CHAPTER 445: REUBEN’S SUFFERINGS

Turik’s gaze slid back to Reuben, lingering like a wolf savoring the moment before it tore into the throat of its prey. His hand waved lazily, yet the command in it was unmistakable.

"Bring him forward," he drawled, his tone thick with mockery. "The prince has bark, yes... but let us see if he has marrow. Since his beloved woman has chosen life, I must honor her request, mustn’t I? It would be so unkind to disappoint her."

Helga’s head snapped toward Mira, eyes blazing with contempt sharp enough to cut. Mira’s face remained pale, hollow, her lips trembling, but she gave no protest.

Two Zuran soldiers hauled Reuben by the arms, dragging him across the chamber. His boots scraped against the stone, leaving dark streaks of blood that marked every inch of his suffering. When they forced him to his knees before Turik, his body sagged like a broken reed.

Helga surged to her feet, her crownless majesty flaring in raw defiance. "Enough! He is a prince of Northem—you will not lay another hand on him!"

Turik’s smile was a blade, gleaming and cruel. He dragged a battered stool forward and set it before Reuben with theatrical calm, as though preparing a seat for a guest at supper. Then, with deliberate ease, he pressed one armored hand to Reuben’s shoulder, pinning him in place, while the other clamped around his ankle.

"Watch closely, Queen. This is how kingdoms bend—first their heirs, then their crowns, and finally, their bones."

With a sudden, brutal kick—

Crack!

Reuben’s scream ripped through the chamber like a beast being slaughtered. His leg buckled sideways, grotesque, the sound of splintering bone reverberating against the stone walls. His nails clawed at the floor, gouging furrows into the rock.

"Reuben!" Helga’s voice shattered as she lunged forward, only to be dragged back by a soldier’s iron grip. Her scream was so raw, so filled with anguish, it seemed the walls themselves trembled. "Stop! Please—stop!"

Turik sneered, eyes alight with sadistic glee. "Ah, the proud queen of Northem begging. But too late."

He seized Reuben’s other leg and wrenched.

Another scream, this one hoarse, tearing Reuben’s throat raw. His body convulsed, his face drenched in sweat, teeth gritted in agony.

Snap.

Another scream. This one was hoarse, ragged, tearing Reuben’s throat raw. His body convulsed uncontrollably, sweat pouring down his face as he gasped for air. His voice broke into desperate fragments.

"Father was right," Reuben rasped between cries, voice shattering. "I should have listened..."

Helga fought against her captors, her hair wild, her face streaked with tears. "Coward! Monster! He is but a boy!" Her words tore from her like claws, a mother’s fury defying even her blackened heart.

For all her sins, Reuben was still her son.

Turik turned his head slowly, savoring her grief, and smiled coldly. "Yes. Break for me, Queen. But wait—your legacy must shatter before you do."

Mira stood apart, still as a statue. Pale. Trembling. Lips quivering, but her eyes hollow, unreadable. She neither wept nor begged. She only watched—her husband’s body crumpling before her—watched in silence.

Behind them, Ceres collapsed to her knees, hands covering her mouth as silent sobs shook her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with terror, yet she did not move—frozen, as though even breathing might draw Turik’s attention next.

Turik at last released his grip, letting Reuben collapse into a twisted heap. His laughter followed, deep and low, rumbling like thunder rolling over a battlefield.

"Listen well, Queen Helga," he said, gesturing toward the broken body at her feet, toward Ceres’s stifled sobs, toward Mira’s hollow stare. "This—this is the music of a dying dynasty. Soon, the world will sing it in every corner of Northem."

Helga’s voice cracked into a roar, primal and venomous. "I will kill you myself, Turik! I will carve your heart out with my bare hands!"

Her fury only amused him further. He leaned close, whispering into her ear so that only she could hear: "You will watch more yet, Queen. Tonight, your spirit will break, as surely as your son’s bones."

Then he froze.

A sound carried through the chamber—metal clashing against metal, growing nearer.

Helga, slumped on the floor, lifted her head. For the first time in what felt like eternity, hope flickered in her eyes. She crawled to Reuben, gathering his limp body into her lap, stroking the hair from his sweat-drenched face.

Her son. Broken. Bleeding. All because of her. If she had listened to Heimdal, if she had secured the borders instead of hosting this banquet of vanity, none of this would have happened.

"Go," Turik snapped to his men, rage flashing in his eyes. "Check it out!"

...

The clash of steel grew louder.

Asael and his brothers stormed down the corridors, blades still wet from the banquet’s carnage. Percival’s shield bore fresh dents, blood still dripping from its edge. Loyal guards thundered behind them, their boots a chorus of vengeance.

They reached the underground halls—and there, Zuran soldiers fought desperately to bar the narrow passage leading to the royal family.

"This is bad," muttered a Zuran commander, watching the Northem warriors cut their way closer. "Send word to the Supreme General. Tell him to flee—we cannot hold them!"

But the messenger never made it.

At the chamber’s far side, stone grated against stone as a secret door burst open. General Odin strode through, flanked by Alaric, Lara, Jethru, and Orion. The Zurans were caught off-guard.

Steel clashed. Bodies fell. The chamber reeked of blood and iron.

But Turik moved as swiftly as a striking serpent. In a heartbeat, he stood at the center of the chamber, armor slick with Reuben’s blood. His sword pressed to Helga’s throat, its edge drawing a thin line of crimson. His commanders seized the princesses—Amielle, groggy but conscious; Ceres, trembling with terror; and Mira, pale as death, her arm locked in a soldier’s iron grip.

"Not one step closer," Turik snarled, his voice coiled with satisfaction. "You want them alive? Then listen well."

Odin’s sword lifted, his gaze sharp and unyielding, but he did not move. Turik had armored himself in more than steel—he had armored himself in hostages.

Master and disciple exchanged a glance. They could strike, perhaps even save the queen—but neither was certain they wanted her spared. Let her suffer. Let her atone for her betrayal.

Turik’s voice boomed, filling the chamber. "I want twenty carriages, laden with provisions. Horses enough to bear us beyond your walls. You will open your gates and let us ride. If not—" He pressed his blade harder, crimson welling against Helga’s throat. "—your queen dies here. And so does your precious princess consort."

"What are you waiting for. Do it!" Helga rasped, her voice unshaken despite the blood sliding down her neck.

The chamber fell into stillness. Every knight’s hand trembled on their weapon.

Jethru scoffed, voice low. "Hmph. Are they truly worth that much?"

Lara’s lips pressed into silence. She looked at her master with a deadpan expression.

’Do it!" The man in the mask said in a cold and authoritative voice.

Helga’s eyes widened. She could recognize that voice even if he was wearing a mask.