CHAPTER 538: THE CHASE THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS

Zura had prepared meticulously for the abduction of Lara. Every detail had been calculated, every risk measured. Their finest soldiers, warriors trained in the ruthless art of jungle warfare—were already hidden among the dense undergrowth of Mount Ourea, waiting in silence. The mountain itself had become their weapon, every shadow a blade, every whisper of wind a signal.

In the deep of the night, when darkness veiled over Calma, and the entire city, still draped in the remnants of its festival, unease lingered in Hevenfort and Mendel Manor. Banners once bright with celebration now hung limp, their colors muted by the heavy air of dread that had settled over the streets.

Inside Mendel Manor, silence reigned. The lively laughter that once filled its marble halls had vanished, replaced by the quiet weight of grief.

Ivy slept fitfully, her small hand still clutching the torn ribbon she had refused to let go—the only trace left from the abduction.

By the window, Samuel and Jethru stood rigid, their faces unreadable, yet their whitened knuckles betrayed the storm beneath their calm.

Ivan sat beside his sister’s bed, gently holding her hand as though afraid she too might vanish if he let go.

Far from the city, on the mist-veiled outskirts of Ourea, Redon knelt before Alaric. The prince still wore his armor from earlier that day, its silver plates dulled by dust and exhaustion.

"Your Highness," Redon began, his voice low and strained. "It was too dark to follow them. But we’ve confirmed—the ones who took Miss Lara were Zurans. They tried to make it look like the work of bandits, but the deception was clumsy. They left traces."

Alaric’s jaw hardened. "Turik," he said at last, the name cutting through the dawn like a blade. "This reeks of him."

General Odin emerged from the shadows, his presence like a moving storm. "If Turik has Lara, then he’ll aim to take her to Zura before we can intercept. Or worse—he’s already set his snares in the mountain."

Alaric’s eyes, cold and unyielding, flicked toward the horizon. "It’s too dark to move now," he said, his tone dangerously controlled. "We wait for dawn—and for reinforcements."

Meanwhile, deep within the jungle, hidden among the dense bushes of Ourea, Zuran soldiers dozed inside a cave. A few stood watch at the entrance, their armor faintly glinting in the firelight. Their commander lingered by the wall, eyes fixed on their captive.

Lara sat alone, her back against the stone, her wrists bound but her posture serene. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, as though she were resting beneath the stars rather than in the midst of enemy territory.

The commander frowned. How could she be so calm? How could someone kidnapped sleep as though this were a simple camping trip? The thought unsettled him more than any threat could.

Because Lara wasn’t afraid—and that made her dangerous.

The commander spoke, his voice loud, his expression unreadable. "You know," he said quietly, "I expected you to beg. To weep, perhaps. Most do, when they realize what’s to come."

Lara’s eyes opened, the firelight turned her two orbs into amber. She lifted her chin, meeting the commander’s gaze. "If you think fear will buy you obedience, you’ll be disappointed."

The commander smirked. "Defiant, even now. No wonder Alaric chose you."

Lara’s face remained expressionless. "You won’t win," she said softly. "You did not play your game well and there is only one ending."

The commander sneered. "Brave words from a prisoner whose hands are bound."

He turned his gaze toward the campfire, its flames crackling softly, casting restless shadows that danced across his face. The faint orange light flickered in his eyes—cold, calculating, and utterly sure of himself.

"Turik was right," he said at last, his voice low but edged with conviction. "The daughter of General Odin is the weakness of them both—his and Alaric’s undoing. And you..." his lip curled in a faint, knowing smile, "...you are wrong. We’ve played our hand perfectly."

His attention drifted toward Lara, who sat in the dim glow of the fire, her face calm and unreadable. The flickering light caught the defiance in her eyes, and for a heartbeat, he seemed to study her like a predator measuring its prey.

Then his tone turned glacial. "You are our ace, daughter of Odin. And what better way to lure a lion from his den," he said, the firelight sharpening his smile into something cruel, "than to steal what he loves most?"

Lara smiled. It was a quiet, measured curve of her lips — too calm, too knowing. The firelight caught the glint in her eyes, a spark of something fierce and untamed. It wasn’t the smile of a frightened captive. It was the smile of someone who already knew how the story would end.

"Just wait and see," she said in a cold voice.

The words lingered in the air, low and deliberate.

A prickle of unease crawled down the commander’s spine. He couldn’t explain it, but something in her tone unsettled him. It didn’t sound like defiance. It sounded like a warning, and for the first time that night, he wondered who the real prisoner was.

When daylight finally spread across the eastern sky, the sound of horses echoed through the valleys. A hundred reinforcements had arrived—elite disciples from the Zen Warriors Academy, and the formidable Phoenix Legion, whose crimson cloaks caught the morning sun like fire.

Among them and running beside the horses of Asael and Bener, were two majestic wolves, Gray and Snow, their eyes sharp and restless.

Alaric’s gaze fixed on the looming silhouette of Mount Ourea, its jagged peaks cutting into the clouds like the teeth of a beast. And even before he could raise his hand to signal the ascent, Gray and Snow had already leapt forward, their powerful forms slicing through the morning mist. The two wolves moved as one — swift, silent, relentless — their paws barely making a sound against the earth. All the others could do was follow in their wake.

Jethru’s eyes narrowed as he watched the direction the wolves were taking. His brows furrowed, a shadow crossing his face.

Logan, ever alert to his master’s moods, noticed the sudden shift, his voice cutting through the rhythmic thud of marching feet.

"What is it, Master?" he asked.

Jethru’s gaze remained fixed on the looming peaks ahead, where the wolves had vanished into the rising fog. His tone was grim when he finally spoke.

"They’re heading toward the most dangerous part of the mountain," he said. "A path so narrow that a single misstep would send a man plunging into the gorge below. The cliffs there are sheer — no handholds, no mercy. And the jungle that clings to its edge..." He paused, his voice tightening. "The most poisonous snakes nest there — and creatures that even the predators fear."