Return of the General's Daughter

Aragon wanted to honor Ismael's family, but he wished to do so with warmth rather than pomp. A modest luncheon felt most fitting. For the occasion, he extended invitations to Prince Alaric, Lara, and his own brother, Vaskar.

Before they started with the meal, Aragon introduced Ismael's family to him.

"Brother," he said, turning to Vaskar, "this is Ismael's wife, Veronica, their son Israel, their eldest daughter Isla, and their youngest, Isabel."

He also introduced Prince Alaric and Lara.

Polite smiles and gracious bows followed as the family—including in-laws and children—greeted the royals. The room filled with the quiet rustle of respect.

As servants brought forth steaming platters, the air at the table grew charged with subtler currents than food and courtesy. Aramis and Lara exchanged fleeting glances, each catching the other's gaze before flicking their eyes toward King Aragon. The King's attention always lingered— a moment too long—on Isabel.

Alaric noticed, and his frown deepened, shadowing the mood like an unwelcome storm cloud.

Aramis leaned closer to Lara, his whisper carrying more mischief than discretion."Do you see it? My brother is studying Ismael's youngest daughter. He watches her as though she were the only one in the room."

Lara stiffened, sensing the chill radiating from Alaric's displeasure. She scolded in a hushed voice, "Behave yourself. Can't you straighten your body and just speak normally. Must you whisper like a conspirator? What harm if your brother finds her pleasing? They are both unwed—and he is the King, after all."

Aramis sneered. "Look at him and look at her. He is too old for her."

Lara rolled her eyes, her patience thinning. "In the royal family, is it not normal for men to wed younger brides? Why begrudge your brother a chance at happiness? A king's life is lonely, Aramis. Better he find companionship than reign in solitude."

"But she is half his age!" Aramis protested.

Lara's reply was swift, her words cutting through his argument like a blade. "And how old was your father when he took your mother as his bride?"

The color drained from Aramis's defiance, replaced with the heat of embarrassment. He flushed crimson, silenced by the truth of his own lineage. His father was forty while her mother was barely nineteen."

Aramis shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still red from Lara's pointed remark. She smirked at his silence, pleased with her victory, and reached delicately for her goblet.

"You really do hate losing an argument, don't you?" she teased softly, just enough for him to hear.

Aramis leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock indignation. "I don't hate losing—I simply prefer not to. Especially to you."

Lara arched a brow. "And yet here we are. Again."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like tyrant, which earned him a playful nudge. Lara's laughter, light and unrestrained, drew a sharp glance from Alaric. His jaw tightened as he caught the exchange. He knew it was just a playful banter between the two and yet his grip on his goblet whitened his knuckles, and the tension radiating from him grew thick enough to choke on.

Meanwhile, King Aragon seemed oblivious to everything but Isabel. The young woman, unused to a royalty's unwavering attention, shifted nervously in her seat. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her napkin, and when her brother Israel whispered a question, she was startled as though waking from a dream.

"Why is His Majesty staring at you like that?" Israel muttered under his breath, eyes filled with concern. He was a man, and he knew that kind of look. But he shouldn't be worried, right? The king seemed to be a good man who knew his father. If he took Isabel even as a secondary consort, wouldn't her future be better?

Isabel nearly dropped her spoon. "Hush!" she hissed, cheeks blooming crimson. "He is not staring at me."

"Oh, he absolutely is," Isla wanted to chime in, but was too shy to do so in front of the royal family, so she focused instead on feeding her three-year-old daughter.

Veronica's eyes narrowed, silencing her older children with a single look. "Enough," she said firmly, her voice low but edged with authority. "Show respect. Isabel, sit tall."

Yet even as she straightened her daughter's posture with words, Veronica's own composure faltered. She could not ignore the way King Aragon's gaze lingered on Isabel—steady, assessing, almost too intent. A ripple of unease coursed through her.

Isabel was radiant in her simplicity, a quiet beauty shaped from the finest features of both her parents. The curve of Veronica's jaw, the softer version of Ismael's eyes, the grace of youth that made her glow even without adornment.

In the village, suitors had often circled like moths to flame, hoping for her favor. But Isabel's heart had never been tempted; she laughed off such attentions, her mind set on gentler pursuits far removed from marriage or desire.

Still, Veronica's stomach knotted. What if the King's attention was not mere courtesy? What if he wished to claim Isabel, not as a wife—but as a concubine? The very thought chilled her. Would Isabel be strong enough to refuse? Would she beg and use her father's sacrifice as a shield?

Veronica's hands tightened in her lap, nails pressing into her palms. She knew Ismael—his pride, his unbending honor. He would never allow his daughter to be diminished, never surrender her to such a fate. But what strength did a loyal subject truly have, if it was the King himself who asked?

Across the table, Lara leaned toward Aramis once more, whispering with exaggerated sweetness. "Look at Isabel—poor girl. She doesn't know whether to eat her soup or run from the room. You might want to save her from your brother's eyes before she melts into her chair."

Aramis smirked, though his eyes flicked toward Isabel with something softer than mockery. "And why should I? If the King wants to frighten a young maiden into fainting, let him. Perhaps it will knock some years off him."

Lara chuckled, biting back her retort. But when Alaric's knife scraped hard against his plate, she straightened quickly, realizing the storm brewing beside her. His jealousy was nearly palpable, and for once, she thought it wiser not to tease further.

King Aragon, on the other hand, finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the layered undercurrents at the table. "Isabel, tell me—what is your favorite pastime?"

The girl froze, wide-eyed, her spoon hovering above her bowl as though she'd forgotten what it was for. Every head turned toward her, the chatter dying into silence. Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she lowered her eyes, fumbling for words.

Isabel swallowed, finally raising her eyes to the King. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked—hers wide and uncertain, his steady and unreadable. She opened her mouth to speak—

And just then, a servant rushed into the hall, breathless, his face pale with urgency.

"Your Majesty! Forgive the intrusion, but—"