How did the three Norse siblings escape from the great hall without being noticed?
When the bandits masquerading as soldiers stormed in, the brothers had already vanished into the shadows of the rafters. There, in the far left chamber, a trapdoor had been concealed for generations—a passage known only to a few. One by one, silent as wolves, they had slipped through the ceiling and into the night, unseen.
Perhaps it was rage or desperation that gave Red Fox’s men the strength to finally smash the barricaded doors wide open. The wood shrieked, iron splintered, and the great hall filled with a roar of triumph.
"Kill them all!" Red Fox bellowed, his voice shaking the beams.
But triumph turned to chaos.
Arrows hissed from the shadows, felling his front line. Men collapsed before they understood what had struck them. From the hidden corners, the archers of Alpha Team unleashed a rain of death.
"Shields, you idiots!" Red Fox snarled, seizing a wounded man and dragging him forward as a meat shield. He pushed through the storm, eyes scanning, calculating. He saw the archers and, with a jab of his finger, sent a squad of killers racing toward them.
The hall emptied into the courtyard, and the clash erupted like a storm at sea.
Steel rang against steel. Sparks rained. The Norse brothers appeared from the shadows, blades in hand, meeting the tide head-on. They fought not as men, but as a wall of iron and fury. Every stroke was final, every step forward forced the enemy back.
Red Fox laughed from behind his helm. "Three men think to stand against me? Slaughter them!"
The tide pressed harder.
But the fox-helmed commander had not yet fought. He stood back, watching the chaos with a predator’s patience, waiting for the moment to strike. His eyes never left Asael.
And Asael felt it—the pull of fate. Sooner or later, he would have to face that man, blade against blade. And only one of them would stay alive.
Galahad’s blade split a raider’s helm in two. Asael drove his shoulder into another, sending him crashing into the pillars. But still more came. Blades glanced off their armor. A spear licked Galahad’s arm. Blood welled.
"Hold!" Galahad roared, though his chest heaved. "Hold until—"
The words were drowned out.
This time it was not the enemy’s blow—but the fortress itself answering. The walls shook as a horn blast split the night, deep and powerful.
The bandits faltered, some glancing back in alarm.
From above walls, a great banner unfurled—the Phoenix Legions sigil, glittering in the torchlight. And behind it came the reinforcements.
Soldiers stormed into the keep like a tide of iron, their polished armor blinding in the torchlight. Their commander raised his sword high. "Crush the enemies!"
Red Fox’s grin vanished.
Scarface’s scar turned ever uglier as he frowned.
The hall dissolved into chaos. The bandits, disciplined moments before, broke under the sudden counter-attack. The clash was brutal but swift—soldiers cutting down those who resisted, shackling those who dropped their weapons. Scarface fought with monstrous strength, but a spear blow to the chest sent him sprawling, his breath torn from his lungs.
Red Fox fought like a cornered beast, his sword carving deadly arcs. He cut down two men before Galahad himself seized him by the throat and slammed him against the stone pillar. The fox-helm clattered to the floor.
"So ugly," Galahad uttered with disgust. "You wanted blood?" Galahad’s voice was a growl, eyes burning like fire. "You’ll spill yours in chains."
The soldiers swarmed, stripping Red Fox of his weapons and binding him in iron shackles that even his strength could not break. He spat curses, but they dragged him away. Scarface soon joined him, unconscious and bound.
By dawn, the dungeon rang with the clatter of barred gates slamming shut. Red Fox, Scarface, and their men—those who had survived—were cast into the darkness where no schemes could save them.
And in the great hall above, light returned.
The hostages—women and children, shaken but unharmed—emerged from the hidden passages. Sigfred’s daughter clung to her mother, eyes still wide with awe. "See? The star really listened, Mother. It kept Father safe, too."
Sigfred knelt before her, pulling her into his arms. His throat tightened, but he pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, "Yes, Helena, my little one. It did."
For a long moment, the hall held only relief—tears, laughter, and the release of breath long held.
Sigfred asked the servants to escort his grandparents back to their quarters. His sister-in-laws refused to return to their rooms, but decided to accompany their mother to her room. The Duke of Silverstone, along with his knights, were at Savadra preparing for the queen’s banquet. The duchess was alone, and they could not let her be. It was for their peace of mind.
Sigfred had also assigned guest rooms to the women of the Earl of Donalton.
Yet not all hearts were at ease.
Lady Rowana lingered, her gaze fixed on Aryana. She had seen her fight—seen her strength—and something burned in her chest. If I were like her, no one could hurt us again. Not my stepmother. Not my half-sister. Not even Father’s indifference. She clenched her fists. I will grow strong. Strong enough to protect my mother... and crush those who dare touch me.
And maybe, just maybe, she could help her mother, the legitimate countess who was lying sick in a small house at the back of her father’s mansion. She knew how her mother got sick, but even though she told her father about it, he did nothing because he favored his second wife.
After she was almost raped and her stepmother did nothing and even pushed her to it, she realized that she could only rely on no one but herself to protect her and those she loves. She vowed that she will grow stronger and she will not let anyone step on her anymore —not her step-mother, nor her half-sister.
Meanwhile, Galahad, stood apart, gazed at the dungeon doors with narrowed eyes. Victory had been won, yet unease lingered. Men like Red Fox were weeds—they grew back in blood and shadow.
Gideon approached his two brothers.
Then Gideon’s voice came, low and grim.
"Asael. Galahad. That man... Scarface. He’s the one who abducted Lara. She drew his portrait once and I saw it."
"What? Are you sure about it, Gideon?" Galahad asked, his voice taut with fury.
"I swear it. That scar—Lara captured it realistically, I’d know it anywhere."
A silence fell, heavy as iron.
Galahad’s hand curled into a fist. His voice dropped to a growl that trembled with barely restrained rage.
"Then, he will regret that he crossed paths with me tonight."