Return of the General's Daughter

After ten long days winding through forests, plains, and rough and dusty roads, the caravan finally rolled into Calma beneath the golden wash of early afternoon sunlight.

It was March, and there was no trace of chill that lingered in the breeze. The quiet town stirred with signs of summer—lush leaves and branches, merchants hawking wares, and the scent of warmed earth.

The caravan, a patchwork of merchant wagons, armored escorts, and a single lacquered carriage bearing the Norse mother and daughter, clattered toward Narra Alley—a quieter street tucked behind the bustling market district. One by one, ten carriages pulled to a stop before an ornate wrought-iron gate. A sign made from hard wood arched above it, carved with the familiar words:

"House of Mendel."

Inside the carriage, Reya attempted to rise, her limbs stiff and aching from days of confinement. She winced and reached for the side rail, but her legs barely responded. Lara, however, had already stepped gracefully onto the cobblestones and turned back with a gentle smile, offering her hand. Before she could assist, though, Lady Freya alighted without hesitation, her movements sharp and effortless. Even after long travel, she remained poised—elegant in her age and bearing.

A short distance behind them, General Odin’s men dismounted. Two knights and two guards formed a discreet perimeter. Ever-watchful, Sir Benwick stepped forward at Lara’s signal and extended his arm toward the final passenger.

"Careful, Uncle Hephastus," Lara said warmly. "Let Sir Benwick help."

The elderly tinkerer groaned as he shifted in his seat, his joints cracking audibly.

"Ah, these old bones..." Hephastus muttered. "One more day rattling in that carriage and I’d have been bedridden."

Lara grinned. "Then maybe you should invent something faster—and with softer cushions."

The old man blinked. His back straightened, and his eyes lit up with childlike wonder. "You know... I just might."