Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 349: The Exiles

Dawn crept over the eastern horizon, its first golden rays barely piercing the thick mist that hung over the capital. A somber silence clung to the air, as though the city itself were holding its breath.

At the northern gate of Savadra, two grim processions slowly converged.

The first to arrive were the prisoners, their wrists bound in iron cuffs, ankles chafed from days in chains. They were flanked on all sides by fifty armored soldiers. Dust clung to their clothes, most of which were tattered remnants from their time in the dungeons.

Despite this, General Odin Norse and his sons stood tall, their backs unbent, eyes forward. Their steps were heavy from hunger and thirst, but their pride was intact, a final tribute to the fallen honor of the Norse army.

Moments later, a second group arrived from the south. A hush fell over the crowd gathered near the gates.

The wives and children of the convicted officers were herded toward the men, escorted not with compassion, but with the same cold discipline reserved for enemies of the kingdom.

The Northem soldiers around them held their weapons stiffly, their gazes flat, as if daring anyone to pity the condemned.

General Odin’s jaw tightened at the sight. Though fatigue lined his face, his voice rang out with unmistakable scorn.

"I did not realize the honor of Northem’s soldiers had fallen so low," he said sharply. "To treat women and children like criminals, you disgrace the uniform you wear."

A ripple of murmurs ran through the crowd. One of the guards, young and arrogant, turned with a sneer and raised his whip.

"You still think you’re the mighty general?" he spat. "You’re nothing now. A criminal. And so are they."

He lifted the whip, intent on making a spectacle.

But before the leather could strike flesh, a stone whistled through the air and struck the soldier hard on the back of his skull. He stumbled, cursing, as blood trickled down the back of his head. He whirled around, eyes blazing, but saw only a crowd of silent onlookers.

"Who the hell hit me?"

The captain of the guards stepped close and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the soldier to hear.

"Don’t make a scene," he said in a low voice. "People came to send these men off. How brave are you to hurt the general? Even if he was convicted, these people still treated him as their hero. Restrain yourself."

The soldier, now pale with sudden awareness, scanned the assembled faces. Dozens of them glared back with quiet, burning hatred. He swallowed his pride, lowered his whip, and slunk back into the ranks.

He did not dare make another trouble.

The last to arrive was Atalia, visibly pregnant, with her six-year-old son beside her. She stepped out of a modest carriage, helped down by a tall servant whose grip was steady and firm.

Among the prisoners, Captain Amnon’s eyes widened. His face tightened with emotion, his eyes reddened as he saw his wife for the first time in weeks. He tugged futilely at his shackles, veins bulging in his arms. His lips parted to speak—but no sound came.

General Odin caught his actions and gave him a small, calming gesture.

Not now. Just wait and watch.

Amnon relaxed. He trusted his general, and he knew that there must be a plan.

Atalia, cloaked in a threadbare shawl, pressed one hand protectively against her belly, and with the other, clasped her son’s small fingers. Her eyes, dark with exhaustion, flickered with steel. She glanced to where her husband was and for a moment their gazes locked.

Amnon was relieved to see that there was no fear in his wife’s beautiful hazel eyes, only quiet fury and resolve. Did she know something he did not know?

Atalia’s servant had somehow acquired a rickety sidecar fitted to a bicycle, where she and her son could sit on a wooden bench, while the servant pushed and guided the bicycle.

When the captain of the guard attempted to confiscate it, claiming no such privileges were allowed, the servant stood her ground.

"She is eight months with child," the servant said in a respectful tone. "We will slow everyone down with her collapsing every ten steps."

The servant argued and spoke a few more words, guilt-tripping the captain and he finally relented.

He took a double look at the servant. She was plain looking, even ugly with the acne on her face, but why did he feel that she spoke with such authority that he could not say no?

From his place in the chain line, Amnon watched the exchange with astonished gratitude. He didn’t recognize the servant. She must have been hired recently. But there was something in her bearing—her grace, her calm—that didn’t match the role of a servant at all.

As the sun began to rise, the procession finally moved.

The sky, once golden, turned gray—clouds thickening as if the heavens themselves recoiled from what they saw. A heavy silence cloaked the road. The only sounds were the hooves of horses, the clink of chains, the creak of wheels, and the dull thud of boots against dirt.

There were a total of sixty prisoners, including the twelve from Odin’s camp. There were four wives and a total of twelve children of varying ages. Only the family of the convicted generals and commanders were included in the exile. The rest of the prisoners did not have their families banished with them.

They traveled along the foot of the Alta-Sierra mountains, following the old exile road that wound toward the sea.

Some prisoners stumbled barefoot, their soles bloodied and raw. Others limped silently, hands bound by the same long, iron rope that had shackled countless others before them. Dust rose with every footfall, clinging to the clothes of both men and children alike.

Yet through it all, General Odin and his sons walked tall, their posture unmarred. Even clothed in rags, even burdened by chains, they carried the legacy of their name with them—not as broken men, but as warriors brought low by treachery, not shame.

Four more children who were too delicate for long walks were herded inside the sidecar by the servant. They sat on the floor while Atalia sat on the narrow bench of the sidecar. Her body swayed with the bumps of the uneven road, but her grip on his son never faltered. She whispered quietly to the boy and the other children, pointing to the mountains, to the clouds, anything to distract them from their ordeal.

The captain of the guard, growing impatient with the slow pace, would sometimes spur his horse into a gallop—causing the long chain of prisoners behind him to jerk forward. More than once, men at the end of the line were pulled off balance and fell into the dirt, dragged several paces before others helped them up.

But there were no complaints, only silence.

And a promise—unspoken but alive in every heartbeat—that this injustice would not be forgotten.

Th𝓮 most uptodate nov𝑒ls are publish𝒆d on freew(e)bnove(l).𝓬𝓸𝓶