It had always been that way. When the leader fell, the followers scattered—mindless and desperate, like headless chickens fleeing the butcher’s block.
So, it was the same when the commanders of the fleet that struck Lavista and Zaraga learned that their flagship had gone down and their admiral now languished in the dungeons of Azul.
Panic spread like fire through dry grass. Discipline fractured. In their fear, they made reckless and irrational decisions, fatal ones, that delivered them straight into the waiting hands of General Odin and Prince Vaskar.
Perhaps the Zurans’ downfall began even earlier. Their early victories had filled them with pride. They believed themselves invincible, heirs of the strongest naval power in the eastern, southern, and western seas. Overconfidence made them careless. Arrogance blinded them to danger.
And it was their bad luck or maybe fate—cruel and cunning—that led them to Lara.
Lara, who as a child had been hurled into a frozen lake at midnight to retrieve a "treasure" which was just a photo of her target. Lara, who as a teenager was abandoned in shark-infested waters under the guise of training.
Those brutal lessons had carved endurance into her bones and precision into every one of her motions. She had been tempered by hardship, molded by fear, and sharpened by survival. Those lessons were ingrained not only in her memories but in every fiber of her muscles.
When the Zuran fleet met her, they faced not a woman, but a tempest in the flesh.
Their fleet was shattered. The Estalians, quick to seize the moment, salvaged the enemy’s command ship. Its hull bore only minor damage. Lara had planned it that way. Her use of gunpowder was measured accurately. She wanted it to sink just enough for panic to spread, but not enough to destroy. Within the shallow bay, the water’s depth was forgiving. The ship could be salvaged with relative ease.
The Zurans called it bad luck.
Lara called it a strategy.
When news of the naval fleet’s defeat reached the royal palace of Zura, King Roman erupted like a long-dormant volcano. His furious roar echoed through the marble halls as he struck the armrest of his throne, splintering wood beneath his fist.
Servants scattered. Messengers fled. Within minutes, an emergency council was summoned — the kingdom itself seemed to tremble under the weight of his rage.
Far from the capital’s turmoil, General Turik lay in convalescence at his estate on the outskirt of the capital. His once-proud legs, shattered in battle, were covered by his loose trousers.
Mira stayed by his side — not as a lover born of affection, but as his kept woman, a shadow of her former self. Once the favored concubine of a crown prince, she now played nurse and mistress to a crippled general. The fall had been steep, and she tasted bitterness with every forced smile.
Turik’s latest hope came in the form of a foreigner — a quiet, silver-haired healer from the eastern lands who had arrived in Zura aboard a merchant ship. Fate had not been kind to the man; robbed by bandits, he would have died in a ditch had Turik not intervened.
Turik saw his potential. He had witnessed his gift — the old man’s strange art of healing through the use needles, piercing flesh with precision and calm. Within moments, a man in intense pain had risen, pain-free and with renewed vigor.
Turik saw opportunity. He always did.
It was that instinct...that ruthless ability to weigh a person’s worth with a single glance — that kept loyal men around him. He recognized potential the way a wolf scents blood.
Now, seated in his chair, Turik’s eyes burned with desperate resolve. "Doctor Nam Bewan," he asked, voice taut with restrained hope, "are you confident you can still cure my legs?" Official source ıs 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝓷𝓮𝓽
He despised the sight of himself confined to that infernal chair. Crutches gave him movement, but not dignity.
He was a warrior trapped in the shell of an invalid — a humiliation he could not forgive. He cursed General Odin daily, whispering venomous oaths that one day, he would make that man crawl as he did.
The old healer bowed slightly, voice calm and measured.
"My lord, I would not speak in haste. But your bones have healed well — thanks to the care taken in setting them. It helped a lot. Now, we just need to stimulate the nerves. With time, you shall walk again."
General Turik cast Mira a complicated look. It was her timely intervention that gave him a slim chance of walking again.
Then he turned to the old man and a dangerous light flickered in his eyes.
"You had better be right, Doctor Nam," he hissed. "If I find you’re lying to me, not even the gods will save you." He snarled. His voice was low and threatening.
The threat hung heavy in the air, sharp as a blade. Yet the old man did not flinch. He owed his life to Turik — and this was how he would repay the debt.
"I understand, General, but I won’t pre-empt it," he murmured softly. "Now, lie down." He turned to Mira. "Lady Mira, please remove his trousers."
Mira forced a smile, though hatred curdled behind her eyes. Remove his trousers. Once, she had dressed in silk and jewels, the envy of the noble ladies in Zavadra. Now she was reduced to tending a broken man.
From the prince’s concubine to this... how far I have fallen.
Her lips tightened as she worked, her thoughts turning bitter. She had chosen life over loyalty — left Reuben behind when he needed her most. Now, with news of Zura’s naval defeat, she understood what it meant: Estalis had triumphed. Northem was at peace again. Reuben’s kingdom would survive without her.
Her heart turned more bitter when she heard the the Zuran fleet were defeated by the Estalis soldiers. It only meant that Northem has become peaceful.
She bit her lip until it bled, eyes glistening though she refused to let tears fall.
She could never return. There was no place for her in Northem anymore!
A/N: Any treatment method mentioned in this book is fictional and has no scientific basis.