Chapter 403: The Road to the North
The entire city of Calma bustled like a stirred anthill as final preparations for the march to Northem began.
Blacksmiths hammered at dawn, their forges glowing with molten fire. Rows of armors and weapons—swords, spears, and short knives were laid out, inspected, polished to a gleam—then dulled again with ash, so as not to glint in the sun and betray their movement.
Medicines along with dried meat strips prepared by Samuel, Grandma Arlina, and the Gabirella Guild were packed in satchel bags, and each soldier was given one.
Horses were fed, groomed, and fitted with leather barding, crafted and assembled by Lina and her team of leathersmiths and seamstresses. They embossed Calman crest on them and on every fatigues they made for the soldiers. The scent of iron, sweat, and burning oil mingled in the air.
Thalia personally prepared Logan’s satchel and handed it to him. She added more portions and stuffed more medicines.
In the inner stable yard, General Odin barked orders with his usual deep voice. Towering and broad-shouldered, he moved with the economy of a man who’d spent more years on battlefields than in halls. His great sword was strapped across his back, and his armor bore the Norse’s family crest.
"Load only what you need. We move fast, not fat. The north won’t wait while we pack silver goblets," he snapped at a young officer. "And tell the cooks—three days’ rations per man. Salted meat. No stew."
From the balcony of his chambers, Alaric watched with eagle eyes. A sharp contrast from the calm observer of the morning, he was now clad in partial armor. His breastplate was dark steel, chased with enamel in the shape of a firebird whose wings touched the tip of its other: the Calman crest. His cloak had been coated with titanium, an extra layer of protection. All the Norse men and Alaric’s elite guards, now serving as his commanders, have the same cloak. Arespada hung at his hip, the blade glinting faintly in the morning light.
Behind him, Lara stepped out of the chamber silently.
"I will go with my father and siblings and pass by Carles. That fortress meant a lot to them, and they want to reclaim it." Lara said as she stood beside him. She was wearing Kane Mendel’s fatigues, and her hair was gathered in a top knot.
Alaric turned. "Then I will go with you. We will reclaim Carles first before heading to the capital."
Lara wanted to protest. She wanted to say that she and her family would be enough, but wouldn’t that hurt his feelings?
There was a long pause.
He stepped closer. "You said that wherever I go, you will go too. It is the same with me. I will accompany you through your battles."
A soft knock interrupted them. Agilus entered with his usual measured pace, holding a scroll.
"The final scouts returned. Zura’s forces are massing near the border. They arrived earlier than expected. Using the river indeed proved to be faster. They’re waiting. Possibly for Abner’s forces to reach Fereya so the Capital is thrown off guard."
Alaric nodded. "Then we march at dawn. We will swing by Carles first while Joash and the rest should reinforce Fereya."
Agilus hesitated. "There’s more."
He unrolled the parchment on the war table.
"We intercepted correspondence. Zura’s envoys have reached the Northern towns of Ma-Anyag and Vulkan. They’re courting the mountain clans."
Alaric’s brow darkened. "The Duke of Silverstone, who is in charge of the Northern Territories, is loyal to my father. He would not take bribes."
"He would," Agilus said grimly, "if the price is blood. I heard his family was taken hostage. Every one of them, including his newborn grandson, the son of Arabella’s older sister."
The crown prince clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. Even if Duke Silverstone was an upright man, how could he resist Zura’s manipulation?
A knock at the chamber door preceded Abel’s arrival. Young, eager, and dressed in fresh in a fatigues with a chain mail vest.
"Your Highness," he said, "our forward company is assembled. Two hundred riders, a hundred archers, and twenty saboteurs from the Estalis and Westalis defectors. Among them are the Silver Warriors of the Southwind."
Lara raised an eyebrow. "You recruited from the Southwind?"
"They volunteered," Abel replied. "Apparently, Zura burned three of their safehouses in the border cities of Westalis.
Alaric gave a small, approving nod. "When even the shadows turn against him, Zura has made enemies he cannot see."
Later That Night at the slopes of the Alta-Sierra near the town of Ranuva
The campfires lit the fields like fallen stars. Tents were pitched in rows, and guards rotated shifts under Odin’s strict watch. The scent of pine pitch and leather carried on the cool night air.
Alaric sat in his private tent, poring over battle maps, notes, and ciphered letters. The candlelight flickered against his tired features.
Agilus entered without ceremony. "One more thing," he said.
Alaric glanced up. "Go on."
"The western nobles—House Zameran and House Barcimus—they’ve not responded to any of our envoys. Silence in wartime is its own message."
"They’ve bent the knee to Zura," Alaric said. "Or they’re waiting to see who survives."
Agilus gave a slow nod. "We’ll know soon enough."
At the tent flap, Redon waited. "They’re ready for your address, Your Highness"
Alaric stood, rolling up the map and sheathing Arespada.
"Then let them hear the truth," he said.
The Midnight Address
On a rise overlooking the campfires, Prince Alaric stood before his army—over five thousand strong. His voice, when it rang out across the wind-swept night, was clear and sharp as steel.
"Tomorrow, we ride north," he said. "Not for conquest. Not for revenge. But to protect our kingdom."
He looked at the men before him—veterans and new blood, fugitives and lords’ sons, guild knives and proud farmers alike.
"Northem is our home—even for those cast from it. Even for those who have never seen it. If we do not fight for it, Zura will devour it. Not with fire. But with cunning. With fear. With chains you’ll never see until they are already around your throat."
His hand dropped to Arespada’s hilt.
"Some of you will not return, though your commanders will try everything in their power to keep you safe. I will not promise you glory. Only purpose. Only the chance to stand for something more than yourselves."
There was no cheer. Only solemn nods, the rustle of armor, and the weight of resolve settling over them like snow.
At dawn, they would ride and continue their journey.
To defend Northem and if they were late, to reclaim it.