"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.
