Return of the General's Daughter

"No child should have to see what you've seen—" she said softly, her voice steadier than she felt. "But know this—your family is avenged. And you are not alone."

The girl's lips trembled, her eyes reddening, yet not a single tear fell. Instead, she clung to Lara's side with desperate strength, as though anchoring herself to the only solid thing left in her shattered world. Her thin shoulders shook against Lara's chest. Lara wrapped her arms around the child, ignoring the ache that flared through her battered body, ignoring the curious eyes of the crowd. In that moment, there was no battlefield, no victory, no glory—only the fragile heartbeat of a broken child who had found hope in her.

At last, the girl pulled back, her small fingers still gripping Lara's hand. Her voice was faint, trembling. "Can you… please ... come with me? To see my family?"

Lara tried to answer, but her throat tightened until words turned to silence. She simply nodded and allowed the child to lead her. Together they walked along the quiet fringe of the beach, beneath rows of palm trees swaying in the salt-scented wind.

Then Lara saw them.

Three figures laid out upon a woven straw mat. Two adults and a boy no older than five, their bodies carefully covered by a thin blanket that had once been white, now faded to the color of old bone. Scattered petals of wildflowers softened the harsh finality of death, though the heap of bloodied garments piled nearby told the truth of how they had been cut down.

Those had been their clothes when they were butchered.

The sight struck Lara like a blade between her ribs. Her knees weakened, her vision blurred. She sank to the sand and gathered the girl into her arms once more, tears spilling unbidden down her cheeks.

She realized then—it had been this child who arranged their bodies, who covered them, who scattered flowers to grant them some dignity in death. The thought cleaved her heart in two. How much pain had this tiny soul endured in silence?

In her past life, Lara had been trained to be emotionless like a robot, to harden her heart until no blade could pierce it. Yet her past life felt like a dream slipping further and further away. In this moment, the grief of the little girl was her grief. The loss of this family was her loss.

And she wept with her—not as a soldier, not as a killer, but as someone who understood what it meant to lose everything in a single day.

The girl still clung to Lara's hand long after her tears had run dry. She didn't speak, but her gaze never wavered—wide and shining with adoration, as though Lara were not merely a warrior but something greater, something unshakable.

"What's your name?" Lara finally asked, her voice very gentle.

The girl sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. "Pamela," she whispered.

Lara stayed on her knees, the girl trembling in her arms as the surf whispered against the shore. The air was heavy with salt, blood, and grief. For a long moment, there was only silence between them—two souls, one scarred by battle and the other broken by loss, clinging to each other.

At last, Lara loosened her embrace and brushed the child's tangled hair back from her face. "Let's give them rest," she murmured. "The kind they deserve."

The girl nodded, swallowing hard. "Thank you." She said in a small voice.

Together, they knelt by the bodies. Lara straightened the blanket with care, smoothing the wrinkles as though she were tucking them into bed. She placed the petals more gently this time, her warrior's hands moving with a tenderness she hadn't thought herself capable of.

One by one, townsfolk began to gather, drawn by the sight. They came silently, their footsteps muffled in the sand. Men who had lost brothers, women who had lost husbands, children who had lost friends—all carrying small tokens: handfuls of wildflowers, sprigs of palm, even seashells. They laid them beside the mat, until the dead were surrounded not by gore and ruin, but by a humble garden of offerings.

General Odin stood at the edge of the gathering, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was grim, but he inclined his head in solemn respect. Even the Norse brothers fell quiet, their usual restlessness hushed by the gravity of the moment. Alaric, a step apart from the others, watched Lara—not as a commander, but as a man who recognized the quiet strength of her compassion.

The girl, her voice raw but steady, whispered a prayer over the bodies. It was simple, broken in places, yet the crowd bowed their heads as if the words had been spoken by a priestess. Lara placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, lending her strength with the warmth of her touch.

When the prayer ended, Lara rose slowly and addressed the people. Her voice carried, low but firm.

"These were not nameless dead. They were family. They were your kin, your neighbors, your friends. Tonight, we honor them. And tomorrow, we rebuild—for them, and for every soul taken by those who preyed upon you."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Some wept openly, others clenched their fists in quiet fury, but all stood united in grief and remembrance.

When the flames were lit, the fire painted the night sky with a glow that was both a sorrowful and defiant sight. The people of Zaraga stood shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising in a chant of farewell that mingled with the crackle of burning wood.

Lara stayed beside the girl until the last ember faded. She did not speak, for words felt empty. Instead, she remained—a steady presence, a promise unspoken.

Pamela looked at Lara. "Can I… stay with you?" she asked tentatively, almost desperately. "I don't have anyone left."

Lara crouched down, brushing a lock of tangled hair from Pamela's face. "If you wish it, then yes," she said softly. "You'll stay with me."

The girl threw her arms around Lara's neck, holding on as though she had finally found a lifeline. The crowd, seeing the exchange, erupted with fresh cheers—not for generals or kings, but for the woman who had struck down their tormentors and embraced one of their own.

For the first time that day, Lara smiled—a true smile, unburdened by blood or steel.

Alaric, who was standing beside them, looked down at the little girl. For a brief moment, the warrior in him was overshadowed by the man who had seen too many innocents broken by war. He crouched low to Pamela's level. "You're strong, little one," he said, his voice gentle in a way few had ever heard from him. "Your father would be proud."

That night, the people of Zaraga began to heal, bound together by shared loss. And at the heart of it, a child who had lost everything found a protector, while a warrior who once believed herself heartless discovered the weight of another's grief—and the strength it could awaken.