Return of the General's Daughter

"Do you have any idea," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "how empty this place feels when you’re gone?"

Lara’s lips parted, but no words came. She had missed him—more than she cared to admit. In Ourea, during quiet nights when the work was done and the fires burned low, her thoughts had often drifted back to him: to the sharp lines of his face when he was deep in thought, the low timbre of his voice when he spoke her name.

Alaric reached up, as if to brush an escaping strand of hair from her face, but hesitated—his hand hovering just shy of her cheek, trembling ever so slightly. "I told myself I wouldn’t say this. Not now, not like this. But when I see you..." He swallowed hard, his voice thickening. "I—"

"Your Highness!"

The sharp voice cut through the charged air like a blade. Percival came running from the outer gate, his face pale and glistening with sweat. Behind him, Odin and Sandoz were striding quickly toward them, their expressions grim.

Alaric’s jaw tightened, the unspoken words dying in his throat. He turned sharply, his princely composure snapping back into place like armor.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"A messenger from Isarnville just arrived," Percival said, trying to catch his breath.

"There’s been... an incident at the factories. Something with the new mechanical conveyors. Fires—injuries—"

Lara gasped. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that they sent for both of you," Odin said in his steady, booming voice. His gaze flickered between Alaric and Lara, as if sensing the tension he had just interrupted.

"We need to leave, now."