Return of the General's Daughter

The words rang sharp through the chamber, but Aragon did not flinch. His smirk returned, thin and cutting.

Then chaos erupted. The hall became a storm of screams and steel. Mothers clutched their children, shielding them as the last Petro men and their knights raised their blades for one final stand. Their fury was hopeless, but fierce—the defiance of a cornered beast.

From the shadows, Lara, Alaric, Gideon, and Percival emerged. They did not join the slaughter; this was not their fight. Instead, they moved swiftly, guiding the women and children away from the bloodshed, ushering them into a side chamber where their sobs and cries blended into a haunting chorus that drowned out the clang of steel.

The battle within the keep was short and merciless. One by one, the Petro loyalists fell. Their blood pooled beside their king's cooling corpse, their resistance extinguished forever. By the end, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and silence—the dynasty of Petro shattered, its last defenders lying dead upon the stones of their own hall.

Aragon stood alone at the center, the crown heavy in his grip. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing absently along its rim. Gold, cold beneath his skin. A symbol of power—yet in it, he felt the weight of every scream, every drop of blood staining the palace floors.

His jaw tightened. For a fleeting heartbeat, something shifted in his gaze. Was it doubt? Weariness? The faint recognition that to claim this crown was to bind himself to the same cycle of violence he had just shattered?

He exhaled sharply, smothering the thought before it could root itself. Kings did not waver. Kings did not question.

"Estalis has no need for mourning," he said, voice flat, as though speaking to the crown itself. "It needs order and strength."

But still, he didn't move. The crown lingered in his hand like a burden that threatened to anchor him in place.

"Brother, we have finally avenged our family." Vaskar, who was exhausted from all the fighting, plopped on the marble floor.

"Yes, we did! Now we can rest easy and focus on rebuilding Estalis." Aragon said, his eyes still on the crown.

Marcus exchanged a glance with Abner, lowering his voice. "He holds it as though it burns."

Abner frowned. "And yet he won't let go."

At last, Aragon forced the smirk back onto his lips, burying the flicker of unease beneath a mask of cold certainty. He tucked the crown beneath his arm and turned to face his generals, his expression once more carved from stone.

"The dynasty of Petro is over," he declared. "Estalis belongs to Delmar. And I will see it rise, even if it rises from ash."

Neither Marcus nor Abner answered. Their silence said enough—they had heard the edge beneath his words, the tremor of something more than pride. But they bowed their heads all the same.

Aragon cast one last glance at Rasco's corpse, then strode from the hall. His steps were steady, unyielding, but the crown weighed heavier with every stride—as if the ghosts of Estalis clung to it, whispering the price of kingship in voices only he could hear.

...

The great hall of Aegis Palace had been scoured of blood, though its stone still carried the memory of battle. Fresh banners of Delmar crimson and gold now draped from the rafters, shrouding the Petro emblems beneath them. Candles burned in towering braziers, their light casting a solemn glow across the gathered court.

Every noble who still breathed had been summoned, along with generals, captains, priests, and emissaries. They filled the chamber, their whispers slithering like serpents through the air as they awaited the moment. Fear and curiosity bound them together more tightly than loyalty ever could.

At the center stood Aragon. The throne loomed behind him, stripped of Rasco's trappings, its high back stark and unyielding. Before him, on a velvet-draped pedestal, rested the crown of Estalis—polished, gleaming, heavy with history.

The High Priest raised his hands, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "On this day, the gods bear witness. The blood of Delmar claims what was lost, and the kingdom is restored through fire and steel. Let the crown be placed, that Estalis may rise anew."

The hall erupted in murmurs. Some bowed their heads in reverence; others clenched their fists in silent dissent.

Aragon stepped forward, each footfall deliberate, echoing across the stones. His eyes fixed on the crown, but within them stirred a storm unseen by the crowd. He saw not the gold, but the faces of the Petro children crying in the shadows, the wives clutching their dead king, the men who had died for their bloodline. For an instant, the weight of their ghosts pressed against his chest.

He hesitated.

Alaric, standing nearby, caught the flicker of doubt. His brow furrowed, though he said nothing. "Do not falter now. If you hesitate before them, they will tear you apart with whispers long before they dare with blades."

Aragon's hand hovered over the crown. His lips curled into the faintest smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "Let them whisper. It is fear, but loyalty and love, that keeps kingdoms whole."

With that, he lifted the crown. It was heavier than he expected, as if every scream from the keep had been forged into its gold. He set it upon his brow.

The hall erupted in a thunder of voices. Some shouted praise, some muttered oaths under their breath, but none could deny him now.

The High Priest raised his staff high. "All hail Aragon Delmar, rightful heir, King of Estalis!"

The crowd repeated the cry, though the words trembled with a mixture of awe and dread.

Aragon turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep the hall. His expression was carved from ice, his voice ringing with unshakable command.

"The Petro line is broken. Their rule, their weakness, their corruption—all lies buried with them. I am the flame reborn, the hand that will restore Estalis to greatness. And know this—mercy is dead. Only strength will bind us now."

Behind the cold fire of his words, Aragon's mind remained restless. The crown sat like iron on his head, a weight no blade could cut away. He had won—yet in victory, he felt the chains of kingship coil tighter around his soul.

Yet, when his gaze locked with that of his younger brother, his doubts vanished, and he vowed to be a good king,