Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 395: Turik’s Game Plan and The Estalis Defection

At The Norse Manor at Carles

The morning sun had long since climbed above the eastern peaks, its golden light spilling across the marble walls of the Norse Manor—but inside, silence still reigned. Turik’s commanders lay in a drunken stupor, sprawled across fur pelts and discarded armor. Even Turik himself was tangled in the linens beside Briella, their breaths slow and heavy with the weight of last night’s indulgence.

When Turik finally stirred, his bloodshot eyes blinked against the light filtering through the tall window—the same one that once watched over Odin and Freya’s mornings in their bedroom. For a moment, he didn’t recognize it. His temples throbbed, his mouth was dry, and the ghost of wine still clung to his tongue. Then awareness struck—too sharply.

"Damn it," he hissed, stumbling to his feet. His head spun, but he pushed past it.

Outside, in the banquet hall, his commanders were just beginning to rise, groggy and confused. They were supposed to have left at dawn.

"Move! We’re late!" Turik barked, fury sharpening his voice.

Scrambling into armor and loading supplies, the men hurried to the boats. Turik had designed the narrow vessels himself—sleek, fast things that could carry ten men downriver. Hundreds of them lined the banks of the river Suba, ready for swift departure. The journey to Mount Burrol would take three days by water—half the time it would take on horseback through the winding roads at the foot of Alta-Sierra.

But their boats were only part of the plan.

To mask their true movement, a decoy column of Estalis soldiers—along with civilians, pawns, and planted informants—would travel by land toward Alta-Sierra, drawing attention southward. With luck, Northem spies and forces would chase the pawns and shadows, while Turik’s real force moved unseen.

Meanwhile At The Northern Gate of Calma

Dust trailed in the wind as a caravan of over hundred trudged along the old northern road, bound for the fortified gates of Calma. Their path was lined with brittle trees and dry grass, the landscape stretching endlessly beneath a pale blue sky.

At the front rode twelve soldiers—silent, grim, and watchful. They wore no armor that bore the faded insignia of Estalis, but their bearing carried the once loyal soldiers of Estalis. Each had chosen escape over submission.

Behind them rolled three carriages, filled with the elderly, children, and the fragile remnants of home. Then came the rest—women, servants, and a handful of farmers who had followed the general into uncertainty. Bringing up the rear, six more loyal soldiers rode in silence, eyes scanning the horizon.

Among them was a creaking bull cart drawn by a bony donkey, its wheels groaning with every dip in the road. Inside sat two women—one elderly, the other young—and a toddler, a boy, who held a carved wooden sword in one hand. Four men walked behind them: an aging veteran, two sons—one in his twenties, the other a brooding teenager—and a boy just on the cusp of manhood.

"Father! Brother Raynor, look!" the youngest cried, pointing. "The gates of Calma! We’re saved!"

Raynor raised his eyes to the horizon. The tall, newly constructed towers of Calma loomed in the distance, majestic and immovable. He smiled softly, though worry lingered in his gaze. His eyes settled on his wife and child, the cart’s wooden frame casting long shadows over their faces.

He had chosen to follow the general—once a respected Estalis commander—now a man in quiet rebellion. After their King’s death, the crown had passed to a weak puppet, installed and controlled by Zura’s hand. In days, the Zuran commanders were treating Estalis like a vassal state. Raynor, like his general, would not kneel to tyranny.

General Marcus had heard rumors—whispers that Prince Alaric was gathering forces in Calma. A new army. A new hope. Marcus remembered that war—how Alaric had crushed their flank with surgical precision, and his soldier spared his life when he lay wounded. There had been strength, yes, but also honor.

Those were the kind of leaders a soldier could follow.

"I wonder," said the young man beside him—his son, and once a lieutenant in the Estalis guard. "Will Prince Alaric accept us? What if... what if he sees us as spies?"

Marcus placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "We are not spies. And Prince Alaric is not a fool. He’ll know our hearts."

"I hope you’re right, Father" the young man muttered, eyes fixed on the gate.

As the mounted soldiers reached the towering entrance, awe lit the young lieutenant’s face.

"Incredible... They’re even more imposing up close. Look at these walls—so tall. These towers... Calma has become a fortress. Three years ago, it was just an ordinary border town."

Marcus nodded slowly, respect softening his features. He reached out to grasp the iron ring on the gate—but before he could knock, a smaller door creaked open. A tall figure stepped out, clad in steel and dark blue.

"State your purpose," the guard demanded, his voice as hard as the walls behind him.

General Marcus dismounted and approached, his tone calm but resolute.

"We seek audience with Prince Alaric’s second or third in command—or whoever oversees recruitment. We wish to offer our swords."

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Soldiers from Estalis?"

"Yes."

The guard studied him for a long moment... then gave a curt nod.

"Wait here. Standard inspection first—but I’ll send word inside. If your intentions are true, you may yet find your place among us."

Inside the Walls of Calma

The iron gate groaned open with slow, deliberate weight, revealing the bustling streets of Calma beyond. Once a modest border town, it had transformed into a fortress-city. Stone-paved roads intersected beneath soaring watchtowers, where archers scanned the horizon with trained eyes.

The newcomers moved through in a quiet procession, heads turning toward them as they passed. Whispers followed in their wake—"Estalis soldiers," "defectors," "traitors"—some spoken with curiosity, others with suspicion.

The group was led from the gate to a square beside Argue tower, a sturdy hall of granite and palewood flying the white-and-navy blue banner of Calma—the legendary white eagle rising over stormy peaks. At the door stood two guards in polished plate, bearing spears and the same piercing gaze as their captain.

"Names," one of them demanded briskly.

"I am General Joash Marcus, formerly of Estalis. These are my kin and comrades. We come to speak with Prince Alaric’s command. We come in peace, and in loyalty."

The guards exchanged a glance, then nodded. "You’ll speak with Commander Angus, Alaric’s second in command.

Justice Hall of Calma

Inside, the air was cooler. Sunlight filtered through tall, narrow windows, painting silver shapes across the floor. A long war table dominated the chamber, covered in maps, miniature soldiers, and reports. Around it stood a handful of officers—one of them tall and broad-shouldered, with a grizzled beard and a long scar that ran down the back of his neck and disappeared into his tunic.

This was Commander Angus, Prince Alaric’s second-in-command, his former personal guard. He looked up as the group was led in.

"So," he said, his voice deep and level. "The rumors are true. Estalis soldiers marching on Calma’s gate."

General Joash Marcus stepped forward and dropped to one knee. "Commander Angus, I am not here as an enemy. My loyalty was to Estalis—but it is no longer the land I swore to serve. Zura rules through puppets and fear. I saw what was coming, and my men and their family followed me rather than bow to chains."

Angus studied the man silently, his gray eyes like flint. "And what is it you seek?"

"A place," Marcus said. "To fight with honor again. To serve a leader who hasn’t sold his people."

"And what of the others? Women, children—this isn’t a refugee camp."

"We will not burden Calma. The civilians will go where you deem fit, and the soldiers will earn their keep—or die trying. We do not come as beggars. We come as blades, ready to serve."

Angud walked slowly around the group, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. He paused before the young lieutenant —Joshua, Joash’s Marcus son—and studied his face.

"You’ve seen battle?"

"Yes, Sir. I fought at the Carles battle two years ago. Took a spear to the shoulder and kept fighting."

"Young and already scarred," Angus muttered. "That’s something."

He turned back toward the table and picked up a carved wooden falcon. He turned it over in his hand for a moment, then set it down.

"Prince Alaric has no patience for cowards or spies. But he honors those who stand for what’s right, even when it costs them everything."

Angus gave a nod. "You’ll be tested—every one of you. Trial period. Two weeks. You’ll drill with our men. Sleep where they sleep. Eat what they eat. If you lie, if you falter, if you so much as whisper deceit—you’ll be exiled or executed, depending on the mood of the court."

General Joash Marcus stood and bowed his head. "Understood, Commander."

"Good. I’ll have someone settle you and your family and see to your assignments. You’ll find him outside the barracks."

General Joash Marcus paused before asking, "Is Kane Mendel, here?"

At the mention of Kane Mendel, Angus’ face lit up with a flicker of surprise and warmth. He raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"He spared my life... two years ago. I’ve not forgotten it."

Angus allowed the hint of a smile. "Then you’ll get your chance to thank her. Maybe even stand beside her in battle."