Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 95: The Battle Of Carles 3

Chapter 95: The Battle Of Carles 3

Anticipating the inevitable, General Odin had already sent several soldiers to secure Carles’ most important documents. They had gathered ledgers, maps, treaties—anything of value—and stuffed them into sacks, now slung over their shoulders as they dashed toward the back exit.

Outside, the team under Commander Cobar was already engaged in combat. The moment the first flickers of flame licked the edges of the building, Estalis forces had attempted to intercept the fleeing Northem soldiers.

But Cobar’s archers were waiting.

From the shadows, they let loose their arrows, striking down the advancing enemy before they could block the escape route in the West.

Meanwhile, inside the inferno, the heat was unbearable. The once-magnificent town hall was becoming an incinerator. Wooden beams groaned as the fire consumed them, the walls radiating scorching waves that seared the skin.

The Estalis soldiers, still bound and unconscious just moments ago, were jolted awake by the agonizing heat. Panic overtook them as they realized their prison was now a blazing deathtrap. Smoke filled their lungs, and their vision blurred with stinging tears. With no other option, they threw themselves at the windows, leaping blindly into the night—only to be met with a merciless fate.

Arrows whistled through the air.

One by one, the Estalis soldiers fell, their bodies riddled with projectiles. Groans of pain filled the night, blending with the crackling of the growing fire.

Then, from their elevated positions, the Estalis archers noticed something unsettling. In the glow of the flames, they saw the band in the arms of the men they had just shot.

The realization struck like a hammer to the chest.

Their targets—the men writhing in pain on the ground—weren’t Northem soldiers at all.

They were Estalis soldiers.

Their own men.

A horrified murmur rippled through their ranks as the truth dawned upon them. They had unknowingly turned their bows against their brothers-in-arms, fooled by the frenzy of fire.

The chaos of war had made them their own executioners.

"Stop Shooting!" A lieutenant finally came to his senses.

"What are you waiting for? Hurry and save them!"

A handful of Estalis soldiers scrambled toward the burning town hall, their eyes wide with horror as their brothers-in-arms lay writhing on the ground, pierced by friendly arrows. Some clutched at their wounds, gasping for breath, while others remained still—silent victims of a fatal mistake.

Desperation gripped the remaining Estalis troops as they attempted to drag their injured comrades to safety. But the heat was unbearable. The inferno roared like a living beast, its searing breath pushing them back, forcing them to watch helplessly as the once-proud structure became a funeral pyre.

A few fortunate soldiers who had managed to avoid the deadly rain of arrows now faced a different trial. Bound at the wrists, they crawled on their bellies like wounded animals, dragging themselves through the ground with only their knees and shoulders for leverage. Their palms, scorched by embers, twitched from pain as they inched away from the inferno that once symbolized Carles’s pride.

Meanwhile, General Odin and his men had reached the rocky slopes of Mount Roca. The moon cast long shadows over the terrain, illuminating the rugged paths they now climbed. From his vantage point, Odin turned, his sharp gaze fixed on the smoldering ruin of the town hall.

Its once proud walls now stood blackened and hollow, the interiors devoured by fire. Only the stone facade remained—a haunting shell of what had once been the heart of Carles.

Odin’s jaw tightened. His men had fought well, outmaneuvering their enemy at every turn. Yet, watching the symbol of Carles’ history reduced to cinders filled him with an unexpected melancholy.

"What a pity." He exhaled the words like a sigh.

...

Inside the shop, Mayor Roder Fuerte stood rigid, his fingers tapping impatiently against the polished wooden table. The acrid scent of smoke still lingered in the air, carried through the open windows.

A commander entered, his steps hesitant. He saluted, his expression dark.

"Mayor... the soldiers of Northem have escaped into Mount Roca," he reported.

Fuerte’s brow twitched. "How many?" His voice was sharp, expecting a small number. He had assumed only a handful could have possibly survived—after all, they had been surrounded, outnumbered, and trapped inside a burning fortress.

The commander lowered his head and fidgeted. He did not know how to break the news.

Fuerte’s patience snapped. "Well? What are you standing there for? Are you deaf?" His voice rose dangerously. "How many escaped?"

The commander swallowed hard before answering in a near whisper.

"All of them."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Fuerte’s face drained of color. "What?" His heart pounded against his ribs. "I saw soldiers leaping from windows, struck down by our archers!"

"Mayor..." he finally admitted, his voice breaking. "Those were our soldiers. The Northem troops only bound and confined them in the second-floor rooms... but in the chaos, we—" his voice wavered, "—we shot them by mistake."

"What!" He felt as though the floor had been yanked from beneath him. His chest tightened with an anger so fierce it burned hotter than the fire outside.

A sharp, mocking laugh sliced through the tension in the air.

Turik.

The general stood off the side, arms crossed, his smirk laced with open ridicule.

"I didn’t realize your soldiers were truly this incompetent—or this stupid," Turik sneered, shaking his head. "How—tell me, how—did those Nords manage to escape when the odds were entirely against them?"

He only called the Northem soldiers, "Nords" when he was seething.

Fuerte could barely breathe. His mind reeled, drowning in disbelief and humiliation.

Turik’s expression darkened further. "This is unbelievable. Had I known, I would have let my men handle the task." His cold gaze snapped back to the commander. "Tell me, how many soldiers did you deploy to intercept those fleeing from the hall?"

"Five hundred on each side." The commander answered. His voice was just barely above a whisper.

A slow, predatory smile crept across Turik’s lips.

"Two thousand archers," he said mockingly, "and not a single one managed to injure even one enemy? Is this what you call an easy win?" His mocking gaze fell on Mayor Fuerte.

What a disgrace!"