Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 386: The Palace

"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."

Alaric’s hand clenched at his side. He glanced back at Lara, his eyes dark with everything he had almost said—and everything he couldn’t say now.

"We’ll talk later," he said, his voice low but laced with meaning.

Lara nodded, though her heart still raced. Later. The word burned into her mind as they mounted their horses and prepared to ride for Isarnville.

"Perci, tell Felix to hurry to the site. Let him take the nurses and the medics. This will be a practical test to them." Lara said with urgency.

...

The day passed in a blur. The medics, Lara, Felix, Delia and Lina and the healers were all exhausted. Even Freya and the wives of Odin’s generals — Kayla, Laida and Zeeta lent a hand.

Felix, once clumsy and hesitant, now worked with a steady hand and clear eyes. He was a different man from the one who had trembled while tending to Alaric at Galeya’s Throne. His sutures were clean and confident, his grasp of minor surgeries competent enough to impress even seasoned healers.

By late afternoon, the last of the ten wounded had been treated, bandaged, and tucked into their beds. Thankfully, their injuries were not as grave as first feared, and the root cause of the incident had been swiftly identified and resolved.

Lara had intended to send Sandoz and the twins back to the Mendel estate, but with Alaric brooding in silence, the task had quietly fallen to Percival.

"My Prince," she teased, voice lilting like wind through silk, "you were saying something before we got interrupted?"

Alaric paused. How could he say that he wanted to already marry her so they get to spend their nights together?

But with war looming in the capital, he could not afford to be distracted. He cleared his throat and his voice sounded doting.

"The central palace and the main gates were completed yesterday," he said. "I want you to see them."

Before sundown that day, Alaric and Lara rode to Hevenfort in the prince carriage. Lara had seen the blueprint and had wanted to make suggestions but after thinking it over she decided to just let it be.

Wouldn’t the architecture of the ancient buildings change if she meddled too much?

But the moment they arrived, her breath caught.

The façade of the palace towered before her, commanding and sublime. The double doors alone were a marvel—enormous slabs of the hardest Northem wood, engraved with exquisite carvings of the kingdom’s flora and fauna. Every leaf, wing, and paw had been painstakingly brought to life by woodcarvers who had toiled for more than a year.

"This is truly amazing." Lara uttered in wonder. "Look at the intricate carvings."

"They were installed three days ago," Alaric said, pride unmistakable in his voice.

Two knights in polished armor stepped forward and opened the great doors. Alaric offered his hand, and Lara placed hers in his without hesitation, crossing the threshold into wonder.

Inside, the air was cool and still. Lara gasped.

The ceiling soared high above her, held aloft by towering pillars etched with intricate designs. At the very center, the domed roof was made of shimmering rock crystal, flooding the space with natural light that bathed the polished stone floors in a soft, ethereal glow.

Circling the dome were paintings depicting the myth of Galeya creating the Alta-Sierra range. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

"Did they paint that on the ceiling?" Lara asked. She always wondered how could those artists painted iconic paintings on the ceiling.

"Well, they are great artists. They could paint no matter what the circumstance is."

The palace’s central section was shaped like an octagon, with eight grand corridors fanning out like spokes from a wheel. The corridor directly opposite the entrance led to Alaric’s private chambers. To the left, three corridors led to halls for political affairs: the king’s court, the council chamber, and the justice hall. To the right, the remaining three corridors opened into places of leisure: a reception hall, drawing rooms, and tea rooms of various sizes.

Lara drifted down the hallway toward the justice hall. Portraits lined the walls—stoic kings of Northem, captured in regal stillness, their eyes watchful through the ages.

On the opposing wall hung tributes to the war heroes of each generation. Her heart clenched as she spotted one familiar face among them—her father.

"When did you complete this?" she asked quietly, eyes scanning the gallery of brushstrokes and glinting frames, her gaze never straying far from that one familiar visage.

"Some were already painted," Alaric replied, stepping beside her. "I acquired them from various artists—some local, others from distant lands, travelers I met through merchant ships. A few are from dear friends. The rest, I commissioned myself."

Lara nodded slowly, her eyes drinking in the artistry. "They’re... stunning," she murmured. Her voice trembled on the edge of reverence. She stared at the canvas of her father as if she could step into it, as if she might find him waiting there.

Memories rose like mist—quiet afternoons in musty museum halls, the scent of oil paint and varnished wood, the hush that fell before great works of art.

.

"Distant lands." Lara murmured. She stood for a long time in front of her father’s portrait.

"Your father’s portrait," Alaric said softly, stepping beside her. "It was painted by Peredur. Didn’t he ever mention it?"

Lara shook her head. "I know that Peredur is doing painting but I did not know his works looked so professional!"

"Professional?" Alaraic asked. He was not sure if he understood what she meant.

"Beautiful...perfect." Lara whispered breathlessly.

She stepped back to admire her father’s portrait. He was astride on a horse, his spear raised up high and his eyes seemed to be looking at the person gazing at him.

"Peredur painted his eyes very well. He captured your father’s heroic spirit. He has your eyes."

Lara chuckled. "You got it wrong, My Prince. I inherited his eyes."

Lara’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out, fingertips brushing the air near the canvas, as if afraid to touch it.

Alaric took her hand—gentle, quiet, and grounding. The gesture was simple, but in that cavernous hall, it felt intimate, profound.

Her cheeks flushed as she tilted her face toward him. In that moment, with crystal light dancing in her eyes and the quiet echo of history around them, she was breathtaking.

Alaric’s breath faltered.

His heart stumbled.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned in and placed a kiss at the corner of her mouth—soft, reverent, and filled with everything he couldn’t yet say aloud.

The moment his lips brushed her skin, Alaric felt the world pause.

It wasn’t a kiss meant to possess or promise—it was one born from silence, from everything he hadn’t dared put into words.

Reverence. Admiration. A quiet longing that had taken root in him long before he realized it had.

She didn’t pull away.

He lingered only a heartbeat longer, then drew back—just enough to see her face. Her eyes were wide, reflecting torchlight and something softer, something uncertain. But she wasn’t afraid. And neither was he, not anymore.

What have I done? he thought, but not with regret. It was awe, almost disbelief. For all his training, all his poise, nothing had prepared him for her. Not for this.

Lara. His bethroted.

So much like her father in spirit, in fire. And yet wholly her own—unpredictable, unyielding, and achingly human in a world that had turned him into a man of duty.

She was the first person who had looked at him—not through titles, not through expectations—but truly seen him.

And now... he had crossed a line.

Not of propriety, no—there had never been a rule against affection. But of vulnerability. Of letting his guard slip in a place filled with ghosts and portraits and honor-bound silence. She made it easy. Too easy.

He let out a slow breath.You fool, he thought, not harshly. You’ve gone and shown your hand.

But as she looked up at him, cheeks still flushed, lips parted as if to speak but caught in thought, Alaric didn’t feel foolish.

He felt alive.