Return of the General's Daughter

When the sun had chased away the lingering shadows of dawn, Shaya bade Netser goodbye. She was needed in the infirmary, where the remaining wounded soldiers awaited her skilled hands.

Netser's gaze lingered on her retreating figure, reluctant to let her go. His lips parted as if to call her back, but no words came. Instead, he watched until she vanished from sight, leaving him with an ache he could not name.

With a reluctant sigh, he turned toward the training ground. Tomorrow, the Phoenix Legion would march toward Estalis, and already the men moved with taut nerves and restless energy.

From the soldiers' chatter, Netser had learned that Shaya had accompanied them when they crossed the treacherous passes from Mount Roca in Carles to Savadra. He imagined her among them, braving the biting cold and the narrow ridges, her presence somehow both fragile and unyielding. The thought unsettled him. Part of him hoped—selfishly—that she would come with them again to Estalis. Yet another part of him recoiled: was it not too dangerous for her? Or perhaps, was it that he did not wish to share her presence with other men?

Later, after training, Netser sought Shaya out. A soldier told him she was at the infirmary, so he went there, weaving through the corridors until he reached the entrance. But when he stepped inside, he stopped short. Shaya was in the room of General Bener Norse. With her were Prince Alaric and Lady Lara, both engaged in quiet conversation.

Netser dared not enter. He stood in the doorway, half-hidden, watching. Shaya moved with calm assurance as she tended the general, her hands steady as she passed him his medicine. She leaned in slightly, listening intently as he spoke, her expression lit with that same warmth and determination that had unsettled him ever since their paths had crossed.

His brows furrowed. In the last two years, in Northem, such a scene was not unusual—women here were allowed to learn, to heal, even to train alongside soldiers. Their contributions were acknowledged, even valued. But to Netser, who had been shaped by the patriarchal laws of Westalis, it was a troubling sight.

In the Kingdom of Westalis, no woman would ever be permitted such freedom. A Westalian woman who dared to study medicine would be branded a usurper of men's knowledge. To lift a weapon in training would be to mock the order of the gods themselves. The punishment was merciless: public disgrace, lashings, and—if the offense was grave enough—death. Women were expected to keep their eyes lowered, their words few, and their lives confined to obedience and childbearing. Anything beyond that was rebellion.

He remembered the cold courtyards where trials were held. The great stone dais, stained dark in the cracks from blood washed too many times. Women kneeling in the dirt, their hair hacked short in shame, their cries swallowed by the jeering crowd. The patriarchs' voices had thundered with condemnation: She has usurped the order of men. She has spoken where silence was commanded. She has claimed knowledge not granted by the gods.

And always, the punishment.

He remembered a girl—no older than sixteen—who had been caught with a bundle of parchment hidden in her skirts. Writings on medicine, copied in secret from her brother's studies. She had begged for mercy, claiming she only wanted to tend to her ailing mother. Netser, younger then, had stood among the recruits assigned to "maintain order." He had been forced to hold the line against her frantic family as the patriarchs lashed her until she collapsed. The sound of the whip splitting flesh still echoed in his ears.

Another memory came: a woman dragged through the streets for daring to train with a wooden spear. Her neighbors spat on her as soldiers paraded her toward the square. The punishment had been harsher—mock combat, where she was forced to face three men. It was no fight at all. By the time it ended, she was a heap of broken bones and shallow breath. The patriarchs declared her fate just: A woman who dares to be a soldier becomes a lesson, not a comrade.

But the one that clung to him most was of a healer. A quiet woman in a village who had saved countless lives with her herbs and tinctures. Netser's younger sister had once been healed by her, a festering wound cleaned and bound when no priest's blessing could help. Yet the day the patriarchs discovered her work, they dragged her into the square. She was accused of witchcraft—stealing power meant only for men of the temple. Netser had been in the crowd when they bound her to the pyre. He had told himself then that it was justice, that this was the way of things. Yet as the fire consumed her, as her desperate cries for mercy filled the air and the smoke stung his eyes, a part of him had looked away, ashamed.

Now, in Northem, those faces returned to him. Faces of women silenced, broken, erased. He had been raised to believe it was righteous, but the sight of Lara and Shaya undid those teachings thread by thread.

For the first time, he wondered if Westalis had been wrong all along.

And yet… to admit that aloud was treason. To even think it too loudly was dangerous. His loyalty, his faith, his very identity were bound to the laws of his homeland.

And here was Shaya, her every movement a quiet defiance of everything Westalis held sacred. She was not beaten into silence or cloistered in shadow, but alive, needed, and—most dangerously—admired.

If women could heal, lead, and endure here in Northem… what had Westalis destroyed by crushing them?

Netser watched a moment longer, the weight of his thoughts heavy upon him, before he withdrew quietly into the corridor.

...

Inside the room, the air was heavy with the faint scent of herbs and burnt oil from the lamps. Bener had regained enough strength to sit upright. He leaned slightly forward on the edge of the bed, his posture firm despite the lingering stiffness in his movements.

"Your Highness," Bener said evenly, his voice carrying the weight of command, "Percival could lead the Eagle team. His eyes are sharper than Gideon's. He is made for scouting."

Prince Alaric, seated beside him, inclined his head without hesitation. "Then so it shall be. I will trust your counsel, Bener."

Lara turned toward Shaya, her words breaking the quiet like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Shaya," she said, her voice firmer than she felt, "Will you come with us tomorrow, or remain behind?"

The suddenness of the question struck Shaya and she stiffened, her breath catching in her throat. Instinctively, her eyes flicked toward Bener. He was already watching her. For a moment, the room narrowed to the space between them—the meeting of their gazes, the unspoken weight in his eyes, a wordless exchange that seemed to last an eternity.

"I'll come with you," Shaya whispered at first, then with a breath that trembled yet carried resolve, "I'll come."

Her words hung in the air, heavier than stone, and none in the room missed the quiet finality of her choice.