Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 387: Her Innermost thoughts

Lara’s heart pounded, a fierce rhythm echoing like a war drum in her chest. The last time she’d felt this way, she was pulling that man out of the line of fire—only for him to later shield her from a bullet meant for her, fired by one of her father’s sworn enemies. That memory burned behind her eyes, sharp and unforgettable.

"I love you," Alaric whispered, his voice low and ragged, as though the words had clawed their way up from the depths of his soul.

A soft gasp escaped Lara. Her cheeks flushed, warmth spreading over her skin as her gaze locked with his. In his eyes, she saw not a prince or a warrior, but the man who had held her life in his hands—and trusted her with his.

"I love you too," she replied, her voice barely more than a breath. It was the first time she’d ever said it aloud, the truth finally unshackled.

A slow, radiant smile broke across Alaric’s face. For a heartbeat, time stilled. Lara’s pulse skipped, the edges of the world softening. In that moment, Alaric looked impossibly handsome—his usual intensity eased into something tender, something only she was allowed to see.

"Then..." he murmured, drawing her hands into his and pressing them against his chest, where his own heart beat with quiet thunder. "Will you marry me?"

Lara froze, caught between love and duty. The world was still vast and uncertain, and she wasn’t even twenty. So much remained undone.

"We’re already betrothed," she said, her voice trembling at the edges. "So yes—someday, we will marry. But we’re still so young, and you... your path has only just begun. You’re destined for greatness, Alaric. Let’s not rush the end before the beginning." She said in a gentle coaxing tone.

He nodded slowly, respect lighting his gaze. She was right. What she deserved wasn’t just a throne—it was the world, and he intended to give it to her.

...

Later that evening, Alaric walked beside Lara up the winding path to the end of the Narra Ally —Mendel estate. The lanterns had just been lit, and warm light spilled from the windows, drawing flickering shapes on the walls.

"I wonder if Master has been well," Lara mused aloud, her voice tinged with anticipation. "And Sandoz and the twins... I missed them."

Alaric gave her a sideglance. Wasn’t she with them for a week and they just separated yesterday?

"Why not let Sandoz and her mother stay at Helias Manor?" Alaric asked. He walked by his side while his secret guards followed closely behind.

"Sandoz could train better if he stay here."

"Hmmm." Alaric simply hummed.

A knight knocked on the door and then retreated to the side when the gate creaked open, and a breathless Logan appeared, still in his sweat-damp training tunic. His eyes widened in disbelief.

"Lady Lara, it’s you." Logan who was still dressed in his training tunic was breathless when he opened the gate.

"Huh, you are still training? Master is sure strict with you." Lara teased.

Logan blushed fiercely, the sight of her smile sending a chaotic mix of admiration and nerves racing through him. Just hearing her voice was enough to tilt his world.

But then, a shadow loomed behind her—a tall, commanding presence. Alaric stepped forward, and Logan instinctively lowered his gaze, bowing deeply.

Alaric’s sharp eyes lingered on the young man. For a brief moment, something cold flickered across his expression—the possessiveness of a man who recognized devotion when he saw it. But then his gaze softened, a quiet understanding settling in.

"Your Highness." Logan greeted respectfully.

The more people who were devoted and loved Lara, the more who would fight to protect her.

And that... was something he could live with.

...

Inside, the manor’s halls glowed with the soft shimmer of candlelight, their golden flickers dancing across polished wooden panels and tapestries. The air was rich with the mingled scent of aged parchment, beeswax, and a slow-simmered mulled wine steeped in cloves, citrus, and something darker—perhaps cardamom or memory. Echoes of laughter of the children where heard from distant rooms hinted life at the manor.

Jethru and Samuel had breathed new life into the old estate. The once-crumbling wing had been rebuilt and expanded into a serene and private living space, tucked behind ivy-wrapped walls. Meanwhile, the original second floor rooms had transformed into a sanctuary of learning and leisure—a spacious study lined with leather-bound books, a drawing room echoing with the scrape of violins and flutes, and an entertainment hall where children’s laughter rang like chimes on the wind.

From the threshold of the study, Jethru emerged with the quiet grace of someone who carried both knowledge and weight. He wore a pristine white tunic beneath a long ash-gray robe belted with a plain black sash. His deep-set eyes, a piercing shade of brown edged with frost, turned gentle as it flicked between Lara and the prince, assessing them both with a quiet doting.

"At last, Your Highness," Jethru said, a dry smile tugging at his lips. "You’ve finally graced our humble abode. I can scarcely recall the last time you visited—perhaps not since Lara took residence in her own manor."

Alaric rolled his eyes. "You are joking, Master. I was here last month."

Jethru made a noncommittal sound, somewhere between a hum and a knowing scoff.

"I heared that Zura has made a move. So what is your plan, Your Highness?"

Alaric’s expression darkened. He moved to the bookshelf, where the firelight from the candelabra etched shadows across his jawline. "When the time is right, I’ll strike. For now, let Zura and Estalis play their game, confident in their illusion of control." His gaze sharpened, voice low and cold. "As for Reuben... he crossed the line when he turned against the Norse family. That will not go unanswered."

Jethru’s brow furrowed, the lines etched deep with concern. "Are you... planning open rebellion against Northem?"

Alaric turned toward him, his voice resolute and unwavering. "No. I intend to save Northem—from Zura’s arrogance and tyranny. I’ll be the cure, not another disease."

"And what of Reuben? Will you spare him?" Jethru asked, eyes narrowing.

A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken pain. Then Alaric answered, his tone distant.

"His fate will be decided by this war. I will not meddle to stop it for him."

"Good," Jethru said. "Because the world is full of storms. And you’ll need more than love and lineage to survive what’s coming."