Return of the General's Daughter

After Ismael's family had been escorted to the modest manor prepared for them just outside the palace walls, Alaric entered the throne room where King Aragon awaited. The chamber was lit with the warm glow of torches set into gilded sconces, shadows flickering against tall stone pillars that bore the banners of Estalis.

"It is confirmed," Alaric said, his voice level, though a sharp undercurrent lingered beneath his calm tone. "Turik, the Princess of Zura, Mira, and Turik's most trusted men departed two days before we entered the capital."

Aragon's lips curled with disdain. "That cripple is as slippery as an eel, even now. His spies are keen, his timing impeccable. He fled early—bought himself the luxury of escape."

Alaric studied him closely. Aragon no longer resembled the guard that he once was. Dressed in a robe of deep purple trimmed with gold, crowned with the circlet of kingship, he stood regal and resolute. The freshly shaven beard revealed the stark lines of his face—an aquiline nose, a sharply cut jaw, and lips pressed into quiet command. His eyes, dark and unwavering, burned with authority. Standing beside Isabel earlier, he might have been mistaken for a man in his twenties, not a king nearing thirty.

Aragon rose from the throne with deliberate grace, descending the five steps until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Alaric. He handed him a parchment bearing the seal of Estalis. Within were the king's solemn words of fealty to Azurverda and a record of the tributes his kingdom pledged to deliver.

Alaric, his expression unreadable, stamped the parchment with his own seal. Then he presented a scroll to Aragon. As the king unrolled it, his eyes widened in astonishment.

Azurverda would not demand tribute for the first two years of Aragon's reign. Instead, one of Azurverda's most seasoned commanders, General Cobar, would be stationed in Estalis to oversee the training of its soldiers. In addition, the scroll outlined a generous trade agreement, binding the fates of the two kingdoms closer still.

For now, Azurverda consisted only of the fief King Heimdal had once granted Alaric in exile and Estalis itself—but the foundation was set for something greater.

The following morning King Aragon convened his court. The nobles, ministers, and courtiers filled the great hall, their silks rustling, their jeweled hands folded expectantly. The herald's voice rang out as he read aloud the contract that sealed Estalis as a vassal kingdom to Azurverda—an unknown place, not even a kingdom yet, and whose size was not even bigger than Estalis's capital city.

Shock rippled through the assembly. Faces darkened, voices rose.

"Your Majesty," cried the prime minister, his voice cracking with anguish, "how could you sign such an accord? We believed your return would deliver us peace. We believed you are different from the last king. And yet you sell our kingdom to a realm that is not even a true kingdom!"

Others soon followed, their outcries bitter and sharp—denunciations of betrayal, curses muttered under breath.

"Was it not for Estalis that we bled in the wars?" cried Lord Holdren, an aging noble whose family had lost a son in the war with the Zurans. "And now you would hand us to a stranger, a prince whose kingdom is nothing but a mirage?"

"We thought you different from King Rasco," another spat, his jeweled hand gesturing furiously. "We thought your return would restore our dignity, not barter it away!"

"Perhaps Azurverda's so-called prince has bought your loyalty. You have been his loyal guard after all," muttered a younger courtier under his breath, but loud enough for others nearby to hear. "How else can one explain such submission?"

The accusation sparked murmurs of agreement. Suspicion thickened the air.

Aragon sat unmoving, his expression carved from stone as the chamber filled with voices dripping with reproach.

"Peace, you say?" the finance minister pressed bitterly. "What peace comes from bending the knee? You have yoked us to a ruler with no true kingdom. You have tied Estalis to the ambitions of an exiled prince."

The words hung like daggers in the air. All eyes flicked toward Alaric, who stood silently beside Aragon, his presence a shadow of menace in the room as with deliberate slowness he wiped the blood off his palm. His calm, almost detached composure only unsettled them further.

Aragon's hand slammed against the armrest of his throne with a thunderous crack.

"Enough!" His voice thundered, brooking no dissent. "You speak of sovereignty, yet you know nothing of what it takes to preserve it. You curse me for seeking allies, yet not one of you lifted a finger when Turik fled. Not one of you warned me of his spies or his plots. You would rather wallow in your pride while our enemies sharpen their blades."

A tense hush followed. The ministers exchanged uneasy glances, but still, a few dared to murmur.

"My king," Lord Holdren said more cautiously now, "even if your motives are noble, the people will not understand. They will see weakness. They will believe you bowed too easily."

Aragon rose to his feet, his crown glinting in the torchlight. His gaze swept across the hall, unyielding.

"Then let them believe it—until they see the strength it brings. If any man here truly believes I have erred, step forward. Challenge me. Challenge Prince Alaric. Choose your weapon and prove your conviction."

The hall fell into suffocating silence. The ministers' faces paled; their shallow breaths betrayed their fear. All had heard of Aragon's ferocity in battle. None dared test him. And Alaric's name, too, carried its own shadow—one of unbroken victories and ruthless resolve.

Aragon let the silence stretch until it threatened to crush them, then spoke again, softer but edged with steel.

"I take your silence as assent," Aragon said, his voice quieter now but no less sharp, "that none of you have further complaint."

A dagger glinted in his hand—the very blade Alaric had gifted him, its hilt etched with the emblem of Estalis. Without hesitation, Aragon drew the edge across his palm. Alaric accepted the blade, and with equal composure, did the same. Gasps echoed through the court as the two men pressed their bloodied palms together, then stamped their joined handprints upon the parchment.

The pact was sealed in blood.

"Prince Alaric and his men depart the day after tomorrow," Aragon declared. "Finance Minister Monte, you will prepare a company of ten to go with them. They will learn trade practices and purchase merchandise from the list I will provide."

Monte opened his mouth to protest, but faltered under the king's glare, the words dying in his throat.

"Beginning tomorrow, General Cobar will oversee the training of our soldiers," Aragon continued. "I will visit the camp myself from time to time."

When the court adjourned, murmurs spread like wildfire among the nobles. Bitter whispers of discontent lingered in the vaulted hall, but when they noticed the knights watching them with unyielding vigilance, their voices withered into silence.

The prime minister's ears perked as he listened to the murmurs, and a glint appeared in his eyes.