Return of the General's Daughter

The great hall emptied slowly, like water draining from a fractured vessel. Once outside in a safe distance, the courtiers moved in uneasy clusters, their voices hushed yet brimming with venom.

"This pact will bind us in chains," muttered one lord, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid the walls themselves might betray him.

"It is the end of Estalis as we know it," another whispered. "The king bows to an exile, and we are expected to bow as well."

"But what choice had he? Who among us could have stopped Turik?" Another asked.

"Choice or not, he has gambled our kingdom's fate. And gambles have a way of devouring even kings."

The knights' watchful presence scattered the whispers soon enough, but the taste of dissent lingered in the air like smoke after a fire.

The two ministers did not leave with the others. They lingered in the dim corridor behind the throne hall, where the marble floors reflected only fragments of their forms. Their cloaks rustled softly as they leaned close, voices swallowed by the stone.

"If the king has truly tethered us to Azurverda, then perhaps the crown no longer serves Estalis at all."

The other's eyes flicked toward the throne, now vacant yet still heavy with its owner's authority. His reply was soft, dangerous.

"Then we can find a new master."

"Careful," the elder of the two murmured, his eyes darting to the armored knights stationed at the far end of the hall. "The king still has ears everywhere. One careless word could cost us our heads."

The younger minister's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "And yet, silence may cost us our kingdom. Aragon swears loyalty to an exile, stains Estalis's honor with his blood, and we are to nod like obedient servants?" His hand clenched into a fist. "No. If the crown no longer serves Estalis, then the crown must be broken."

The elder flinched, but his eyes gleamed. "And who, then, should wear it? Another king of Heimdal's line? Or… someone else?"

For a moment, there was only silence. Then the younger minister's gaze hardened.

"There are still nobles with armies loyal to Estalis, not Azurverda. And there are whispers that Turik has not fled far. If we are clever, we may yet set the board against both Aragon and his foreign ally."

The elder's brow furrowed. "Dangerous words. Dangerous plans."

"Danger," the younger said coldly, "is the only path left when a king drags his country into ruin."

They both straightened as a knight passed by, their expressions smoothing into masks of courtly indifference. Only when the soldier disappeared into the corridor did they exchange one last glance—sharp, deliberate, dangerous—and part ways without another word.

Unseen above them, in the shadows of the gallery that overlooked the throne hall, a figure lingered. Cloaked in darkness, the watcher's eyes glinted as he quietly slipped away, vanishing before the ministers could sense they had already been overheard.

The figure moved with feline silence through the narrow stairwell behind the gallery, boots barely whispering against the stone. When the last echo of the ministers' footsteps faded, the watcher pushed back his hood, revealing a sharp, angular face framed by hair as black as midnight.

Redon—the man Alaric trusted most with matters that required both steel and subtlety.

He exhaled slowly, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his lips. He had expected dissent, but not so soon, not so bold. The words he had overheard were treason, plain and sharp as a dagger's edge. Yet Redon did not hurry to report them. He would report them in the evening when he met with Alaric.

So, he thought, there are those already dreaming of replacing their king. Perhaps even dreaming of inviting Turik back to Estalis. Good. Let them whisper. Let them believe themselves clever. The higher they climb in their plotting, the farther they will fall.

Still, caution tugged at his mind. If the ministers gained allies among the nobles—or worse, the generals—the kingdom could fracture before Alaric's designs had time to take root. That could not be allowed.

He slipped into a side passage, the filtered sunlight flickering across his features as he quickened his pace and disappeared at the end of the corridor.

...

Lara entered the throne room with measured steps, the echo of her boots carrying softly across the vaulted chamber. Behind her, Aramis followed, silent as a shadow. The vast hall was now empty, save for King Aragon and Alaric standing close to each other.

"You should not have revealed the pact so soon," Lara said, her voice low but steady. Her eyes met Aragon's—not those of a subject to a king, but of an equal speaking to the man she had once known as Alaric's sworn friend and guard.

"Estalis is not stable. Among your ministers are men whose hearts are black with ambition. Greed is a hunger you should never feed."

Aragon's brow furrowed. His voice was calm, but laced with gravity. "Did you see something? Or hear something?" He spoke to her with the respect he gave to a few. Lara was no ordinary woman; her counsel carried weight with him.

"I heard nothing," Lara replied, her gaze unwavering. "But I did not need to. The truth was written plain across their faces today—envy, resentment, thirst for power. Your prime minister and his deputy are dangerous. The announcement has planted a spark. They will fan it into flame if left unchecked."

A faint smile curved Aragon's lips, though it carried no warmth. "That is precisely why I revealed the pact, Lara. To bring the hidden seeds of treachery into the open. A traitor is easier to tear down when they come into the open."

Her eyes lingered on him, studying him with an intensity that cut deeper than words. The man who once guarded Alaric's back on the battlefield now wore a crown and spoke with the voice of a king. He was transformed—no longer only a warrior bound by loyalty, but a ruler shaping his kingdom with calculation and will.

Lara drew in a breath, but before she could speak further, a noise echoed faintly from the far doors of the hall. A hurried step, muffled as if the intruder feared being heard. Aramis's hand flew to his sword, his gaze narrowing toward the shadows.

The great doors stood ajar—though neither Lara nor Aragon had seen them open.

Someone had been listening.