Return of the General's Daughter

The morning sun crawled over Estalis like a pale and wan intruder, its weak light losing a quiet war against the swollen clouds pressing over the kingdom.

Inside the throne hall, however, fire held dominion: gold and crimson banners blazed in the sunlight that filtered through the high windows, their grandeur concealing the unease that rippled through the court.

Courtiers stood in a long, rustling seam along the chamber, voices folding into anxious murmurs. Incense smoke braided with the metallic tang of expectation and something more corrosive — suspicion. It sat heavy in the air, a guest no one would invite and no one could make leave.

On the marble dais, King Aragon sat like a carved figure come to life — rigid, polished, his crown snatching the filtered sunlight, but his eyes sunk in winter-shadow, closed to easy reading. Beside him, Prince Vaskar's hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his gaze sharp as a hawk's: posture taut as a bird ready to launch. Alaric occupied a place at the king's right, not upon the throne but near enough that no one could mistake his presence for anything less than power.

A herald's call split the hush. "The Right Honorable Prime Minister, Lord Vlad Demir."

The great doors creaked open. Prime Minister Vlad moved through them with the slow certainty of a man who measured every footfall: robes skimming the marble floors, attendants trailing like humble servants, sealed scrolls caught between their hands. His face was carefully composed — calm authority carved as if to last — yet for a moment his eyes flicked to Alaric and a quick, calculating light passed through them.

Vlad bowed low before the throne. "Greetings, Your Majesty. I come with the most urgent news, for the safety of the kingdom."

"Rise," Aragon commanded. He stepped closer, each footfall echoing in the bare chamber.

Vlad's head lifted, his face still composed though his eyes gleamed with something harder — defiance, or calculation. "I think you're pragmatic, My King. I think you would rather hear treason whispered before it screams in the streets. I risked my life to speak plain truth.

"Truth?" Aragon's voice cracked like a whip. "Truth is not a coin for you to mint as it suits. You sow suspicion as a farmer sows grain — to reap chaos for your own table. Aragon's voice was cool. "Then speak."

Vascar's head lifted, his face still composed though his eyes gleamed with something harder — defiance, or calculation. He rose, hands folded behind his back, a portrait of cool deliberation. "There is dissent among the people. The nobles from the central and southern Estalis have sent their words. Their allegiance, I fear, frays at the edges." His gaze slid to Alaric like a stone thrown to test the waters. "They would not bow to certain foreign powers. Much more to a prince who returned from exile with unfamiliar banners at his back."

A rustle ran through the court like wind through dry leaves. The nobles leaned together; words slipped between them, sharp and secret.

Alaric's expression did not change, but his dark eyes locked on Vlad's bold ferocity. He did not flinch from Vlad's accusation; if anything, he seemed to admire the audacity of it.

Aragon raised a hand, and the whispering snapped shut. "Insolent! How dare you speak such words."

"I have no choice, Your Majesty," Vlad said smoothly. "I bring warning. A danger walks these halls. It would be unwise—" his voice lowered, almost intimate, "—to let foreign swords decide Estalis's fate before your reign is rooted."

A dangerous silence gathered like storm clouds. Every brow turned, waiting.

Then Alaric's voice cut through — calm, hard-edged as drawn sword. "I am curious, Prime Minister, that you warn of spies in the same breath that one of your own household daggers was found in this hall last night."

The chamber inhaled. A dozen throats made the same startled sound.

For a heartbeat, Vlad's mask slipped; composure wavered before he forced it back, a tight smile pressed fast. "A fabrication. A planted lie to sully me. You would have us believe the word of a dead intruder over a minister of the crown?"

Prince Vaskar stepped forward, his voice thunderous. "The dagger bears your mark. And the scribe who carried it chose poison rather than speak. What minister of the crown teaches his scribes to die like assassins?"

Vlad spread his hands like a man showing himself empty. "An enemy is framing me. Zura, perhaps. Or those who prosper from division." His eyes, involuntarily, found Alaric again. "It is convenient, is it not, that chaos follows in his shadow?"

The room grew taut, every word balanced on the edge of steel.

Words grew sharp enough to cut. The court hung on every syllable the prime minister uttered.

Aragon's gaze never left Vlad's face. At last, he rose slowly from the throne, his presence filling the chamber.

King Aragon's gaze never left Vlad's face. He rose — slowly, the movement of someone who commands not only by voice but by the very filling of space.

"Enough," he said. His voice rolled through the hall like a bell.

"This court will not be poisoned by whispers. You have seen: yesterday a pact sealed by blood, bound Estalis to Azurverda. Azurverda will bring wealth and stability. A kingdom cannot be at peace if its belly is empty." His eyes, cold and iron-bright, bored into Vlad.

"But hear me, Prime Minister: if treachery stirs in your household, I will uncover it. And when I do, no title nor wealth will shield you."

The sentence fell like a hammer upon an anvil. Vlad bowed again, deeper now, jaw restrained. The question trembled at the edges of his composure: I accused — how does the blame return to me?

"As you will, Your Majesty," Vlad said, measured and careful.

When he withdrew, the chamber thrummed with speculation. Eyes darted among the king, prime minister, and Alaric, attempting to map where true power lay.

Aragon remained standing, silent, until the doors closed behind the prime minister. Only then did he lower his voice, meant only for those closest to him.

"He shows his mask," Aragon murmured. "But soon, we will tear it away."

Alaric's mouth twitched with a smile almost too slight to see. "And while he weaves his web in the capital," he said, "Zura sharpens her blades. The time to strike draws near."