All Chapters of THE BASTARD SON OF THE VIKINGS : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

THE WOMAN THEY FORGOTThe corridor outside the council chamber felt narrower than it ever had.Lucia walked alone.No guards. No attendants. No Vanguard at her shoulder reminding her who watched, who listened, who whispered. Just the echo of her boots against stone and the weight of a decision pressing against her ribs.Denounce him.The words had followed her all night.Denounce your son.Erase him publicly.Reclaim what you have lost.Vanguard had spoken it softly in their chamber, as if it were mercy.Lucia’s fingers brushed the hilt at her side.She had almost agreed.That was the part that sickened her.Almost.She stopped before the doors. Drew a slow breath. Thought of her son standing at Palermo’s gates. Thought of the way he had not bowed. Not begged.Guerrero’s blood did not beg.Nor did hers.The doors opened.Conversation died mid breath.Councilmen turned. Some startled. Some amused. Some openly contemptuous.Lucia stepped inside.She did not sit.She stood at the head of

WHEN PROXIMITY BECOMES POWERThe strike ended before dawn, but the unease did not.Lucia’s son stood at the edge of the ravine, watching smoke thin into the morning sky. The supply wagons burned low, wheels cracked, grain spilling uselessly into the dirt. It should have felt like victory. Clean. Satisfying.Instead, it felt measured.“Too easy,” Enzo said behind him.Lucia’s son did not turn. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed as if the answer might rise from the ashes if he stared long enough.“They pulled back early,” Enzo continued. “No reinforcements. No pursuit.”Lucia’s son nodded once. He had noticed the same thing. Vanguard never bled without intent.Footsteps approached from the right.The girl stopped beside him without being called.“They wanted the route blocked, not destroyed,” she said calmly. “Delay. Confusion. Not starvation.”Lucia’s son glanced at her. “You’re certain.”She met his eyes without hesitation. “Yes.”Enzo’s gaze sharpened. “You speak as if you were there w

THE EVIL THAT WALKETH IN THE NIGHT The camp had not yet settled when Enzo vanished into the dark. Lucia’s son stood where Enzo had left him, staring at the empty path, jaw tight. The laughter behind him still rang, loud and careless, but something sharp pressed against his chest. A sting. Brief. Easily ignored. He turned back to the fire. “Enough,” he said. “Drink. Sleep. Tomorrow we move.” The men obeyed quickly, relief washing over them. Fear forgotten. Suspicion buried under wine and noise. Latina watched it all. She watched how easily the night swallowed Enzo. She watched how easily the others followed their leader’s laughter instead of their instincts. And she smiled. Not openly. Just enough for herself. Lucia observed from the palace balcony, wrapped in silk and shadows. The wind teased her hair, carrying distant echoes of laughter from the encampment below the hill. She closed her eyes. So the cup had failed. Interesting. Her lips curved slightly. Failure ofte

WHEN THE MASKS FALLThe camp had been alive moments ago. Fires crackled, embers danced, laughter erupted around the roasting deer. The scent of meat, smoke, and ale wrapped the men in a deceptive comfort.And then the cup shattered the illusion.The chicken collapsed first, twitching violently. Blood poured from its eyes, its beak, and its cloaca. Men recoiled, stumbling backward in horror, screams slicing through the night air.Latina’s chest rose and fell slowly. Her lips curved into a triumphant smile, but inside her, something sharp pricked at her resolve. This was supposed to be subtle—his death without suspicion. Yet now, in the chaos, the truth had broken free.From the corner of her eye, she saw him—the man whose very presence demanded war. Lucia’s son convulsed violently, collapsing to the dirt with a thud that shook the circle of men around him. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. His breaths came shallow, ragged, irregular.Enzo’s voice tore through the panic like s

THE NIGHT THAT BREATHES WITH SHADOWSThe night in Palermo had a quiet that was almost cruel. Vanguard stood in the dense brush, every sense heightened, every muscle coiled. His boots pressed against soft earth, leaves crunching lightly beneath them, but he barely noticed. He had not eaten. He had not drunk. His body was tight with tension, mind spinning with one relentless question: where was she?Latina.He replayed the last moments they had shared in his mind, every touch, every glance, and every laugh. He should have felt satisfaction, closure, even a fleeting sense of triumph—but he felt nothing but anxiety. A gnawing fear that something had gone wrong, that she had vanished into darkness he could not pierce.And yet, when he finally emerged into the faint light of the city, standing before the palace gates for the so-called celebration, he tried to mask it. His chest rose and fell evenly, his hands folded lightly, his face unreadable. He raised a small cup of wine to his lips, bu