Chapter 406: The Blood Ties
Marlon’s breath came in ragged gasps, each one sharp as broken glass. His vision blurred at the edges, darkening with the creeping weight of exhaustion and blood loss. But still, he refused to fall. He would not show weakness—not while men still stood, not while the city of Carles lay under threat.
Hector stood beside him, his face streaked with grime, eyes narrowed toward the ridgeline of Mount Roca—just beyond the jagged outcrops that framed the plateau like jagged teeth. There, amid the last golden embers of twilight, shadows emerged from the treeline.
They moved like ghosts—bows still drawn, cloaked in earth-colored garb that melted into the background.
A sudden gust caught the edge of one cloak, flaring it just enough to reveal a sigil Hector did not recognize: a firebird, wings outstretched, flame trailing from its tail.
But it wasn’t the symbol that stopped Hector cold.
It was the man beneath it. His back was straight and his presence commanding.
"By the gods..." Hector breathed. "That’s General Odin."
Marlon’s head snapped up, pain momentarily forgotten. "Odin?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "He... he came."
As the figures drew closer, the truth became undeniable.
At the front was General Odin, a towering presence clad in blackened steel, a longbow slung across his back, and a sword sheathed at his side.
Beside him were his sons—Asael, Galahad, Bener, Gideon, and Percival—grim and silent, their eyes scanning every shadow, arrows nocked and ready to strike. They were born of battle, shaped by Odin’s unrelenting discipline.
Just behind them, moving with the effortless grace of a huntress, was Lara. Her hair, bound tightly in a topknot, was soaked with sweat and dust. Her twin wolves, Gray and Snow, padded at her flanks like silent sentinels.
At her side stood Alaric, ever calm, his presence like a drawn bow—controlled tension ready to snap.
Logan and Abel, trailed behind them, trying—and failing—not to look awed by the chaos they’d walked into.
"We’re late," Odin said, voice full of reckless pride. "But not too late."
Marlon exhaled, a trembling breath leaving his lungs as the weight of despair gave way to something unexpected—hope.
"You saved us, cousin," he rasped. "All of you."
"Don’t thank us yet. The enemy still holds Carles. And they’ll hit back harder now that their trap failed."
Lara knelt beside Marlon without a word, offering a waterskin. She glanced at the bandage soaked through with blood and reached for her backpack. "Let me see the wound."
Merlin, still breathing hard, hands stained with his father’s blood, gave her space. His eyes lingered on his father’s face, still shaken. "I almost lost him."
"This place isn’t safe," Alaric said. "Let’s go back to the camp. Carry the wounded."
Behind them, Lara’s brothers and the rest of their companions spread out across the field, checking for survivors. Gray and Snow sniffed through the dead, whimpering beside the ones who still clung to life. The wolves’ soft cries alerted the soldiers, saving precious minutes—and lives.
Alaric turned to Odin. "This ground’s compromised. Too open. We need to move."
"There’s a cave system south of here," Odin said. "Fortified. We used it in the old campaigns. It’s defensible."
Marlon grunted. "We can’t leave the dead."
"We won’t," Odin replied. "There is a small cave nearby. We’ll bury them there. But you need to move. Now."
Marlon eyed him, confused. "We camped here for days. Never saw a cave."
Odin gave a half-smile. "This is my territory. I know every crack, every stone, every secret the mountain has to offer."
Already, faint horns could be heard from within the city—Estalian war signals, sharp and shrill. The enemy had regrouped.
Time was running out.
Odin’s men worked fast in the dusk. With the wolves guiding them, they carried the dead and placed them inside the cave hidden behind a boulder. They left the enemy’s deads for the Estalians would surely come back for them.
"Form up," Marlon commanded, forcing himself upright. He leaned on his sword for balance, his voice regaining authority. "Those able-bodied—help the wounded."
Merlin and Seveir, his shoulder wrapped hastily in cloth, moved to support him.
Odin’s soldiers—members of the Phoenix Legion—spread out efficiently. Weeks of battle-hardened training showed in how they cleaned wounds, wrapped limbs, and crafted stretchers from cloaks and broken spears.
Alaric turned and whistled sharply. More soldiers emerged from the trees—dozens of them. Scouts and rangers. Reinforcements.
And just like that, hope returned to the battlefield, carried on the wind and the strength of unexpected allies.
Their retreat was quiet and swift. They crossed a shallow, rocky stream, the cold water washing away the bloody footprints. Odin carried a jar filled with fireflies in place of a torch, the soft golden glow pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark.
Logan and Abel carried jars of their own, lighting the way for soldiers carrying the injured on makeshift hammocks.
When they reached the place, Marlon understood why he didn’t know about the place. The cave entrance was shielded by moss-covered boulders. Odin pressed a mechanism, and what he thought was a rock wall parted. It was the entryway to the caves.
Inside, Asael and Galahad lit the torches lining the walls. Warm light bathed the cavern in amber hues, revealing a great chamber large enough to house two hundred men.
There were a total of twenty soldiers who were injured, while a dozen died and were buried in the small cave.
As soldiers brought the wounded in, Lara and the Phoenix Legion got to work. Each soldier knew battlefield medicine. Those with the worst injuries were sent to Lara, who stitched wounds and set broken limbs with practiced hands.
Soon, a pot of steaming porridge was cooking in the middle of the cavern. Even Hector was surprised that the cavern had hidden kitchen tools and food supplies. It looked like General Odin was prepared and had a safe haven should Carles fall into the enemy’s hands.
"You even packed a kitchen," Hector muttered.
Odin gave a crooked grin as he sipped from his own bowl. "Always plan for the worst."
Marlon sat near the fire, a makeshift bowl cradled in his hands. He stared into the flames, lost in thought. Odin sat beside him.
"Cousin," Marlon said quietly, voice rough. "Thank you for coming."
"Carles is important to me. We spent a lot of effort rebuilding it, and I wouldn’t let the enemy trample it and enslave its people." He said as he slurped the steaming porridge from a makeshift bowl made from leaves.
Marlon went still.
He looked down at the fire.
So it wasn’t for him. Not entirely.
But Odin saw the flicker of doubt and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Don’t overthink it," he said. "Of course, we came as reinforcements. You’re still a Norse. And great-grandfather, grandfather, even my father—they all said the same thing: Look out for each other and protect the Norse Legacy. Always."
He met Marlon’s eyes.
"I won’t let anyone break the Norse name. Not while I still draw breath."