Return of the General's Daughter

Aramis moved like lightning, his boots striking hard against the marble floor as he crossed the throne room. The faint scrape of retreating footsteps echoed beyond the doors—too quick and too careless.

With a sharp motion, he flung the doors wide. The corridor beyond was dim, the afternoon sunlight spilling weakly over stone walls. A figure in a black cloak darted toward the archway at the far end.

"Stop!" Aramis's voice cracked like thunder, but the figure only ran faster.

Glint flashed as Aramis drew his sword. In six long strides, he closed the gap, the blade sweeping down in a blur. With a cry, the intruder stumbled forward, a dagger clattering from his grasp as Aramis pinned him hard against the wall.

Lara followed swiftly, her eyes narrowing as she ripped back the hood.

A young court scribe stared back at them, his face pale with terror, sweat glistening on his brow. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

"A scribe?" King Aragon appeared from behind Aramis, his voice low and dangerous. "And what business has a scribe lurking outside my throne room at this hour?"

"I–I was only delivering records, Your Highness—" the man stammered.

Aramis pressed the blade harder against his throat. "Lies. You were listening."

The scribe's trembling grew violent. His eyes darted wildly toward Aragon, then to Lara, as though seeking mercy from either.

Aragon's gaze sharpened. "No mere scribe moves like that, nor carries a dagger." He snatched the weapon from the floor and turned it over in his hand. The blade was small, but finely crafted, and etched with an insignia that was faintly visible in the afternoon light.

His expression hardened. "This mark… belongs to the prime minister's household."

Aragon's face darkened, his jaw tightening as the scribe whimpered under Aramis's blade.

"So," Aragon said, his voice cold as iron, "it begins sooner than I thought."

He stepped closer, eyes boring into the cowering man. "Tell me, scribe—what message were you meant to carry, and to whom? Answer truthfully, and you may yet see the dawn."

The man's lips parted, trembling. Words began to form—then he convulsed suddenly, his body arching against the wall. Foam bubbled at the corner of his mouth. His eyes rolled back, and before anyone could react, he went limp in Aramis's grasp, collapsing to the floor.

Lara knelt, her hand brushing over his lips, his throat. Her face hardened.

"It is poison. He silenced himself."

The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. The dagger still glimmered in the king's hand, its emblem damning.

Aragon's eyes turned toward the scribe now lying on the cold floor, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of a vow.

Aragon's gaze lingered on the corpse, his voice low, edged with steel. "This does not belong to the prime minister. This is from Zura." He flipped the dagger several times. "The Princess of Zura is indeed cunning. She is either framing the prime ministers or they are in cahoots with one another." His gaze flicked to Alaric, who was silently studying the dead man.

At Aramis's signal, a knight dragged the corpse away. Alaric extended a hand, and Aragon surrendered the dagger. The sunlight danced across its surface, the insignia glinting like accusation. Indeed, it was of Zura.

Aragon paced slowly across the hall, each step deliberate, his expression carved from iron. Finally, he stopped before Alaric and Lara.

"They planted spies in my own court," he said, his voice low, steady. "And not just ears but blades as well. Tonight, it was a scribe. Tomorrow, it may be a knight, or even a minister. If I move too openly, they will scatter into the shadows. If I move too late…" His gaze hardened. "Estalis will fracture before my reign even takes root."

Alaric sheathed the dagger and passed it to Aramis, his eyes sharp. "Then you must strike before they gather strength. The prime minister and his deputy will not act alone. Their hands are too clean for blood, but their words can turn noble houses against you. They will whisper of betrayal, of your 'submission' to me. If they find a general to stand with them, the court will tilt in their favor."

Aragon inclined his head. "Which is why we cannot simply accuse them. Proof is needed. Tangible, undeniable proof—before the court and the nobles who still waver."

Lara's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Then you should set a trap, Your Majesty. Feed them something they cannot resist. A bait so sweet that their greed betrays them before all."

Aragon frowned. He still could not get used to her calling him 'Your Majesty' or 'King Aragon'. He looked at her, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips for the first time that night. "And you and Prince Alaric should already have an idea."

Before she could answer, footsteps, deliberate and measured, echoed through the corridor walls. A knight approached, bowing low. His face was grim.

"Your Majesty," he said, "a messenger has just arrived from the prime minister's estate. He requests an audience with you in the morning before the court session starts. He claims to bring urgent news… concerning Prince Alaric."

The hall went still. Lara instinctively turned to Alaric, her brows furrowed.

Aragon's jaw tightened, but his eyes gleamed with dangerous calm. "So, the game begins. Tomorrow, let us see what mask the prime minister dares to wear."

...

Under the cloak of darkness, Redon stealthily navigated the dimly lit corridors, finally arriving at Alaric's chamber. With the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls, he quietly slipped inside. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant sound of the wind howling outside.

Prince Alaric was still awake, seated at a small table with maps spread before him. His dark eyes lifted the moment Redon entered, as if he had been expecting him.

"Well?" Alaric asked quietly, his voice low but edged with anticipation.

Redon bowed his head. "Your Highness. Two ministers spoke openly of breaking the crown… and of Turik. They were disgruntled with King Aragon's submission to an unknown Azurverda and to an exile prince."

A pause settled in the room, heavy and deliberate. Then Alaric leaned back, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his gaze.

"Good," he said softly. "Now we know where the rot begins. But they have just declared war upon their own king."