CHAPTER 448: THE AFTERMATH: MIRA’S DILEMMA

"Leave him alive." General Odin commanded.

The Northem knights seized Turik, shackling his arms, hoisting his shattered body. Blood seeped into the dirt, his once-proud sneer now twisted in agony.

"Send him home," Odin commanded coldly. "Tell your king that Northem declares war on Zura."

And so Turik was dragged away, his legs broken, his pride crushed, his infamy carried not in triumph—but in shame.

The valley sighed deeply, as if releasing the tension that had lingered in the air. The Zurans, now leaderless, wavered uncertainly.

In stark contrast, Northem stood tall, bloodied but unbowed.

For the first time in a long and harrowing night, the dawn did not belong to Zura. It belonged to them.

"How about Mira?" Galahad and Percival asked at once, their voices overlapping in uneasy unison.

Asael gave a sharp, derisive snort, the sound laced with scorn. His eyes narrowed to slits, disbelief and anger flashing there. "Brother, even after all this time, you still refuse to see her for what she truly is?"

"She is still Norse, after all," Galahad countered, his jaw tight, his tone edged with stubborn loyalty.

"Did you not hear what the surviving royal guards said?" Asael’s voice rose, sharper now, cutting through the air like a blade.

Galahad blinked. "What? We were fighting the Zurans in the banquet hall."

"Reuben made a choice," Asael said, each word deliberate, heavy with disdain. "He chose Mira’s life over his Princess Consort. But when she was asked to choose, she spared herself—at the crown prince’s expense. That was when Turik broke Reuben’s legs." His tone was disturbingly casual, as though recounting a simple fact and not a betrayal that shattered blood ties.

From the shadows of the carriage, Mira stiffened. Her breath caught in her throat. So they already know. The truth has spread. I am finished.

Lara’s gaze flicked toward the carriage where Mira cowered. Her voice was low, cold. "She doesn’t deserve the Norse name. I had planned to save her. But she betrayed me as well. She told Turik to take me instead—she even revealed that I am General Odin’s daughter and Alaric’s betrothed."

"What?" Galahad’s voice cracked like a whip, raw with disbelief. He staggered back a step, his face paling. The cousin he had cherished like a sister—gentle, fragile Mira—was venomous beneath her soft guise? The thought sickened him.

Alaric’s fists clenched, the cords in his neck tightening as rage darkened his features. He moved to storm toward the carriage, but Lara caught his arm, her grip iron.

"Let the heavens judge her," she said firmly, her eyes never leaving the carriage. "Do not stain your hands. She is not worth it."

Inside, Mira heard every word. The walls of the carriage seemed to close in around her. Her lips pressed tight until they trembled, her fingernails digging into her palms until blood welled. Hatred and despair warred inside her chest. How dare they? How dare they condemn me? Was it truly wrong to choose life over death? Wouldn’t they have done the same?

But the answers did not matter. She knew the truth as surely as the blood dripping from her clenched fist: she was condemned.

Mira curled deeper into the corner, shrinking into herself like a discarded shadow. To step out now was to face judgment, to stand before Odin, before her brothers, before Lara—and sign her own death warrant. Her cowardice was no secret anymore. Her betrayal had been named aloud.

The palace would never forgive her. Her family would cast her aside.

And Mira, for the first time, felt the crushing weight of being truly alone.

Better to cast her lot with the enemy. Even if the Zurans despised her, they needed her—for now.

When Odin turned his back to his soldiers, ordering Turik bound, Mira shrank deeper into the shadows. No one called for her. No one looked for her. And so, when the Zurans began their slow retreat, Mira stayed inside the carriage as it rolled back toward Zura. Not once did she raise her face. Not once did she breathe too loudly.

The Zurans gathered what remained of their pride, retreating down the valley with their battered general slung between them. Turik’s legs were ruined, his screams reduced to low, guttural groans that still curdled the blood of those who carried him. His humiliation stank heavier than the blood dripping into the dirt.

Hours later, when the sun began to dip and the valley gave way to the hills of Alta-Sierra, the soldiers discovered her in the carraige.

"The Prince’s concubine? Why did they leave you here?" one spat, dragging the curtain aside.

Mira flinched, but forced her voice steady. "No... I am a healer. If you want him alive, you need me."

Turik’s second-in-command, a broad-shouldered brute named Gareth, studied her with a predator’s eyes. His gaze slid to his general—half-conscious, pale, frothing with pain. His jaw tightened.

"You," he said, seizing Mira’s wrist with a grip that left bruises. "You’ll tend to him. If he dies, you’ll be buried beneath him."

Mira swallowed hard, nodding.

She did have skill, though not the blessing of the gods as she often claimed. Her knowledge was passed down from her grandparents and whispered lessons by candlelight. It was enough.

Through the night, she worked. She bound Turik’s shattered knees, cleaned the wounds, and stitched torn flesh with trembling hands.

When she learned that Lara was praised for her skills in suturing wounds, she practiced in secret, honing her skills on pheasants and rabbits. Every time she visited her maternal family, she would practice there and study her grandparents’ medical books. She would also stay in her aunt’s clinic and observe, sometimes disguising herself so she could assist.

But what she was more interested in was the use of poison, which her grandfather was adept at, and she learned a few tricks in the last few months.

"Here are the herbs you have requested." Mira was pulled from her reverie as General Gareth himself handed her the medicine.

She crushed herbs into poultices and smeared them across the wounds. Each time Turik stirred, growling curses through clenched teeth, her heart hammered with terror—but her hands never faltered.

At dusk, the bleeding slowed. The fever did not take him.

Gareth stood over her, arms crossed, eyes hard. "Good. You’ve saved him from death for now. Maybe you are worth the breath you steal." He leaned closer, voice dripping with menace. "But remember—if the general dies, you die with him."

Mira’s fingers ached, stained with blood that wasn’t hers. She dared not meet his gaze, but she felt the weight of it pressing her deeper into the dirt.

She had chosen this path. She told herself again and again that she had no choice.

But in the hollow of her chest, a whisper gnawed: Did I make a mistake?

That night, in the dark forests, southeast of the capital, she sat shackled in Turik’s carriage, her fate sealed with the man who had broken her family. They were heading to Estalis, and she knew the moment she left the Northem border, there was no turning back for her.