Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 389: An Ambition That Darkened The Heart

Dakota had long since departed, his footsteps fading into silence, yet Helga remained rooted in the corridor, her figure still as stone. The flicker in her eyes betrayed the storm beneath her composed exterior—an emotion she rarely allowed herself to feel. Was it fear? Doubt? Or perhaps guilt.

Had she made a mistake?

Helga, the Barsons’ eldest daughter, was bred for royalty. She was trained from a very young age on the ways of the nobles, trained to be a queen. From the moment she could walk, she was immersed in the arts of diplomacy, war, and rule. She was her family’s greatest pride — the hope of the Barsons to rise into power.

But who would have thought that Heimdal would fall in love with her half sister, Astrid — a daughter of a lowly mistress of her father? She even gave birth to Alaric, Heimdal’s first born son.

And Helga, with her pride and great expectations could not accept it. She had cried hard before her grandparents and parents that she wanted to be the queen that she was supposed to be.

Fortune, at last, had turned in Helga’s favor. Astrid’s luck ran out and her dreams took shape. Astrid died while she rose into power and became the queen of Northem. Though the truth behind her death remained cloaked in whispers and shadows—she knew her family had a role in the assassination attempt on Alaric that claimed Astrid’s life. It was to pave a way for her.

And she did not disappoint because she had played her role with dignity. She ruled as the queen they had always envisioned.

Still, unease clawed at her now.

A memory surfaced and her face turned gloomy.

Her father had urged her—it was time for Heimdal to step down. Reuben, her son, was ready to ascend the throne. For the future of the Barsons, for Northem, she had agreed to act. She only meant to weaken Heimdal, to ensure his retreat from power was swift and bloodless. He was still her husband after all, the man she loved from young. The man she wanted to grow old with, even if in his heart, there was only Astrid.

But the poison had done far more than she intended. It left Heimdal broken, diminished. And though he still lived, his reign had effectively ended. Or so, she thought.

...

When Reuben and his inner circle proposed the plan to bring down the Norse family and dismantle the last remnants of the Norse Army, Helga had agreed—resolutely. They were vestiges of a bygone era, loyal to Heimdal to the bitter end. No allegiance to the Barsons could ever take root in their hearts. If left standing, they would be thorns in Reuben’s side—dangerous ones. They would challenge Reuben’s claim.

Reuben had tried to win over Lara, but unfortunately he was not successful. It was also the reason why the crown prince bore a grudge against Odin Norse. He did not give his consent to Lara becoming his princess consort. Who dared refused a Crown Prince? Even if he was a war hero, still Odin did not have the right to defy a royal — especially the future King.

Dakota’s words still rang in her ears. It was a warning. The old prince thought Reuben was not yet ready. And she started to hesitate.

Duval and Malik, her maternal cousins and overly ambitious commanders, were faltering. Estalis had begun its slow but steady creep from the east, and neither man had the strength, nor the strategic insight, to mount a strong offense. Like Reuben, they were still green in the face of a full scale warfare.

And Marlon Norse? He had proven to be the gravest disappointment of all. When Estalis swept through Carles, Marlon barely raised a sword in protest. No resistance, no strategy—just collapse. He had been entrusted with the Norse legacy, and he let it slip through his fingers like sand. Worse still, his idiotic son had been manipulated into helping the enemy seize the city. It was treason by incompetence. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

But now came a deeper concern—Alaric.

He had resurfaced. Not just alive, but thriving. She thought that his wings were clipped when his mother died. But she was wrong. He has hidden his ambitions well and he started to make a move, timed it when Northem is in turmoil.

The reports were staggering: Alaric had carved out a stronghold in Calma, and not just any outpost. According to Balder Vidal, the fortress rivaled Savadra itself in both strength and design. A military marvel built by a disgraced prince who had once been exiled, presumed broken. How could a disgraced prince, exiled and without backing , achieve such a feat on his own?

Helga had moved swiftly. She summoned Duke Connor and Duchess Eloisa to report on the South. But the Duke spoke in vague circles, revealing little of substance. Too little. Helga’s instincts told her he was withholding the truth.

So she bypassed him.

She had one of the knights who had accompanied the Duke brought before her. Under oath, the man could not lie. And when he spoke, his voice was quiet but reverent, his eyes distant—lit by a strange, almost devotional light as he described in detail what he saw in Calma.

And he did not hold back.

His voice was low and reverent, his eyes filled with something close to awe as he described the twin towers that guarded the northern gates, the impeccable organization of Alaric’s forces, unshakeable resolve of the people under his banner.

Reuben, listening nearby, seethed.

He spoke of Calma’s towering walls, the wide streets that allowed people to walk freely on the side, and for those who used the bicycles to pedal safely because they have their own separate lanes from that of the horses. There was something mythic in the way he described it all, something that made Reuben’s blood boil.

As the knight continued, Reuben, standing nearby, clenched his jaw. The admiration in the soldier’s tone was too much. In a sudden outburst, he struck the man with a savage kick to the gut.

But the knight did not fall. Reuben forgot the fact that even when knights were not in armor, they still wore protective vests as inner garment.

His body armor absorbed the blow, while Reuben staggered backward, howling as pain shot through his leg—something had twisted or torn.

Humiliated, Reuben turned red with fury. "Strip him. Flog him," he barked.

But Helga’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

"No," she said, eyes narrowing. "He told the truth. You’re angry because you heard it. But the knight did nothing. If you punish him, it will backfire."

Reuben’s pride burned hotter than his injury. He turned on her, jaw tight.

"Mother," he spat, "don’t you think Father is helping Alaric behind our backs? How else could he build a fortress like that? Not without support." Reuben did not believe that Alaric was strong enough.

Helga’s expression hardened. A cold silence fell over the room. She, too, had wondered. Heimdal had been sick for months—frail, confined to bed, his strength a shadow of what it once was. And yet... the scale of Alaric’s rise defied explanation.

The moment Balder Vidal’s report arrived, Helga had activated Duval’s spy network to trace the source of Alaric’s funding. Supplies, engineers, raw materials—fortresses did not build themselves.

But no trail emerged. No gold. No names.

Not Heimdal. Not anyone she could identify.

That, more than anything, unnerved her. Because power that rose without a name behind it was the most dangerous kind of all.

Then, Solanio, another of her cousins from her father side, arrived.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness," he greeted politely. "I just returned from my travels and guess what I discovered?"

Reuben lifted his head to look at Solanio who was also his uncle. Helga raised an eyebrow.

"What is it, Marquis Solanio?"

Yes, Solanio was granted a noble title after King Heimdal became ill. Previously, the king did not approve of granting such title because Solanio as a merchant has not earned enough merit to be granted nobility. But when he got sick, the title was granted anyway and so Solanio has become Marquis Solanio.

"I found out that Prince Alaric has established trading route from Calma and the neighboring towns that extended to the southern part of Westalis, Estalis and the northern region of Zura." The Marquis said in a tone that carried displeasure.

"What did you say?" Reuben thought he misheard. "Where did he get the money to set up a trading route?"

"I guess it is from the products that they are selling. They have a lot of good products which I hope that we can get our hands on." Solanio’s eyes glinted with greed. "You should also take back Calma. It is located at the center of the four kingdoms and would be a good trading hub in the future."

"That is something that we can discuss later on, Solanio. For now, we should focus on the problem at hand, which is the dual threat from Estalis and Zura." Helga said and everyone went quiet.

...

That night, Helga stood alone on the high balcony of the Southern Spire, the wind teasing at her dark braids, eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the southern hills.

Somewhere beyond them, Alaric was gathering strength.

There was a pulse to the world now, a rhythm she could feel in her bones—a slow, seismic shift. Something was coming. She had seen kingdoms collapse before, had helped orchestrate a few. This felt different. Alaric’s rise wasn’t opportunistic; it was calculated. Intentional. It had vision behind it.

And vision was more dangerous than vengeance.