Return of the General's Daughter

The hall fell still at the servant's sudden entrance. His hurried steps and trembling voice shattered the delicate pause that had hung over Isabel's unspoken words.

"Your Majesty," the servant gasped, bowing low, "forgive me, but there is urgent news from the outer gate."

Aragon's eyes flicked toward him, irritation flashing at the intrusion. He raised a hand, steady, commanding. "Speak."

The servant swallowed hard. "Travelers from the northern province seek immediate audience. They claim the matter cannot wait."

A murmur rippled through the table. Aramis leaned back with a dramatic sigh, muttering just loud enough for Lara to hear, "Always the northern province. Do they have no sense of timing? Could they not wait until after dessert?"

The messenger looked flustered.

Aramis glared at him.

Lara stifled a laugh behind her hand, though Alaric's glare was sharp enough to silence a lesser soul.

King Aragon was still simmering, his attention split between the unwelcome interruption and the way Isabel's blush lingered under the King's gaze.

Aragon studied the servant for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Very well. They shall wait until this meal is finished. Tell them they are to be received at the Guest Hall."

"I will tell them to wait, Your Highness. Sorry for the interruption."

The servant bowed again and retreated swiftly, leaving the hall in silence once more. But the interruption had broken the fragile spell around Isabel. She released a shaky breath, her hands unclenching from the fabric of her dress.

"Now," Aragon said, turning back to her, his voice softer this time, though no less intent. "Where were we? Ah, yes. Your pastime."

Isabel's heart leapt back into her throat. She could feel the heat of every gaze on her—her siblings waiting for her to trip, her mother praying she would not, Lara and Aramis watching with mischief, Alaric smoldering with jealousy, and above all, the King himself.

She opened her mouth to answer at last.

But before she could speak, Aramis blurted across the table with exaggerated cheer, "She enjoys embroidery, don't you, Isabel? Hours and hours of it. So very quiet, so very proper."

Isabel gasped, mortified, while her siblings snickered. Lara smacked Aramis's arm with her napkin, hissing,

Isabel's eyes went wide. "Embroidery?" she squeaked. She wanted to glare at Prince Vaskar with all the ferocity she could muster. But of course, she could not do that to a prince.

"Yes," Aramis replied smoothly, folding his hands in mock dignity. "Stitches so small and neat you'd swear she had an army of invisible mice helping her. Truly a talent worth parading before kings."

Isla nearly choked on her drink, while Israel stifled his laughter.

"Prince Vaskar," Isabel protested, her face red as the cherries on the platter. "That is not true!"

"Oh, my mistake," Aramis said with exaggerated solemnity. He leaned an elbow on the table and dropped his voice as though confiding in the entire hall. "Perhaps I meant knitting? No—basket weaving? Or was it chasing geese around the yard? Forgive me, Isabel, your hobbies are so thrilling I can hardly keep them straight."

Lara glared at Aramis. "You are incorrigible. Leave the poor girl alone."

King Aragon simply watched Isabel, his expression unreadable, though there was the faintest curve at the corner of his lips—as if he found the entire performance entertaining.

"Tell me then," he said gently, ignoring the chorus of snickers around the table, "if not embroidery, what do you enjoy, Isabel?"

Isabel's mouth opened, but Israel leaned across the table before she could speak. "She likes singing, Your Majesty, " he announced proudly. "Though she only does it when she thinks no one's listening. But my sister has a voice akin to an angel."

"Israel!" Isabel gasped, mortified, her hands flying to her face.

But Aragon leaned forward then, his eyes still on her, his voice calm and warm. "I would very much like to hear that voice someday."

The table fell silent again, every giggle and chuckle caught in midair. Isabel's cheeks burned hotter than ever, and she lowered her gaze, wishing she were anywhere but under the King's watchful eyes.

Then a small, cute voice filled the air.

"Awnt Sabel loves to wead the most." The three-year-old toddler uttered innocently as she wriggled out of her father's embrace.

"Baby, behave!" Isla's husband tightened his embrace around his daughter.

Isabel did not wait for any more interruptions but said with a clear voice.

"Yes, I... I love to read, Your Majesty."

With the faintest hint of a smile, King Aragon asked, his eyes never leaving Isabel. "Is that so?"

...

The meal ended with laughter still echoing in the hall—most of it at Vaskar's words and at Isabel's expense. She had barely spoken two words, yet Prince Vaskar had made certain she would be remembered as a goose-chasing, chicken-startling, embroidery prodigy. Isabel vowed silently to pay him back, though she had no idea how.

Just as the family began to rise, King Aragon's voice carried across the table, calm and measured."Isabel," he said, his gaze settling firmly on her. "Join me in the library."

The words struck her like a clap of thunder. The library? She glanced at her mother, whose brow furrowed ever so slightly. Israel and Isla exchanged glances.

Veronica gave a tiny nod, though her eyes betrayed both pride and unease. Isabel with cheeks aflame, rose and followed the King.

The library was nothing like she expected. Isabel had imagined a simple hall lined with shelves, perhaps a few scrolls and worn tomes. But when Aragon pushed open the heavy oak doors, her breath caught.

It was vast—soaring ceilings crisscrossed with beams, walls rising higher than she could crane her neck, every inch crammed with books, manuscripts, and scrolls in every color and size. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, spilling patches of ruby and gold across the polished floor. The scent of parchment and ink filled the air, ancient yet strangely comforting.

Isabel froze in the doorway, her mouth parting in awe. "I…I did not know such a place existed."

Aragon watched her with quiet satisfaction, a faint smile touching his lips. "Few do. This is the heart of the kingdom's knowledge. Every treaty, every song, every story collected through generations…all rests here."

Isabel stepped forward slowly, her fingertips trailing along the edge of a shelf as though afraid the books might vanish if she touched them too boldly. Her wide eyes darted from one towering stack to another. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

Aragon's gaze softened as he studied her wonder-struck expression. Most visitors looked at the library with reverence, but Isabel looked at it with something more—pure childlike awe.

"Do you like to read?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost coaxing.

Isabel hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Though…I have only read what little our village owns. Scripture, a few stories, mostly old books my father used to bring home and kept safe." She turned, her eyes shining. "But nothing like this. This is…endless."

For a long moment, Aragon said nothing, simply watching her move among the shelves as though she were walking in a dream.