The storm of indecision gripped Marlon Norse like a vice. He stood at the manor's threshold , staring past the horizon where the distant mountains cut the sky like jagged teeth. Two days. That was all the time left before his forces assembled. If he stayed, they would lose precious hours. If he left now, his body—already fraying from days of sleepless marches—might fail him before he reached them.
"General," Seveir's voice broke the silence, low and urgent, "you must rest. You've been in the saddle for a few days without pause. You cannot lead men into battle if you collapse before it begins."
Marlon clenched his jaw. "But—"
"No," Odin interrupted, his tone firm enough to cut through Marlon's stubbornness. "Stay the night. The horses are spent, and so are you. Galahad and Bener know a shorter route—faster, safer. If you leave tomorrow, you'll still reach Mount Roca in time. Push any further tonight, and you'll break both man and beast."
