Return of the General's Daughter

She could not explain why her heart felt so tethered to Pamela. Perhaps it was because, in the young girl's dark eyes, Lara glimpsed a reflection of her young self—fragile, yet burning with that same defiance against despair. Their lives had unfolded along very different paths, yet Pamela's gaze carried a determination that reminded Lara of the fire she had clung to when the weight of the world had nearly broken her.

In the short time they had shared, Lara saw the depth of the girl's character. Pamela's family had loved her dearly, nurturing her with warmth even amid poverty. Her childhood had been painted with laughter, small joys, and the simple radiance of being cherished. Lara's, by contrast, had been marred by cruelty—her path lined with thorns, her memories haunted by rejection and shadows.

Pamela stirred in Lara something different than Sandoz ever had. Perhaps because Sandoz was a boy, and what Lara longed for was not a brother, but the sister she had always wished to protect and cherish. In her past life, her own sister's eyes had only ever regarded her with bitterness and contempt. Pamela's eyes, however, brimmed with trust and adoration. To her, Lara was not a burden, but her guardian angel.

"Sister Lara…" Pamela's small, tremulous voice tugged at her as she drifted toward sleep. Lara turned, watching the girl's lashes flutter as she whispered, "I had a dream. I saw my father, my mother, and my little brother. They were walking across the sea. They called to me, smiling, and waved their hands. But when I reached for them… they turned and walked into the sunset."

Her words were soft, colored with sorrow. Her black eyes shone with unshed tears. To Pamela, that dream felt like a farewell—an eternal parting wrapped in sweetness and sorrow.

For a long moment, Lara said nothing, her heart squeezing in a way she could not easily name. She wanted to tell Pamela that dreams were nothing but illusions, fleeting shadows of memory. But she couldn't. The girl's grief was too real, her loss too raw. So instead, she softened her voice, stroking the girl's hair as though soothing a frightened child.

"They smiled, Pamela. That means they are happy now. Free of pain, watching you from a place brighter than this world."

Why am I saying this? Lara wondered. I never believed in comforting others with lies. I always thought survival was all that mattered, not hope. Yet, as she gazed at Pamela's face, she realized it wasn't a lie. Pamela's family had loved her with a pureness Lara had never known. Perhaps their love still lingered, strong enough to guide her through dreams.

Pamela nodded faintly, but the crease in her brow deepened. "Sister… am I a curse?"

The question sliced through the stillness of the tent.

Lara froze. She had expected tears, not this.

Pamela's lips quivered as she continued, "When I was up there…tied in the mast, when the wind carried the voices of the townsfolk—I heard them. They said I was a curse, that death follows me like a shadow. I tried to cover my ears, but their words wouldn't leave me."

Her small shoulders trembled, and in that moment, Lara saw not just a girl but a soul fighting against the weight of condemnation. She is so young, and yet she carries the cruelty of others like chains around her neck.

Slowly, Lara pressed a finger against Pamela's lips to hush her. Her eyes darkened, her voice firm and steady.

"You are not a curse, Pamela. If you are, then all of Lavista is cursed. Remember—it was not only your parents who died that day. Many others lost their lives. Was it your fault that death came for them, too?"

Pamela blinked, stunned by the certainty in Lara's tone.

How can she speak with such conviction? Pamela thought. Doesn't she ever doubt? And yet, hearing Lara's voice, unwavering and protective, made her feel as though the chains had loosened.

"But why, Sister?" Pamela whispered, her voice smaller than ever. "Why do people hate what they don't understand? Why do they look at me as though I should not exist?"

Lara's throat tightened. She remembered the look in her past life's sister's eyes—the same mix of disdain and revulsion Pamela now described. She had asked herself that very question countless times, and she had never found an answer. All she had ever known was that hatred burned even hotter when it was undeserved.

Because she could not say that aloud, Lara let her actions speak. She cupped Pamela's face, forcing the girl to meet her eyes. "Pamela, listen to me. People fear what they cannot control, just as they look for scapegoats for things that they should be blamed for. They envy what they cannot have. You are alive when others are not, and so they point their blame at you. But their fear does not define you. Do you hear me? It does not define you."

Pamela's breath hitched. No one had ever said those words to her before. She felt as though a fire had been lit inside her—a small, flickering flame born from Lara's certainty.

Pamela leaned against her shoulder, her tears dampening Lara's sleeve. "I want to believe you, Sister. I want to believe that I'm not cursed…"

Lara wrapped an arm around her fragile body. "Of course, you are not a course. Believe it. And I will carry that truth for you until you can carry it yourself."

Pamela's eyes shimmered, and she nodded slowly as her heart steadied. Her thoughts whispered: If this is what it means to have a sister… then maybe I have been blessed after all.

"Now, sleep," Lara whispered, tucking the blanket around her. "Tomorrow we leave for Azul. You'll need your strength."

Pamela exhaled, her breath evened out as she drifted into dreams.

But Lara's own rest did not come. That night her sleep was fractured, restless, and finally she gave up. Slipping from her bedding, she stepped outside to breathe the cool night air. The camp was hushed, the darkness broken only by the faint glimmer of stars. As she walked, her foot pressed against something soft. She nearly stumbled before realizing what it was.