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.
"They’ve attacked Carles," said Bener, climbing a boulder with his telescope. He scanned the horizon where the stone walls of Carles loomed gray and grim against the enveloping dimness.
"Let me see." Gideon took the scope, adjusting the lens. He whistled low. "Damn. Look at the size of those guards. This thing’s incredible. Peredur outdid himself." He gave a quiet, reverent nod to his younger brother, surely tinkering in his workshop far away in Eos Haven.
Then, abruptly, he froze.
"There’s movement at the perimeter... they’re fighting. I can’t tell who’s—" He didn’t finish.
Asael snatched the scope, scanning the scene, his brow darkening. Galahad did not wait for him to speak but grabbed the telescope and muttered under his breath.
"Father. Uncle Marlon has engaged the guards." Galahad declared, a tremor of anxiety lacing his words.
"Then, what are we waiting for? ATTACK!"
At The Walls of Carles
Marlon Norse staggered backward, breath coming in ragged gasps as the young enemy soldier pressed the advantage. His own blade slipped from his hand, useless now against strength and youth. The soldier raised his sword, intent to strike—
And then, from the smoke and blood, a figure burst forward.
Merlin.
The boy—no, the man—intercepted the blow with steel and fury, forcing the soldier into retreat. Marlon froze. He’d never seen his son like this—so resolute, so sure. Merlin had always been clever, sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, but soft. Not meant for war.
But here, standing soaked in sweat and blood, Merlin was transformed. His eyes no longer wavered with doubt—they burned with defiance.
"You..." Marlon started, but the words died on his tongue. He hurriedly picked up his fallen sword, and with a thrust, his blade sunk into his chest.
The man crumpled to the ground as Marlon pulled out his blade.
Marlon turned to his son, his throat thick with dread. He swallowed hard, his voice cracking when he tried again. "You shouldn’t have put youself in danger, Merlin. If something had happened to you—if I’d found your body among the dead—"
"Then you can carry me home, Father, with dignity, because I should have redeemed myself." Merlin gave a tired, bitter smile. He followed his father as they retreated to the shadows of the boulders of Mount Roca. "But I won’t die in the shadows. Not ever."
Marlon was speechless. The battlefield faded around him for a heartbeat, all noise drowned by the pounding of his heart. Merlin had stepped into the fire—and survived.
"No, Merlin. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger." Marlon spoke, gentler this time.
"No, Father. I’m here to fight. I’ll prove everyone wrong—Hector, those who look down upon me, the others... even you." Merlin’s eyes burned with fierceness, one that Marlon had never seen before.
Marlon stared, seeing his son for the first time not as a boy to protect, but a warrior standing in his own right.
"I carry Great Grandpa’s blood—the mighty Beor, the legend of the Norse family. His blood is in me, Father, just as you do. Just as Uncle Odin and his sons do. How could I not fight?" Merlin’s voice was steady now. "How could I choose to be a coward?"
Marlon swallowed hard. His son’s eyes were red—not with tears, but with valor. With purpose.
And for the first time in a long time, Marlon believed.
Merlin was a Norse.
And he was ready to carry the weight of that name.