Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 352: Way of Suffering 2

As the campfire crackled and the embers scattered, Atalia’s servant slipped a hand into her worn burlap pack. With fluid motion, she produced a small parcel wrapped tightly in cloth and peeled it open to reveal a collection of candies, glistening faintly against the firelight like polished gems.

Moving with bowed head, she began to distribute them—first to the children, then to the women, her demeanor humble, eyes lowered. The sweets, innocent in appearance, sparked joy in the little ones, momentarily lifting the heavy mood that hung over the camp like a storm cloud.

But those watching closely would notice something peculiar: she carried not one pouch of candy, but two. Her hands moved quickly and deftly, drawing confections from their respective wraps. Some received three pieces. Those who had their meals had only one. At first glance, it seemed random. But it wasn’t.

Luki, ever suspicious, narrowed his eyes.

"You there," he called, gesturing with a flick of his wrist. "What are you handing out?"

The servant approached calmly, stopping an arm’s length away from him. She offered a small handful of sweets with both hands, head bowed in deference.

"Just candies, sir," she said in a soft, respectful tone. "They won’t last more than a few days, so it’s better to give them away."

Luki eyed her, studying her figure, lingering with lewd intent. Her body was graceful, but her face—obscured by grime and acne scars—made him grimace. Still, he plucked a candy from her hand and popped it into his mouth.

Surprisingly, it was sweet... and delicious.

Satisfied, he reached for another. "Give the rest to the men," he ordered with a lazy wave of his hand.

The servant obeyed silently, moving among the soldiers with a lowered gaze. One by one, she handed out candies to the forty-seven guards still on duty. Not a single word. Not a single mistake.

After they finished dinner, the children’s laughter gave way to restless fidgeting. Mosquitoes buzzed through the humid air, their bites turning young limbs into scratchy battlegrounds.

The servant returned to the campfire. Wordless, she lit the edge of a small, dried twig, then placed a damp sachet atop it. A fragrant smoke rose, laced with citronella. Slowly, the children’s discomfort faded, and their weary bodies succumbed to sleep.

Meanwhile, Laida and Kayla—the wives of Odin’s Alpha and Beta commanders—sat in anxious silence. They’d waited all day, holding their bowels, unwilling to relieve themselves in the presence of hostile eyes. As night provided a veil, they stood and quietly excused themselves, slipping into the underbrush a short distance from the camp.

Kayla’s husband, Ramil, watched them vanish into the trees with clenched jaws and a look of helpless fury. Bound in chains, he could do nothing. Their captors wouldn’t allow it.

And then... six guards stood and followed.

Ramil’s heart went to his throat. He lurched to his feet, but a savage boot met his stomach. The blow dropped him to his knees.

"Where do you think you’re going?" sneered the deputy commander.

Ramil bit back his rage, bowing slightly. "I need to relieve myself, sir."

The deputy pointed to a low shrub, a few feet away. "Piss there."

"But—"

Thud!

Another kick. Harder this time. Pain radiated through his ribs as he wheezed, eyes swimming.

He lay there, trembling, fists clenched, mind racing. He knew. He knew what those men were planning. And his wife—his Kayla—was walking straight into it.

He glanced at the young general, Laida’s husband, and found him asleep. He wasn’t aware of the impending doom that his wife was about to face.

Ramil’s gaze landed on General Odin. The older man sat quietly, staring into the fire, seemingly calm. Too calm.

Ramil wanted to scream. Of course, he’s calm. It’s not his wife.

Bitterness bubbled up, but he forced it down. He remembered the countless times General Odin had pulled him from the jaws of death. This wasn’t his fault. It was Prince Reuben. His betrayal and paranoia had brought them to this.

He looked around frantically, trying to find someone who could help, and his gaze circled back to that of General Odin’s. His eyes were like amber, reflecting the color of the firelight. He seemed to radiate serenity and was trying to calm him with unspoken words.

Ramil pulled away, his eyes sweeping the camp, desperate and hoping against hope that there was someone who could save his wife. And then... he realized something.

The servant girl was gone.

Hope flared in his chest. He hoped that his intuition was correct. He had watched that servant, and he could feel that she was not as simple as she looked. Even with bowed head, she radiated a different kind of aura that wasn’t that of a maid.

When they encountered the bizarre situation with the horses earlier, he was excited. Maybe some of General Odin’s men were accompanying them in the shadows and just waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

Maybe... just maybe... There was hope.

Minutes crawled by. Silence returned.

He looked at General Amnon, who was looking back at him.

"Let us go to sleep, Ramil! We need to recover our strength." He said in a low voice.

"How can I sleep? My wife is still out there!"

Then—

"Ahh... Help! Help!"

A sharp, panicked scream pierced the silence of the night.

Ramil shot upright. His heart was somersaulting in his chest.

But then, two women followed by the servant emerged from another direction.

Ramil heaved a sigh of relief.

Without warning, six men stumbled out from the bushes. Their faces were pale. Their steps were unsteady.

"Sna ... Snakes."

The last of them collapsed mid-word. A snake as thick as a baby’s arm slithered from the folds of his trousers.

Panic exploded in the camp.

"Get them beside the campfire!" Luki barked, voice cracking.

The remaining guards rushed to their fallen comrades. Two medics sprang into action, slashing open trousers, checking pulses, and cutting into bite wounds. He ordered a prisoner to suck out the venom.

When the prisoner refused, a sword was pointed at his throat. Between death and the agony of sucking out blood from the foul smelling ankle of the guard, the prisoner chose the latter.

"Only Bakhu’s been bitten visibly," one medic reported. "But the others... they’re also showing signs of venom—seizures, sweating, and paralysis but I can’t find any bite mark on them."

Luki was troubled. If there were no visible marks, were they really bitten?

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