CHAPTER 426: A BROTHER’S WRATH

The Norse siblings lingered long in the banquet hall, doing what they could to calm the shaken hostages. Many of the women still trembled, hollow-eyed and restless, especially those whose husbands had not returned—the knights who had once sworn their swords to the kingdom of Savadra, only to be sent to destroy to destroy the kingdom they swore to protect.

Other than the Sillverstone and the Donalton women, children and elderly, there were also others who were taken hostage. Thirty wives of the knights, burdened with twenty frightened children, refused to return to their homes within the estate. The walls of those places only reminded them of their ordeal.

Out of compassion, the Duchess of Silverstone ordered that they remain in the banquet hall in the main residence, where the hearth burned bright and the shadows felt less cruel.

It was there that Aryana, the quiet one, drew a small bundle from her satchel. She lit a slender stick of incense, and almost at once a soothing fragrance spilled into the air. The effect was immediate—mothers’ weary shoulders eased, their children’s anxious cries softened into yawns, and soon the little ones were curled against their mothers’ laps, fast asleep. Even the women, exhausted by grief and fear, drifted into uneasy slumber.

Lazira broke the silence, her sharp voice cutting through the haze. "Where did you get that incense? I like the smell. I can’t believe how fast it works."

Aryana’s lips curled in a rare smile. "These are treasures given to me by my master."

Lazira scoffed, folding her arms with exaggerated disdain. "That stingy old man gave you something like this? How could he give you and none to me?"

"Because Master Orion knows you too well," Aryana replied coolly, her dark curls swaying as she tilted her head. "He knew you’d use them for your petty revenges."

Lazira smirked, unfazed. "Hmph. If he won’t give me any, then I’ll make my own."

Across the hall, Veronica and Marjan exchanged amused glances. They both knew the truth—when they return to their master, they would eagerly tattle on the pair’s endless squabbles.

...

When night descended and silence blanketed the estate, the three Norse brothers made their way into the dungeons. The air was damp, thick with the stench of mold and rust.

From shadowed cells came the groans of broken men, each sound clawing at the nerves like unseen hands. But the brothers pressed forward, their faces grim masks of rage barely contained. Their lips were taut, their fists clenched—an unspoken storm simmering between them.

They stopped before a solitary cell, set apart from the rest. Torchlight flickered against moss-streaked stone, casting twisted shadows that writhed along the walls.

Galahad entered first, Asael close at his side. Gideon remained at the threshold, his eyes narrowed as he studied his brothers.

He had never seen Galahad like this—so consumed by fury that he seemed on the verge of bursting, each breath sharp and ragged. Asael, though outwardly calmer, carried an aura just as dangerous, his eyes gleaming with a barely leashed violence.

Scarface shifted uneasily. He felt the storm pressing in on him and instinctively stepped back, though he tried to keep his voice steady.

"I can’t believe I’ve drawn the attention of the famed generals of House Norse," he sneered, feigning bravado. "More popular than Red Fox, it seems. To what do I owe this honor?"

He expected cold words. Instead, a fist slammed into his gut with bone-crushing force. The air left his lungs in a guttural cry as he doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Before he could recover, a savage kick threw him against the wall.

They’re going to kill me. The thought pierced him like ice.

Another punch struck, this time to his face. His vision blurred, but rage steadied him. Scarface was no stranger to violence; he had made his fortune in the trade of flesh, human misery his business. He would not die groveling or helpless.

Snarling, he lifted his arms in defense, striking back when he saw openings. But against Galahad’s relentless fury, his blows were meaningless. Every strike from the general landed with crushing precision, driven by years of training and a heart burning with vengeance.

"You kidnapped my sister," Galahad roared, his voice echoing through the dungeon like thunder. "For that, you will pay."

Scarface shielded his face, though each breath came with agony. "I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve been in Zura for two years!"

Galahad gave a bitter laugh, his fist tightening.

From the shadows, Asael and Gideon watched. They let Galahad vent, though their bodies taut and ready. They knew Scarface’s reputation—he was cunning, ruthless, and always ready to fight dirty.

"Five years ago," Asael said quietly, his voice laced with venom, "you abducted the daughter of General Norse."

Scarface’s eyes narrowed, betraying the flicker of recognition he had tried to suppress. The truth lingered in that silence.

"You have harmed countless women and children," Asael continued, his words low but seething. "Death would be a mercy for you. Too merciful."

A twisted smile tugged at Scarface’s lips. Despite the blood trickling from his mouth, hope sparked in his mind. If they did not plan to kill him, then there was still a chance. As long as he breathed, he could crawl his way back into power and avenge himself.

Another punch landed on his face. Galahad’s ring cut across his unscarred face. He now has an X mark on his face.

Scarface spat blood onto the floor, his grin half-mad, half-defiant. "So that’s it then? You have come all this way to vent your rage on me? You Norse think yourselves gods, but you’re no different from the rest of us."

He barely finished before Galahad seized him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The impact rattled the iron bars, dust sifting down from the ceiling. Scarface gasped as the back of his skull cracked against stone.

"You dare compare yourself to us?" Galahad’s voice was a growl, deep and trembling with rage. "You are filth. A parasite feeding on the suffering of others."

He didn’t wait for a reply. His fist crashed into Scarface’s jaw, then another to his ribs, each strike fueled not by the need to kill, but by the need to make him suffer. Bones cracked beneath the relentless assault, the prisoner’s grunts turning into strangled cries.

Scarface lashed out blindly, landing wild blows against Galahad’s side. But the general didn’t even flinch. Instead, his eyes burned brighter, and he drove his knee into Scarface’s stomach so hard the man folded like broken parchment.

"Every scream of a child you sold... every tear of a mother you ripped apart... I will carve it from your flesh." Galahad’s words seared like iron, each syllable cutting deeper than his fists.

Blood streamed from Scarface’s nose, his breath ragged and wet. He tried to push Galahad back, but the general caught his arm, twisted it until joints snapped, then hurled him across the cell. The man crashed into the wall and collapsed to the floor, coughing, choking on his own blood.

Gideon flinched but said nothing. Asael, silent as a blade in the dark, only watched with eyes sharp and merciless.

Scarface dragged himself up on shaking arms, his defiance fading into desperation. "You—You can’t do this... You’re generals... bound by honor—"

"Honor?" Galahad’s laugh was hollow, savage. He advanced, shadows stretching behind him like wings of wrath. "There is no honor for men like you. Only judgment."

He stomped down, crushing Scarface’s crotch. The man screamed, the sound echoing off the stone like the wail of a dying beast. Galahad didn’t stop—he grabbed the man’s throat, slammed him back into the wall, and pinned him there.

"You will not die quickly," he hissed, his face inches from his prey. "Death would free you. But you will beg for it before I am done."

Scarface’s one good eye widened with terror, his bravado shattering. For the first time in years, the predator felt like prey.

Galahad drew back his fist one last time. This strike was not meant to kill—it was meant to break what little spirit remained. When it landed, the dungeon shook with the sound of bone shattering.

Scarface sagged in Galahad’s grip, trembling, broken, bloodied—but still alive.

Galahad released him at last, letting the ruined man crumple to the floor like discarded refuse. His chest heaved, his fists still trembling with the need for more, but Asael placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and firm.

"That is enough," Asael murmured. His voice carried no pity, only resolve. "He will live. And that is the greater punishment."

Scarface groaned, clutching his broken body, eyes wide with dawning horror at what his survival meant.

And in that dark cell, the Norse brothers turned away, their vengeance quenched.