Return of the General's Daughter

The makeshift infirmary was thick with the sound of suffering — groans and muffled cries rising from men who had carried their wounds for far too many years.

Beyond the shuttered windows, Estalis lay smothered, the capital's heartbeat dulled to a faint murmur as storm-heavy clouds pressed low, stifling even sound itself. Inside, the air was heavy with sweat, and the copper tang of blood that clung to skin and cloth alike.

Netser lay by the narrow bed, while Shaya was preparing the salve for his wounded arm. His breath was steady, while her heart beat too quickly. She pressed a linen strip to the wound in his arm, and crimson blossomed anew, soaking the cloth with stubborn persistence.

"You should have stayed down," she said, her voice firm though softer than a whisper. "One more blade, one more inch, and you'd not be breathing for me to scold."

On the other cot, Percival stirred. His dark eyes blinked open, burning even in weariness. "And miss the honor of collapsing at your feet? Never." His smile was faint, a line carved against pain, but it flickered with the same quiet defiance that had carried him through exile and bloodshed alike.

"When will my sister come?" he asked hoarsely. "Did you tell her that I am seriously injured?"

Shaya nodded. "She said she will come."

Netser's jaw tightened as he glanced at the man beside him. Percival never missed a chance to fill the silence with empty talk, and now — of all times — she was needling him with needless chatter. Why, Netser wondered, had fate placed them side by side?

Shaya's brows furrowed as she reached for a fresh strip, soaking it in the steaming basin before dabbing carefully at the wound. He flinched once, a sharp hiss through clenched teeth.

"Hold still," she ordered. "If the wound reopens again, I will not come and heal it for you.

He obeyed, though his gaze never left her. "You've grown harsher since you left," he murmured. "Once, you'd have patched me up with gentler words."

"Once," she replied, binding the bandage tight, "you weren't bleeding on palace floors while half the court sharpened daggers for your back." She tied the knot firmly, as though to hold him in place as much as his wound. "The world has grown harder, Netser. And so have I."

The fire spat sparks, lighting her profile in gold. For a heartbeat, he saw not just the healer tending him, but the woman who had carried her own scars — some visible, most hidden beneath her calm.

"Then perhaps," he said quietly, "you are what Phoenix Legion needs, not I."

Her hands stilled at that. For the first time, she met his gaze fully, her dark eyes searching his face. In them lingered anger, sorrow, and something she could not let herself speak aloud.

"You're wrong," she whispered, binding the last strip in place. "You are what the legion needs. My role is to keep you standing and help you up when you stumble."

Thick and fragile silence hung, broken only by the sound of his heartbeat and the slow, steady return of his breath.

Netser's hand lifted, slow and hesitant, until it tucked the stray hair that covered part of her face and his hand rested on hers. She did not pull away.

"Netser," she began.

But before she could shape the rest, Percival grumbled at the other cot — loud and deliberate, shattering the moment.

His hand slipped free. She rose swiftly, voice brisk once more. "Rest. Do not move."

She turned to the other cot, and attended to Percival's wound.

Netser looked at the back of the woman who was working tirelessly to clean and bandage Percival's wounds that had started to scab.

A knock came.

"My lady," he said, bowing his head, "the king summons you. At once."

She crossed the chamber, pulling the bolt from the door. A soldier stood there, face drawn, eyes grim.

Behind her, Netser struggled to sit, stubbornness written in the lines of his jaw.

Shaya frowned. Why would the king summon her?

"No," Netser said sharply, pressing him back with surprising strength. "Stay. It might be a trap."

Shaya thought that it looked like a trap.

The soldier's gaze flicked past her toward the wounded person, then back. "It is urgent," he insisted.

Her heart thudded. She looked once at Netser, then back at the soldier.

"I will come," she said, gathering her cloak. "Tell His Majesty I am on my way."

As she stepped into the corridor, the weight of the summons pressed against her like a blade she could not yet see. Behind her, Netser lay in the bed, fighting the urge to rise — while outside, the kingdom's schemes closed in like wolves upon a wounded stag.

The palace corridors stretched before Shaya like veins of stone, torches guttering low in their sconces. The soldier led her without a word, his armor whispering with each measured step. Shadows clung to the arches above, and the silence pressed at her ears, louder than footsteps.

She drew her cloak tighter, suspicion prickling at the edges of her thoughts. The route was wrong. This was not the way to the king's private chambers, nor the council vault. They turned instead toward the eastern wing, where the nobles kept their quarters when summoned to court.

Shaya slowed. "You said His Majesty called for me. Where is the king?"

The soldier stopped before a tall door of polished oak, its hinges blackened iron, a noble's crest etched faintly into the grain. He bowed, avoiding her eyes. "Inside, my lady."

Her pulse quickened, though her face remained still. She stepped forward, pushed open the door, and entered.

The chamber beyond was lavish but dim, perfumed with spiced wine and the faint musk of incense. Velvet curtains muffled the night beyond. At the center, seated at a carved table, was a middle-aged man, whose belly was big — one of the elder barons, his reputation woven of silver and shadow alike. His lined face lifted as she entered, lips curving into a smile too deliberate to be warmth.

"My lady Shaya," he said, voice smooth as poured oil. "Forgive the subterfuge. It was I who requested your presence."

Her spine stiffened. "You dared summon me in the king's name?"

"You presume much," the middle-aged man said, voice low.