Meanwhile, the battle at Carles had ended almost too quickly. General Odin and his five hundred soldiers had stormed the government building, expecting fierce resistance—yet the enemy barely fought before surrendering. The ease of their victory left a sour taste in General Odin’s mouth.
His lieutenant, sensing his unease, had tried to reason with him.
"Perhaps they’re tired of war and see no point in further bloodshed. It was futile of them to do so anyway. They have also learned of the defeat of the other strongholds, which must be the reason for their surrender." His lieutenant has said earlier.
General Odin had nodded at the time, but the gnawing doubt remained. Something was off. And what troubled him even more was that Asael’s Eagle Team had yet to return. That alone was enough to put him on edge.
As dusk settled over Carles, bringing with it the biting chill of December, a group of townsfolk arrived at the camp with baskets of food. They said they had suffered from the Estalis soldiers and claimed to be grateful for their liberation, offering warm meals as a token of thanks.
The scent of steaming broth and freshly cooked rice wafted through the air, stirring hunger in the weary Northem soldiers. They had fought hard, traveled far, and had not tasted a proper meal in days. The sight of hot food was almost too much to resist.
At supper, as was custom, General Odin planned to address his men—to commend those who had shown courage in battle before allowing them the first pick of the meal. But before he could return to the hall, some of the hungriest soldiers, unable to wait, grabbed bowls of soup and began eating.
The first soldier to take a sip let out a contented sigh. "I doubt the general will scold us. We’re starving, and the soup will get cold in this weather."
But before he could finish his thought, his body jerked violently. The wooden bowl tumbled from his hands, spilling its contents across the floor as he clutched his stomach in agony. A strangled groan escaped his lips.
Then another soldier staggered, hands trembling. Then another. And another.
A ripple of horror spread across the hall as men doubled over in pain, their faces twisted in agony.
General Odin had just stepped into the hall when he took in the chaos—the fallen soldiers, the spilled soup, the expressions of dread and confusion. His stomach dropped.
"The food is poisoned!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic.
Immediately, he snapped into action. "Lieutenant! Secure the prisoners—make sure only our men are guarding them. Fortify the perimeter—no one gets in or out. And someone, for the love of heavens, find the doctors!"
The realization struck him like a hammer to the chest. This was their plan all along.
The easy surrender. The compliant soldiers. The welcoming townsfolk.
He had walked right into Estalis’ trap.
Three doctors scurried around trying to help the thirty or so soldiers expel the poison that they had ingested. The doctors could not administer the antidote because they could not determine the poison used. It must be odorless and tasteless. They suspected arsenic but they needed time to check.
General Odin paced the dimly lit command room, fists clenched at his sides. Shadows flickered against the walls, cast by the oil lamps that barely illuminated the space. A map lay sprawled across the table before him, but his eyes drifted toward the window, where the townspeople milled about.
As his gaze landed on the townspeople, he couldn’t shake the troubling thought that hidden among them were Estalis soldiers, stealthily blending in, waiting for the dead of the night, when everyone was asleep to strike. The weight of impending danger pressed heavily against his chest.
He glanced at the unrolled map spread before him, frustration gnawing at him as he noted the unrelenting absence of his reinforcements. It had been more than a day since he expected them, and still, no sign of them. The air was thick with tension, each minute ticking by what felt like an eternity. Where were his troops? And why was their silence so deafening?
At the camp, nestled fifty kilometers from the bustling town of Carles, Lara felt a restlessness coursing through her. The evening sky hung low, painted in deep shades of a black veil and stars twinkled announcing their existence.
They had just finished their supper, the air still carrying the fragrant hints of smoked meat and roasted vegetables, but the warmth of the fire did little to settle her unease.
All around her, soldiers settled in for the night, murmuring soft goodnights, some whispering prayers into the darkness—prayers meant for distant loved ones who might never hear them.
The camp was still, but Lara remained wide awake, her mind racing with thoughts that refused to quiet down. The night enveloped them, thick with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant owls.
Her instincts screamed that something was wrong.
"Bener," she murmured, breaking the silence. "Wouldn’t your father be worried about the Eagle Team? We were supposed to return before sundown."
Bener, who had been sharpening his blade absentmindedly, stilled. "Yes," he admitted, his voice quiet. "Father might think something happened."
Lara hesitated before voicing the thought that had been nagging at her for hours. "Actually... that’s not what worries me the most." She swept her gaze over the scattered tents. "What if the enemy attacked your father? Five hundred men against a larger force—they’d be outnumbered."
Bener’s grip on his sword tightened. "You think Carles is under attack?"
"I don’t know," she said honestly. "But I have an ominous feeling."
She turned to him fully now, her gaze firm. "Why not take the cavalry and ride ahead? I’ll stay behind and take care of Asael."
Bener hesitated. "But—"
"Nothing will happen to us," she reassured him. "I have Aramis with me, and besides, we’re surrounded by ten thousand Northem soldiers. We are safe. But your father? He might not be."
Bener exhaled sharply, torn between duty and instinct of a stranger who just happened to look like his brother. Finally, he made his decision.
"I’ll speak to Captain Amnon. His unit reports directly to my father. We’ll leave as soon as I get my uncle’s permission."
"I suggest you keep it secret as much as possible. Remember the message that General Alaric said? It is a trap. Don’t worry about your uncle. I will inform him when the timing is right."
Bener’s eyes darkened at the reminder. "Then we ride immediately."
He turned to leave, but paused. "I’ll assign one of my father’s lieutenants to watch over you and Asael while I’m gone."
Lara waved a hand dismissively. "We’ll be fine. Just go. I... I can’t shake the feeling that something is happening in Carles."
Bener’s jaw clenched. Without another word, he disappeared into the night, moving swiftly toward the captain’s tent.
Lara remained by the fire, staring into the flames. Was it a daughter’s intuition?
She only hoped they weren’t already too late.