Return of the General's Daughter

That faith had carried Aragon through the blood and the hunger, through betrayal and the endless weight of vengeance. But now that he sat on his father's throne, he found the burden heavier, not lighter.

What was justice, if he failed to honor the man who had given everything for him?

Aragon rose from the throne, moving toward the long windows that overlooked the courtyard. Below, torches flickered as soldiers patrolled the night. The kingdom was his again—yet even in victory, he felt haunted by those who had not lived to see it.

Ismael's children. Would they look upon him as a savior or as a thief who had stolen their father's life for his own survival? What could he offer them—gold, lands, titles—that would ever measure against a father's embrace?

Aragon's fist tightened against the cold stone of the window frame. He would not let them be forgotten. If Estalis was to rise, it would not be built only on vengeance, but on loyalty—on debts paid, even when the cost could never be matched.

"I will see them safe," he murmured to the empty hall, his voice roughened with something dangerously close to grief. "Safe, honored, and remembered."

The oath lingered in the air, binding him more tightly than any crown.

For Aragon knew the truth: kingdoms were not held by blood alone. They were held by memory, by sacrifice, by the quiet strength of those who gave everything and asked for nothing in return.

The unsung heroes. The nameless warriors whose blood painted the battleground with crimson.

Heroes like Ismael. And for Ismael, Aragon would carry that weight until his last breath.

...

The morning after Aurora's secret meeting with King Aragon, the palace received its most solemn guests. There were no trumpets to herald their arrival, no banners unfurled across the courtyard. By Aragon's order, the usual pageantry had been stilled.

To parade Ismael's family through the palace like spoils of war would have dishonored the man's memory. Instead, their entrance was hushed, almost reverent. Palace guards guided them through side corridors until they reached a modest audience chamber, where braziers glowed against the chill and heavy tapestries softened the stone walls.

Aragon waited there, standing rather than seated on the throne.

The chamber doors opened with a low groan, and the family stepped inside. First came a woman whose hair was streaked more by grief than by years. Veronica—Ismael's wife. Her spine bent slightly under sorrow's weight, yet her eyes carried a quiet dignity.

"Madam Veronica," he greeted politely, and the older woman lifted her head before bowing in reverence. "Greetings, Your Majesty."

At her side walked a young man, broad-shouldered and tall, no older than his early twenties. When his gaze rose to meet the king's, Aragon's breath caught. For an instant, he thought the dead had returned. The boy was his father reborn—Ismael's likeness carved in flesh and blood.

The son was startled under the weight of that gaze. He bowed quickly, his words stumbling over his tongue. "Gr–greetings, Your Majesty."

"Israel," Aragon murmured, tasting the name, then his eyes shifted to the daughter who steadied Veronica's other arm. Wary and solemn, her face was far too young to bear such sorrow. "You must be Isla," he said gently. She nodded, her bow graceful yet subdued.

And then, there was another.

She walked a step behind the rest, her hands clasped together, her gaze lowered in respect or perhaps unease. At eighteen, she bore herself with quiet composure. There was something about her presence, unadorned yet luminous, that caught Aragon unprepared.

She had her father's eyes. The same shade, the same spark. More than that, she carried herself with confidence unseen in the women of the village. The tilt of her chin, the serenity in her smile—it made Aragon wonder if she was raised in a fishing village and not in a noble's house.

Isabel. The daughter whom her father had never held. The child who had only been a dream when they were fleeing and hiding, a hope he had whispered into the night.

If he were a boy, his name would be Isidor. If she were a girl, then we would call her Isabel.

Aragon's chest tightened.

"Greetings, Your Majesty." The family of four greeted him once again. They bowed respectfully to the king. King Aragon nodded in response before he looked toward the entrance as if he was expecting more people to come.

The king inclined his head, then let his gaze linger toward the doorway as though expecting more. "Madam Veronica," he said softly, "I have heard your son and daughter have families of their own. Where are they?"

The family glanced at each other in surprise, hesitation flickering across Veronica's face. Slowly, she turned her eyes toward the entrance.

At the king's command, the guards ushered in more figures: a woman dressed plainly, a babe nestled in one arm while she guided a boy of perhaps five by the hand. Behind her came a fisherman, his skin darkened and scarred by the sun, cradling a little girl close to his chest.

"Greetings, Your Majesty!" They kneeled, but Aragon lifted a hand, stopping them. "No kneeling," he said quietly. "Only respect."

Then the chamber grew still. For a moment, the only sound was the gentle rustling of the curtain. Aragon's voice, when he spoke again, carried the weight of ten years.

"I am sorry that my brother and I return to you only now… and that Ismael—" His words faltered. He drew a breath, steadying the tremor in his chest. His gaze settled on Veronica, "That's your husband," then it flicked to the three children, "your father… could not come back. He fell more than ten years ago."

A gasp tore from Veronica's throat, raw and pained. Her hand rose as though to cover her heart, and tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She had long suspected, long carried the hollow ache of absence—but to hear the truth spoken by the king himself, the wound reopened as if it were fresh..

Aragon bowed his head. "I am sorry for your loss."

Aragon lowered his gaze, his expression heavy with empathy. "I am truly sorry for your loss," he murmured, his voice thick with sorrow, as if each word carried the weight of the heartache. "Like you, I mourned his loss. He was not just a protector to us, he treated us like children and friend.

There were no replies, only the muffled sobs of a widow and the broken silence of the children.