Return of the General's Daughter

Prince Vaskar passed beneath the towering gates of Aegis Palace, the thunder of his horse's hooves fading as the massive iron portcullis creaked shut behind him. He had returned from surveying the outlying lands with General Marcus, and though the familiar walls rose around him, the place seemed changed—grander, perhaps, yet colder than the memory he carried.

From the gates, a horse would have taken him a quarter hour to reach the palace steps, but he chose to dismount instead. Handing the reins of his stallion to a waiting knight, he lingered a moment, letting his eyes drink in the sprawling lawns and alabaster towers. Time had altered this place, and in its magnificence, he felt oddly estranged. It was far from the home that he remembered.

A soft voice interrupted his reverie.

"May I walk with you, Your Highness?"

Lara's presence startled him. She slipped easily into step at his side, as though she had been waiting all along. Had she come from outside the palace? He hadn't noticed her approach. His gaze flicked instinctively around the grounds—no sign of Alaric. Relief eased from his chest in a slow exhale.

"Don't call me that," he muttered, a shadow of boyish sulk in his tone. "I prefer Aramis. It sounds better than Vaskar."

Her laugh was light, teasing. "But you're not the same person anymore, Prince Vaskar. You are now a Prince of Estalis, I can't call you the way I used to."

"I said don't call me that," he countered stubbornly. "If you insist, then I'll call you Lady Lara."

"It's fine," she said with a shrug. "That's what everyone else calls me anyway."

"I'll ask Aragon to change my name to Aramis," he said abruptly, as if determined to carve a new self out of the past.

Her brow arched. "But isn't Vaskar the name your mother gave you? You don't like it? I think it suits you—radiant, shining."

At her words, a darkness crossed his features. His mother's memory was a wound he carried quietly. A foreign woman, brought by a merchant ship that anchored at Estalis once each year—beautiful, mysterious, and out of place. Her gift had been his name, strange and so different from his brothers names.

"So that's why it sounds different from the names here," Lara mused gently.

He only hummed, lost in thought. Then, as if struck by sudden mischief, his eyes sharpened with a glimmer of the boy he used to be. He glanced at Lara—and only then noticed her garb. She wore the simple, rugged clothing of a man, and an idea sparked.

"How about a race?" he said, pointing toward a stone tower in the distance. "First one there wins."

She scoffed, though her lips curved in amusement. "That's hardly fair. You're taller, and your strides are twice as long. Aren't you bullying me?"

"It isn't about height," he challenged. "I know how capable you are."

For a moment, she studied him with quiet wonder. The prince—no, Aramis—the carefree youth she remembered had returned, if only for an instant, unburdened by the crown's shadow. She didn't wish to break the spell.

"Very well," she said at last, her eyes gleaming. "But don't think I'll let you win so easily."

The air between them crackled with challenge. Without another word, Lara gave Vaskar a sly grin—and bolted. Her boots slapped against the ground, cloak snapping behind her like a banner. For a breathless moment, Vaskar just stared, startled by her audacity, then laughter burst from his chest and he lunged after her.

The courtyard came alive around them. Pages carrying scrolls stumbled aside with yelps, a gardener dropped his shears into the rosebushes, and two armored guards scrambled to steady their spears before the prince could knock them askew.

"Your Highness!" one called after him, bewildered.

But Vaskar barely heard. The wind rushed in his ears, the palace walls flashing past in sunlit streaks. His strides were long, powerful—he could have overtaken her easily. Yet he found himself matching her pace, drawn by the fierce determination in her eyes when she glanced over her shoulder. She was fast, darting through the arches and weaving around marble columns with the grace of a street cat.

The tower rose ahead, its stone gleaming pale against the late afternoon sky. Lara's breath came in quick bursts, her face flushed, but she pushed harder, legs burning, heart pounding. The final stretch was a blur of grit and will. With a desperate surge, she flung herself forward and slapped her palm against the cool stone.

"I win!" she gasped, chest heaving, sweat shining at her temple. A victorious grin spread across her face, wild and unrestrained.

Vaskar arrived a heartbeat later, far less winded, his dark hair tousled, his eyes bright with amusement. "Of course you did," he said smoothly, too easily.

Her grin faltered into suspicion. She jabbed a finger at him. "Wait. You let me win, didn't you?"

He raised his brows, feigning innocence. "Me? Let you win? Why would I do such a thing?

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I did not." Vaskar denied.

Lara narrowed her eyes, fighting the flush on her cheeks. "You're mocking me. Admit it—you slowed down."

Vaskar pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "I swear upon my honor as a prince—"

"Aramis," she corrected sharply.

He grinned. "—as Aramis, that I ran as best I could. Clearly, you are swifter." He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "If I say yes, you'll be angry. If I say no, you won't believe me. Truly, I'm trapped."

Lara folded her arms, fixing him with a glare that was only half-serious. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here I am—losing races to you," he teased.

She tried to hold her frown, but a laugh broke free, bright and unwilling. "You're infuriating, Aramis."

"And yet," he said softly, his gaze lingering on her flushed face, "you're smiling."

Her laughter rang out, unguarded and bright, echoing against the stone tower. For a fleeting moment, the burdens of titles, lineage, and palace walls melted away. They were simply Lara and Aramis again—two young souls racing the wind, testing one another, finding freedom in their shared defiance of everything that weighed them down.