Return of the General's Daughter

A ripple of tension surged through the grand hall, subtle at first—like a chill wind sweeping across still water. Whispers fractured the polished calm as generals, ministers, and nobles—figures robed in gold thread and centuries of power—began to drift away, gravitating toward the shadowed exits along the east wing.

Alaric’s shoulders tightened like drawn bowstrings.

Lara caught the shift in the room’s atmosphere instantly. "What does that mean?" she whispered, eyes scanning the crowd.

"It means something’s gone wrong," Alaric murmured, his voice edged with unease. "And if the east wing’s involved... this isn’t court gossip anymore. It’s politics."

Then came a voice—quiet, deliberate—just behind them.

"I wouldn’t linger too long, Prince Alaric."

Alaric turned.

An elderly man stood a few meters away supported by his knight. His hair and beard were snowy white, his frame stooped with time, the crest of the House of Arces—a soaring eagle—was embroidered with reverence on his ceremonial robes.

"Grandfather," Alaric said softly, his voice catching with a mixture of affection and worry. "Why?" His expression clouded, pained. The old man was actually Alaric’s grand uncle, but he was used to calling him grandfather instead of uncle.

Lara studied the old man, noting the ease of Alaric’s tone. There was closeness here—warmth tempered by respect.

Lara deduced that Alaric must have a good relationship with the old man.