Return of the General's Daughter

The chamber was hushed save for the soft crackle of the candlelight. Maps and parchment sprawled across the table, lines inked in haste, markers of troop movements scattered like pieces on a game board. Alaric leaned over them, his eyes sharp, his fingers drumming against the carved wood.

Redon stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for the prince's command.

"You will watch the prime minister," Alaric said at last, his voice low but precise. "His household, his servants, every whisper that leaves his walls. If he plots with Zura—or with any who would fracture Estalis—I want to know immediately."

Redon inclined his head. "Discretion, Your Highness?"

"As shadows upon shadows," Alaric replied. His gaze flicked upward, catching Redon's eyes. "He will show a mask tomorrow in court. I want the face behind it before night falls."

"Yes, my prince." Redon bowed and slipped away, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Alaric exhaled slowly once the door closed. His hands spread across the map of the southeastern sea routes, tracing the jagged coastline of Zura. Each harbor marked a potential dagger aimed at Estalis's heart.

Turik and the princess were no fools—their spies already walked these halls. If they dared reach this far, she was prepared for war.

A soft knock sounded. The door creaked open, and Lara stepped inside, her cloak damp with night air, droplets clinging like silver threads. Her expression was stern, though her eyes carried the fatigue of long hours. She slipped the cloak from her shoulders and hung it carelessly over the back of a chair.

"You sent Redon?" she asked, her tone measured.

"I did." Alaric poured tea into a spare cup at the side table, his movements deliberate, unhurried. "His eyes are keener than most generals' swords." He passed the cup to her.

Their fingers brushed as she took it. Alaric's gaze flicked briefly, almost involuntarily, to the hand that now cradled the porcelain.

Lara studied the mist curling upward from the fresh brew. Once, she had lived on the sharp bitterness of espresso, the froth of lattes—but now, tea had become her solace. She sipped slowly, savoring the quiet strength in its warmth.

Alaric cleared his throat, drawing her attention back. She blinked, as though remembering she was not alone with her thoughts, but with him.

"And your eyes," Lara said softly as she stepped closer to the table, her gaze dropping to the map strewn with inked lines and carved markers. "They are already fixed on Zura."

Alaric allowed himself a grim smile. "Estalis cannot fight two wars—one in the shadows, one on the seas. If the prime minister wavers, we need him bound or broken before we march. But Zura will not wait. Their princess and their generals left, but their daggers are still here."

He shifted a carved token across the parchment with a steady hand. "We strike before their fleet gathers. Swift enough to cripple them, precise enough for Aragon to call it defense, not conquest."

"Zura, will be fighting with their galleys1?"

"I've heard," Alaric said, his tone almost casual, "that they've recruited pirates into their navy. Wolves of the sea, bought with Zura's gold."

Lara's brow furrowed. "You won't lead Estalis's armies into this, will you?"

"No." Alaric's eyes glinted—cold and calculating. "Not yet. Aragon's position is not stable yet. He must keep his hands clean before the court. We will fight with our own men. There are many who fled from Zura, and they hunger for vengeance."

Her concern deepened. "But the Phoenix Legion… they've fought on land, not the sea. They don't have experience in naval warfare. Wouldn't you be throwing them to their deaths?"

Alaric's gaze didn't waver. "Among them are over a hundred who once sailed Zura's coasts, and fifty more from Westalis. Estalis can give us ships. If we lack seafaring skill, I'll draw from their navy itself. One way or another, they'll fight."

Lara sighed, but her eyes lingered on him with quiet admiration. "So you've thought it all through."

Alaric nodded once. "With them, and with Estalis's warships, we will not only defend the eastern coasts. We'll make Zura bleed. We'll make them fear."

For a moment, silence lingered between them, heavy with the weight of decision.

Finally, Lara asked, her voice softer than before, "And if Aragon refuses?"

Alaric's expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of certainty in his voice. "He won't refuse. I know Angus better than anyone else. He knows the cost of hesitation."

The lamplight sputtered, shadows stretching long across the maps. Outside, the night deepened and crept hesitantly over Estalis, enveloping the capital in darkness.

The game had begun. But soon, it would not be whispers and daggers in the dark. It would be fire upon the sea, steel upon the shore.

Lara stifled a yawn, setting the teacup down with a faint clink.

"I'll walk you back," Alaric said, lifting her cloak from the chair, the gesture uncharacteristically gentle.

The corridors of the palace were hushed at that hour, the silence broken only by the distant crackle of torches and the muted tread of their footsteps on polished stone. Alaric draped Lara's cloak across her shoulders before they stepped into the open air.

The night was cool, touched with the lingering scent of a light drizzle in the late afternoon. The gardens stretched wide before them, washed silver by the moonlight. Above, the sky was vast and dark, scattered with stars like a thousand watchful eyes.

Neither spoke at first. Their silence was companionable, not awkward. They did not need words, as words might shatter something delicate woven between them. The gravel crunched beneath their boots as they strolled along the winding path. The torches were lined at intervals, casting pools of gold that soon gave way to shadows.

Lara glanced sideways. Alaric walked with the same deliberate poise he held in council, yet here in the quiet his shoulders seemed less burdened. His gaze lifted often to the sky, though whether he studied the constellations or sought refuge in them, she could not tell.

"You've always walked like this," Lara murmured, breaking the silence. "As if every step were weighed and chosen."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Habit of an exile. When the ground beneath you is never certain, you learn to tread carefully."

Her lips curved faintly. "And yet, you lead as though the ground belongs to you."

His eyes flicked toward her, dark and unreadable in the half-light. "Do you begrudge me that?"

"No." She shook her head, her voice softer. "I admire it. Sometimes, I envy it."

They turned a corner where the gardenias dotted one side of the pathways, their intoxicating scent filled the air, and Lara felt a little heady. A breeze stirred, lifting strands of her hair. Alaric's hand moved, brushing them away.

Lara tipped her head back, gazing up not at Alaric but at the scattering of stars. In my past life, she said quietly, I did not know this. The silence. The stillness. Nights like this were always stolen by duty, by mission, or the weight of time passing too fast.

Truth be told, Lara cherished these nightly walks. There was a kind of magic when they wandered side by side beneath dimly lit pathways, the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the quiet rhythm of their steps. Above them, the black canopy of night glittered with stars, each one a small flame against the dark, the silent witness to these moments that she treasured.

Moments she had never been granted in the life she once lived.

They paused before the stairs that led to her chamber. The moonlight cast silver shadows on her face, making it look ethereal.

For a moment, Alaric simply looked at her. He looked as if he was in a trance, and he said nothing. His hand tightened slightly on the edge of her cloak where it brushed his fingers, as though torn between retreat and something far more dangerous.

Lara's heart gave a quiet flutter. She dared not look into his eyes.

At last, Alaric inclined his head and landed a brief kiss on the corner of her lips. He said, his tone deep and sensual. "Good night, Lara."

Lara reached for the door, fingers grazing the handle, but before stepping inside, she turned back. "Good night, Alaric."

As the door closed softly behind her, the prince remained where he stood, the garden bathed in starlight, the cloak of night heavy around his shoulders. His lips pressed into a thin line, his thoughts unreadable, yet his heart unquiet. And then his stern face blossomed into a warm smile.

a low, flat ship with one or more sails and up to three banks of oars, chiefly used for warfare