

In the days that followed, the world seemed to shift—quietly, but with purpose. The new recruits of the Phoenix drilled from dawn until the sun bled out over the fields, their voices ringing like iron over the clamor of training grounds. Sparks from their blades flashed in the air, as if the gods themselves were watching.

Meanwhile, under General Cobar’s relentless command, the armies of Estalis gathered strength like a storm behind darkened clouds. With Marcus and Abner by his side, the general molded farmers and wanderers into soldiers—hard-eyed men and women who moved with the precision of a single, disciplined beast.

Far to the South, the glittering courts of the Azurverda Empire were taking shape. Titles were granted, alliances were forged, and the empire’s pulse began to quicken.

General Odin, the war god of the North whose name carried the weight of a hundred victories, was appointed Minister of Defense—his mere presence enough to stiffen the spines of lesser officers.

Kasmer Greenwood, sharp-minded and silver-tongued, was made Minister of Finance, his influence measured not by sword or shield, but by the clink of coin and the silence of debts paid.

Peredur, the youngest son of Odin was appointed Minister of Trade and Industry, he was the youngest of the ministers but the his bright mind could not be underestimated.

The old prince Dakota and King Heimdal were the honorary adivisor to the court.

Of Odin’s sons, Galahad alone remained behind in Northem. He took his father’s place as supreme general of the North along with his Uncle Marlon and his cousin Merlin, the youngest ever to command its armies. But those close to him knew the truth—his heart was tethered not by duty, but by affection. For in Northem, there was someone who had caught his gaze, someone whose laughter had thawed more than the snows of winter.

And while kingdoms fortified and empires stirred, news came like wildfire: Prince Alaric Kromwel would soon be crowned—the founding Emperor of Azurverda.

When the news reached the marble halls of Zura’s palace, a storm broke loose.

"How audacious!" thundered King Roman, his voice echoing against the walls of the throne room. "How dare he crown himself emperor! That title should be mine!" His rage cracked through the air like lightning, and the courtiers flinched as if struck. None dared lift their eyes. The scent of fear—sharp and metallic—filled the room.

"General Turik!" the king roared. "What of your schemes? Empty words, no results! You promised me Alaric’s fall, and yet here he stands, preparing for a coronation!"

Turik’s face hardened, but inside his thoughts seethed. This fool of a king. I gave him the plan, the spark—and still he expects me to set the fire myself?

He bowed low, forcing composure into his voice. "Your Majesty, as I have said before, the way to break Alaric is not through his armies, but through his heart. His weakness is General Odin’s daughter. Capture her, and Alaric’s foundation will crumble. The man who would be emperor will be undone by the very heart he swore to protect."

A heavy silence followed, thick with intrigue and danger.

The torches in the Zuran throne room burned low, their light flickering like dying stars against the marble. The ministers had long since fled the king’s wrath, leaving only King Roman, General Turik and a few generals the chamber. The air between them was thick—heavy with the scent of smoke, sweat, and unspoken treachery.

Roman sat slouched upon his throne, a gilded monstrosity of obisdian marble and ruby, his fingers tapping against the armrest. His crown hung slightly askew, the gesture unintentional but telling.

"So," he muttered, his voice rough as gravel, "you suggest we take the girl. Odin’s daughter. What is her name again?"

"Lara," Turik replied, stepping forward into the half-light. "Lara Odin’s blood. The Calma call her the goddess Eos, their symbol of hope. Said to have her father’s courage and her mother’s cunning. She rides with the Phoenix Legion when it suits her, proficient in warfare and the art of healing. Some also call her the Rose of the South."

Roman’s lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer. "A rose you say? Then we shall pluck her, and let Alaric bleed from the thorns."

Turik’s expression did not change, though inwardly he recoiled. Foolish man, he thought. He sees only the glory of conquest, never the cost of it. Aloud, he said, "The task will not be simple, Your Majesty. Odin guards his children as he guards his kingdom—with vigilance. Alaric, has eyes everywhere and Lara herself is not simple, capable of fighting better than the best of our generals. A misstep will bring the fury of Azurverda upon us before our blades are ready."

Roman rose from his throne, his cloak sweeping across the floor like the shadow of a storm. "Then we will not make a mistake," he said, each word sharp and deliberate. "You will see to it, Turik. You have your spies, your cutthroats. Find me a way. I want her in chains before Alaric’s coronation."

Turik’s jaw tightened. "Your Majesty, abduction of this nature requires discretion. The girl’s disappearance must seem... natural. A raid, perhaps. Bandits from Westalis, or a border skirmish gone awry. If Azurverda suspects Zura’s hand—"

Roman cut him off with a raised hand. "Do not insult me with caution, General. I want results, not excuses." His eyes glinted—a mad light that Turik had learned to fear. "Bring me the girl, and I will bring the empire to its knees. Alaric’s armies will crumble when he has no will to lead them."

Turik bowed low to hide his scowl. "As you command, my king."

But as he straightened, Roman turned, pacing before the throne. "Tell me, Turik," he said softly, "what does a general like you want from all this? You have power enough. Land, coin, soldiers at your call. Why do you serve me still?"

The question hung in the air, dangerous as a drawn blade.

Turik smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Because, Your Majesty, I serve the storm. And right now... the storm wears your crown."

Roman’s laughter echoed through the chamber, low and feral. "Well said. Go, then. Gather your shadows. I will await your triumph."

As Turik turned to leave, the great doors groaned open before him. Beyond them stretched the dark corridors of the palace, lit by the ghostly flicker of torchlight. He walked in silence, boots clicking against the stone, his thoughts a coil of cold calculation.

Lara, Odin’s only daughter he thought. If we take you, the world will change. But whether it breaks for Roman’s glory—or burns for Alaric’s vengeance—remains to be seen.

Outside, the night wind rose, carrying with it the distant cry of a hawk. Somewhere far away, beneath the southern stars, Lara was sleeping soundly on her comfortable bed. Her two wolves Gray and Snow were curled up at the foot of her bed like loyal battle pets.