Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 392: The Silent War

Reuben sat brooding in the shadowed solitude of his private chamber. The flickering light of a brass candelabrum cast long, wavering shadows on the carved walls, while a storm simmered in his chest. He leaned forward on an ornate chair, its velvet cushions creaking beneath his tense frame, elbows resting on a mahogany table etched with the sigils of the Royal Family—a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire, a symbol of hard-won peace and not easily shattered.

His mother had just left, and the news she brought still echoed in his mind like war drums.

Bandits ravaged the borderlands. Rebels whispered sedition in the villages. And the Estalian armies—disciplined, merciless—were marching steadily toward the gates of Fereya.

"My prince, you seem troubled," Mira murmured, her voice like silk brushing against a blade. Her presence was warm and measured, like a balm to his unrest. She moved gracefully, her silken robe whispering against the stone floor as she stepped behind him. Her fingers—cool, practiced—found his temples and began to circle gently.

Reuben exhaled, his rigid shoulders sagging ever so slightly under her touch. He moaned softly, eyes closing as tension slipped from his brow. Mira knew exactly how to touch him—how to ease the weight he bore. In moments like these, he could almost forget that Amielle wore the crown of Princess Consort.

He had once regretted marrying Mira, dismissing her as a political afterthought, a secondary wife from a minor house. But time had proven her worth. Mira was not merely soothing—she was sharp, clever, and dangerously perceptive. She understood him in ways Amielle never could.

If only her father had been less of a disappointment. Marlon Norse was a pale echo of his forebear, Odin Norse, the iron-hearted general who had once defended the kingdom with honor and fire. Had Mira’s lineage been more formidable, Reuben might have named her queen.

"Everyone is turning against me," Reuben muttered, his voice strained. "Rebels, bandits... even the Estalian soldiers are stirring. How could I not be troubled?"

Mira’s hands drifted lower, pressing firmly into the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.

"Have you spoken to your father? He might offer... guidance," she said, her tone soft but probing.

"Not yet," Reuben replied. "But I will. I’ll ask him to summon Alaric and General Odin back to Savadra. We need strength now more than ever."

At that, Mira’s hands stilled. Her eyes darkened with realization. Reuben was afraid. He masked it well, but she could see the cracks forming. His confidence was slipping—and with it, her own future. Her fate was now irrevocably tied to his success. She couldn’t afford for him to falter.

"Then I’ll have tonics prepared for your father," she said smoothly, already shifting her plans in motion.

Later, as they emerged from the prince’s chambers, Mira held Reuben’s arm, their bodies close, their voices low with intimate conversation. Just as they reached the marble hallway, Amielle appeared, her hair catching the sconces light like a halo.

"My prince," she greeted with a graceful nod, her voice sweet, but her eyes sharp with jealousy. She masked it well, but Mira caught the flicker of resentment. Everyone did. The whispers among the servants had grown louder—Amielle had lost her place. And Mira had taken it.

Reuben didn’t flinch. "We’re going to visit Father," he said, his voice devoid of guilt.

"Then I’ll come too," Amielle replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "It’s been too long since I’ve seen him."

Reuben hesitated for a moment, looking at her—at the face once hailed as the most beautiful in Savadra. And indeed, it was, until he saw Lara Norse.

"Of course, my dear," he said lightly.

Amielle slipped her hand into the crook of his other arm, and the crown prince walked down the corridor with a woman on each side. He straightened his back, basking in their beauty and devotion. But beneath the surface, jealousy simmered, ambitions clashed, and loyalty was nothing more than a blade waiting to turn.

As they walked side by side through the marble corridors of the palace, Mira could feel Amielle’s presence like a blade pressed against her spine—delicate, polished, but dangerous. Each step echoed with the soft rustle of silk and the tension of unspoken war.

Amielle clung to Reuben’s other arm with practiced grace, her fingers light as frost, her smile crafted to disarm.

But Mira knew better. Beneath the gentle facade was a heart as hungry as her own. Amielle had grown up knowing she would be queen. Mira had clawed her way to the prince’s side. And she had no intention of giving ground.

"My prince," Amielle said sweetly, turning her face up to his. "Do you remember the last time we dined with your father? He told that story about the Hunter and the Woodman? You laughed so hard you choked on your wine."

Reuben chuckled, though the memory seemed distant, half-forgotten. "Father’s stories have grown duller with age."

Mira didn’t laugh. She tightened her grip on his arm ever so slightly. "Perhaps he repeats them because no one listens to the truth the first time," she said coolly.

Amielle’s smile didn’t falter, but Mira saw her shoulders stiffen.

"Careful, Mira," Amielle said with mock playfulness. "One could mistake that tone for jealousy."

Mira turned her head slightly, her eyes glinting like a predator’s in low light. "Jealousy? Of what? A crown that fits loosely and slips further down your brow each day?"

Reuben stiffened, but said nothing. He liked this. Mira knew he did. He would never admit it, but watching them circle each other—words sharp as knives, eyes filled with venom—aroused something dark in him. Something he fed behind closed doors.

He wanted his women competing for his attention.

"You forget your place, Mira," Amielle said, still smiling. "You are only a secondary consort."

"And yet," Mira mouthed, brushing her fingers across Reuben’s pulse, "he sleeps in my bed."

That silenced Amielle.

They reached Astrid’s chambers, but the tension followed them like a storm cloud. The guards opened the great doors, and the scent of old wood, herbs and power drifted out.

Reuben stepped forward, loosening his arms from theirs.

As he entered, Amielle leaned in close to Mira, her voice like a dagger drawn in the dark.

"You think you’ve won because he favors you now. But affection is fleeting. I am the crown. You are his indulgence."

Mira didn’t blink. "Crown or not, you bleed like any woman. And sooner or later... he will grow tired of you."

They stared at each other, two queens without thrones, locked in a silent war. One armed with legal right, the other with seduction and cunning.

Behind the doors, Reuben called their names.

Amielle was the first to move. Mira watched her walk away, her spine was straight, chin lifted—so perfect, so proud just like what a queen should be. But porcelain cracked easily. And Mira... Mira had never been afraid to break things.