Chapter 404: The Legend of the Name
The sun peeked from the east, its hue the color of yellow and orange, a brittle disc behind veils of mist, casting long shadows over the winding road to the capital. Dew like jewel clung to the edges of fallen leaves, and the sky above bore the color of steel—unforgiving, austere.
Alaric’s army moved like a river of steel and hoofbeats—disciplined, silent, and fast. Trees flanked the narrow roads, their leaves just beginning to lose their green, whispering with the breath of an early northern wind. In the far distance, wisps of smoke curled upward from village kitchen, thin as ghosts. It was peaceful...untouched for now.
The vanguard rode ahead, a silent storm of scouts, saboteurs, and archers—all handpicked for their precision and discretion. Among them rode General Joash Marcus, his son Joshua, and a small contingent of Estalian defectors—warriors who now gambled their loyalty on Alaric’s cause. Their orders were clear: reach Fereya before Zura’s forces could entrench themselves. But their true mission was far more delicate—delay, or if possible, dissuade Abner Gabor from striking the town.
As the main force split, the Norse family and their closest commanders veered away. Aramis, who had pleaded to follow Lara—because she had become Kane Mendel—was stopped cold by Alaric’s unflinching glare. That alone might have been punishment enough. But no—he was assigned to serve as Alaric’s double, a walking target should assassins strike.
Alaric only took Redon and three of his elite guards with him while the rest accompanied Angus and the Phoenix Legion to Fereya.
The group moved like a great beast across the Alta Tierra range —controlled, deliberate. They numbered just thirty people, but it made it easier to navigate through narrow paths flanked by lush trees and riverbeds. The hoofbeats were a steady percussion, like a heartbeat carried across hills.
Lara rode at the front beside Alaric and her brothers. Her two wolves, Gray and Snow, were happily running beside her, howling happily as if they had found their freedom. Logan and Abel followed behind. They were like her shadows, but neither Alaric nor she minded. Her trained eyes were scanning the tree lines constantly. Though no attack had come yet, she knew better than to trust the silence of the woods.
She glanced back once, catching sight of Logan and a few riders behind her, and farther behind, deep in conversation, were Odin and Cobar. She allowed herself a rare smile. For a moment—just a sliver of one—she felt like they were moving as one. Like an empire in motion.
Alaric and the small Norse army arrived at the forested ridge east of Mount Roca by early afternoon. The old cavern where Marlon Norse and his warriors had made camp stood empty, the ashes cold. It was a bad sign.
"They’ve already moved on," Odin muttered. His jaw clenched.