Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 298: Reuben’s Schemes

Early the next morning, while the transparent dew still clung to the blades of grass and a cool mist threaded through the castle gardens, Prince Reuben slipped quietly from his chambers. The sky was awash in the palest hues of dawn as he made his way through the marble halls, his footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. He was on his way to the royal dining hall—for a conversation with the king and the queen.

Inside the great hall, sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, casting shards of amber, blue, and violet across the vast breakfast table, a table long enough to host sixty nobles but currently occupied by just a few.

At one end, King Heimdal sat stoically, silently slicing into roasted venison, lost in his thoughts.

At the opposite end, Queen Helga had just sat down, her deep crimson gown sweeping behind her as she took her place at the head of the table. Her presence filled the room—not with noise, but with quiet authority. Even in the muted light of morning, her expression was composed, regal, and watchful.

Reuben bowed slightly as he approached. The cool air of the hall seemed to thicken with his every step.

"What brings my son to join us for breakfast today?" Queen Helga asked, her voice as smooth as the tea she poured, steam curling gently in the morning air.

Reuben stood tall, though his tone was carefully deferential. "Mother, Father, I am here to seek your help. I found a woman who is worthy to be my queen."

Helga paused, her teacup halfway to her lips. "Oh? And who is this woman who has stirred my son’s heart? Surely you mean to elevate Lady Amielle—she’s been groomed for such a role, has she not?"

"It is not her, Mother." Reuben spoke hastily, afraid that if he did not retort, the queen would assume that he was talking about Amielle.

The queen’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. "Not her and why?" she echoed, setting her cup down with a quiet clink. "Amielle is the daughter of the Minister of Justice. She is poised, talented, cultured, and beautiful."

At that moment, Princess Ceres entered, her stride graceful as moonlight. She seated herself beside Reuben, her gown glimmering with embroidered silver threads. A servant promptly appeared with her favorite omelet, freshly baked bread, and a small dish of goat cheese.

"I must agree with Mother," Ceres said gently, unfolding her napkin. "Amielle has what it takes to be a great queen."

Still, Reuben shook his head. "It is not her."

Queen Helga leaned forward slightly, curiosity kindling in her eyes. "Then who is it? Who is this mysterious woman who has succeeded where others have failed?"

Across the table, King Heimdal’s knife paused mid-cut. He lifted his gaze slowly, eyes narrowing from the far end of the hall, the quiet tension growing like a drawn bowstring.

"It is Lara Norse," Reuben said, his voice steady. "Daughter of the Marquis of Carles."

For a moment, Helga’s expression was unreadable as she sifted through names in her mind. Then her brow furrowed.

"The Marquis of Carles... That would be General Odin and Lady Freya’s daughter, wouldn’t it?"

Before Reuben could answer, King Heimdal’s voice cut across the hall, low and sharp. "She is betrothed to your brother."

Reuben blinked, startled. "Yes, Father. But Alaric has been banished—he would live in exile at Calma. He has no future to offer her."

The tension in the room crystallized. Heimdal’s fork halted in midair. Slowly, he lowered it to his plate and stared at his son across the vast table, the space between them heavy with unspoken consequence.

"She is promised," the king said flatly. "I told you before not to be overly greedy. You are the heir now."

Reuben’s voice rose, earnest and raw. "But what of her? What future does she have in exile? I can offer her more—"

Heimdal’s hand tightened on his fork until his knuckles whitened. The iron will of a king—of a father—held back whatever storm brewed behind his eyes. He had decreed Prince Alaric’s exile, yes. But some loyalties, even broken ones, still bore weight.

Reuben clenched his jaw. The silence that followed his father’s pronouncement was thick enough to choke on. He had come here expecting a blessing, but neither had he imagined the door would be slammed shut so swiftly—so finally.

He looked across the yawning distance of the table, at King Heimdal seated like a thundercloud beneath his crownless brow. The man had governed kingdoms, razed rebellions, and survived assassins. Yet Reuben had always found him most frightening in moments like this—still, cold, and quiet. When his disappointment felt sharper than any blade.

"I know what she was promised," Reuben said at last, carefully choosing every word. "But promises forged under different circumstances must be reexamined. Alaric is no longer in a position to marry. He did wrong, and you banished him."

"Do not twist my judgment to suit your heart," Heimdal replied coolly.

Reuben met his father’s eyes without flinching. "I twist nothing, Father. I state what is." freēwēbηovel.c૦m

From the corner of his vision, he saw Queen Helga shift in her seat, one graceful hand rising to adjust the drape of her sleeve. Her silence wasn’t passive—it was calculating. She was thinking, weighing, always careful not to speak until every angle had been considered. She had ruled beside Heimdal for two decades and knew the art of timing better than any general knew his swordplay.

"I don’t seek to humiliate my elder brother," Reuben added, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "But he’s not the man she needs. He’s not the man she loves."

"Love," King Heimdal scoffed, the word bitter on his tongue. "Love is not what binds kingdoms. Oaths do. Bloodlines. Strategy."

Reuben straightened. "Then let me be strategic, Father. Lara is the daughter of one of your most loyal commanders. The Marquis of Carles commands half the eastern cavalry. You would let that daughter be dragged into obscurity, into life of exile, because of a promise made when they were not born yet?"

That, at last, made his mother speak.

"You presume much, my son," Helga said, her voice cool but not unkind. "You speak as though she belongs to you already."

Reuben turned to her, softer now. "She does not belong to me. But I would have her choose me—freely. And I believe she would."

There was a pause. Helga studied him, her eyes unreadable. Then she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap like a priestess awaiting judgment.

"And if she does not?"