The next morning, the caravan resumed its journey, winding steadily along the narrow path that clung to the lower slopes of the Alta-Sierra mountain range. Far ahead, shrouded in pale mist, the jagged silhouette of Mount Hainai loomed on the horizon—now less than a day’s ride away.
General Odin rode near the center of the procession, his gaze scanning the surrounding ridges and tree lines. Despite the sunlight breaking through the pines, a knot of unease tightened in his chest. This was prime ground for an ambush. Bandits often stalked caravans here—waiting for the protection to peel away before striking at the weaker wagons.
He grunted under his breath, adjusting his grip on the reins. What if they attack after we leave? The thought gnawed at him.
Then, something caught his eye.
Two merchants dismounted from their carriage and preparing to mount their steeds. As one of them swung into the saddle, something about the man’s posture stopped Odin cold. The way he held the reins, the confident stillness, the unmistakable authority in the tilt of his head—it struck a chord.
He narrowed his eyes.
"That brat," he muttered.
Without another word, Odin spurred his horse forward. Hooves thundered against the rocky path as he galloped toward the rider. His horse skidded slightly as it halted beside the masked figure, who turned his head with practiced calm.
"Can we talk?" Odin asked, not bothering to mask the edge in his voice.
The masked man gave a small nod. Odin wheeled his horse around and led them both to the front of the line, out of earshot of the others. Once there, he didn’t wait.
"I know it’s you, Prince Alaric. Why are you here? Why wear a mask? What are you pretending to be?"
Alaric removed his glove, brushing dust from his sleeve with deliberate nonchalance. His voice, when it came, was calm but firm. "Greetings, General Odin. I am not pretending. I had matters to attend to in the capital—those matters are now resolved. I ride with this caravan to ensure its safety."
"To protect her," Odin said quietly, glancing back toward the carriage where Lady Freya and Lara rode.
Alaric didn’t deny it.
Odin’s shoulders eased slightly, though his brow remained furrowed. He studied the prince—half of his face hidden behind the familiar silver mask, the other half bearing the grim calm of a man who had lived through too many betrayals.
"Then I can rest easy," Odin said finally. "I trust you’ll guard them well."
"You have my word," Alaric replied, with the solemnity of a vow.
By early afternoon, the caravan reached a fork in the mountain trail. The time had come to part ways.
At the junction, Odin dismounted and approached the carriage. He clasped Freya’s hand, pressing a kiss to her forehead with courtly grace, then turned to Lara. For a moment, his hardened expression softened. He gave her a warrior’s nod—respectful, proud.
"Keep your mother safe," he told her.
"I will," Lara said, gripping his hand.
With that, General Odin and Gideon mounted their horses and turned toward the path that wound up toward Mount Hainai, their guards falling in behind them like silent shadows.
The rest of the caravan continued southward, descending gradually toward the sun-warmed plains and the border town of Legares.
Behind them, the mountain stood still and silent, watching.
Alaric was now at the vanguard of the group, no longer hiding in the carriage or shadowing from afar but riding alongside the lead guards with an ease that drew too many eyes. Even with the mask that concealed the better part of his face, his posture, voice, and command of space marked him as something more than a mere traveler.
That afternoon, when they stopped to rest beside a riverbank fringed with willows, she sought him out, finding him alone near the water, washing his hands and face.
"You’re drawing too much attention," Lara said quietly.
Alaric didn’t look up. "I always do. It doesn’t matter now."
"It does matter," she snapped. "People are watching. You might not be wearing a crown, but the weight of it’s tail still trailing behind you. What if the king and Reuben learned of this?"
Finally, he turned to her. The lower half of his face was visible beneath the smooth silver mask—lips curled up into a small smile.
"Don’t worry. Nothing that bad will happen. Trust me."
Lara nodded before returning to the carriage.
The sun had already set when they arrived at the town center of Legares.
Inside, the innkeeper offered a tight-lipped apology—only a handful of rooms remained. The rest had been claimed by other travelers earlier that day.
With no other options, the merchants and some of the guards begrudgingly agreed to share quarters or make do with the common room. The three ladies were given a single chamber, small, clean, with embroidered curtains and lavender-scented linens.
Later, the group gathered in the inn’s restaurant—a rustic hall with wooden beams, and the scent of braised meat and baked potatoes wafting from the kitchen. Lara was still settling into her seat when a familiar voice broke through the din.
"Good evening, Lara. Welcome back. If you need anything—just say the word."
Lara looked up in surprise. A woman dressed in plain clothes stood by their table, her chestnut hair pulled into a thick braid.
"Nympha, you look different."
The woman laughed, brushing her hands on her apron. "Looking , what gave me away?"
"I just guessed," Lara said, eyes glinting.
"Join us," Lara added lightly, gesturing to the empty seat beside her.
Nympha’s smile faltered. Her eyes flicked past Lara, and then her body tensed. She paled, visibly shaken. "No. No, I’ve already eaten. And you’re the inn’s guests—I won’t intrude."
She turned sharply, as if to flee, but Lara’s voice called her back like a tether.
Lara noticed the woman’s fear. She looked back, and indeed, there he was, standing near the entrance. The eyes behind the silver mask were piercing. He was giving a cold aura that could ward off even the bravest soul.
Lara gestured for her to sit.
"Nympha, what happened to that husband of yours?" She asked.
"Thamos?" she replied, without turning around. "He caught something... a strange sickness, triggered from the injury in his manhood, but it spread to his mind. First, he lost his strength. Then, his temper turned foul. In the end, he lost his life."
Her gaze turned distant, and in her eyes was something dark and cold—vindication.
"Maybe it was punishment," she said. "For what he did. For what he was. He deserved every moment of it."
Lara said nothing for a long moment. Neither did Alaric, who remained near the doorway, unmoving.
Nympha bowed her head slightly—whether in respect, regret, or fear, it was hard to tell—and disappeared into the kitchen.
Only after she was gone did Lara let out a quiet exhale. She could feel Alaric’s presence filling the room. It was like standing near a fire that wasn’t meant to warm, only to burn.
But when she turned around and held his gaze, the rage left him and only gentleness remained.