Chapter 395: Turik’s Game Plan and The Estalis Defection
At The Norse Manor at Carles
The morning sun had long since climbed above the eastern peaks, its golden light spilling across the marble walls of the Norse Manor—but inside, silence still reigned. Turik’s commanders lay in a drunken stupor, sprawled across fur pelts and discarded armor. Even Turik himself was tangled in the linens beside Briella, their breaths slow and heavy with the weight of last night’s indulgence.
When Turik finally stirred, his bloodshot eyes blinked against the light filtering through the tall window—the same one that once watched over Odin and Freya’s mornings in their bedroom. For a moment, he didn’t recognize it. His temples throbbed, his mouth was dry, and the ghost of wine still clung to his tongue. Then awareness struck—too sharply.
"Damn it," he hissed, stumbling to his feet. His head spun, but he pushed past it.
Outside, in the banquet hall, his commanders were just beginning to rise, groggy and confused. They were supposed to have left at dawn.
"Move! We’re late!" Turik barked, fury sharpening his voice.
Scrambling into armor and loading supplies, the men hurried to the boats. Turik had designed the narrow vessels himself—sleek, fast things that could carry ten men downriver. Hundreds of them lined the banks of the river Suba, ready for swift departure. The journey to Mount Burrol would take three days by water—half the time it would take on horseback through the winding roads at the foot of Alta-Sierra.
But their boats were only part of the plan.
To mask their true movement, a decoy column of Estalis soldiers—along with civilians, pawns, and planted informants—would travel by land toward Alta-Sierra, drawing attention southward. With luck, Northem spies and forces would chase the pawns and shadows, while Turik’s real force moved unseen.
Meanwhile At The Northern Gate of Calma
Dust trailed in the wind as a caravan of over hundred trudged along the old northern road, bound for the fortified gates of Calma. Their path was lined with brittle trees and dry grass, the landscape stretching endlessly beneath a pale blue sky.
At the front rode twelve soldiers—silent, grim, and watchful. They wore no armor that bore the faded insignia of Estalis, but their bearing carried the once loyal soldiers of Estalis. Each had chosen escape over submission.