Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 393: Reuben’s Fears

Mariam moved with quiet grace, her touch gentle as she helped the frail king ease against the carved oak headboard. Each motion was careful, reverent—as though she feared he might crumble beneath her fingers.

A flicker of surprise passed over Reuben’s face, quickly masked by the practiced stoicism of a prince. "You’ve looked better, Father," he said, the comment edged with discomfort more than jest.

Heimdal responded only with a low, dismissive hum. His eyes, once sharp with command, now regarded his son with a cool detachment.

Reuben lingered at the foot of the bed, hesitation anchoring his steps before he finally sat in the chair beside the headboard.

"Your daughter greets His Majesty and wishes him a swift recovery," Amielle said with regal poise, bowing her head with courtly respect.

"This humble servant greets His Majesty and prays for his health," Mira added, lowering into a practiced, graceful curtsy.

Heimdal acknowledged them with a slight nod—nothing more.

"And what brings the honor of His Highness’ presence to this king’s sickroom?" he said, voice rough as dry leaves. His tone was indifferent, but beneath it lay iron.

The father and son relationship fractured when Heimdal got sick. Yet even in weakness, the old king saw clearly. Helga had masked her treachery well, but he wasn’t so far gone as to miss the scent of betrayal. He knew where the rot had started—knew, too well, that Reuben had played a part. A son he had loved, raised, and named heir... turned against him with the very bloodline that had always hungered for the throne — Helga’s maternal family.

What he could not further comprehend was why they had conspired to bring down Northem’s pillar of strength, Odin Norse and his sons and commanders.

Reuben swallowed hard. "Father..." His voice trembled. He could not meet Heimdal’s gaze. "The King of Estalis died. Estalis and Zura had a political alliance through marriage—and now their Estalian armies are moving toward Fereya."

Heimdal raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into something between disdain and weariness. "And how, pray tell, would I know this? I lie in this bed like a relic. The court does not summon me. The generals no longer seek my word. The Minister of Defense reports to someone else now."

His sarcasm landed like a slap.

Reuben flinched, but pressed on. "Forgive me, Father, for my insolence." The apology rang hollow. "Estalis is marching on Fereya. Bandits and rebels stir chaos across the borderlands and in the towns. I—I fear for the kingdom, our kingdom."

He dropped his gaze before looking up at his father. And for the briefest moment, Heimdal saw the boy Reuben had once been—before his mother’s family, with their cold smiles and gilded promises, with their ambition and greed had bent him into something else — someone he did not recognize.

"I presume," Heimdal said coolly, "you’ve consulted with your maternal grandparents. Surely they’ve offered wise counsel?"

Reuben nodded reluctantly. "They have. But I want to hear your voice, Father. I want to listen to your wisdom."

Heimdal studied him, eyes narrowing. "Are you prepared to follow your father’s counsel, or do you think that you have seen a lot and has surpassed me? You think that now that you have tasted power, you are invincible and does not need anybody’s advice." Heimdal looked at his son with eyes that seemed to penetrate his very soul.

Reuben flinched at his seat and was silent for some time. Then he slowly lifted his head and met his father’s gaze.

"Father..." Reuben stammered. "Of course, I would listen to you. You have been my teacher since I was young. You taught me the ways of a king, How could I not listen to you?"

Heimdal with a forced smile looked at his son sadly.

"Then speak. Tell me—how do you intend to defend Northem from the storm that now gathers at her gates?"

Reuben straightened in his seat, as though trying to summon the authority he still wasn’t sure he possessed.

"The Estalian army marches northwest through the Meander Pass then the Graza Pass. Their forces are bolstered by Zuran cavalry and siege soldiers. Fereya’s border guards are now prepared and even as we speak, reinforcements had been dispatched. I’ve already ordered a contingent of the royal army to support them, but it’s not enough. The lords in Fereya hesitate. They want assurances."

Heimdal’s expression didn’t change. "Assurances," he echoed dryly. "And what did you offer them? Gold? Titles? Or did you offer them a part of Northem itself, an expanded fief?"

Reuben flushed. His father had known. "I did offer them a bigger fief and promised protection. Unity under the crown. What else could I offer?"

"You speak of unity while the kingdom is splintering beneath your very feet," Heimdal said coldly. "The nobles in the capital watch your every move like hawks. The provinces whisper rebellion, yet you think dispatching troops is strategy."

He leaned forward with visible effort, his voice low and cutting. "You inherited a kingdom balanced on the edge of a knife. But rather than steady the blade, you’ve given it to your mother’s kin—serpents who wear silk and sip poison like wine."

Reuben’s hands clenched in his lap. "They are powerful allies—"

"They are traitors, son," Heimdal snapped.

"Powerful, yes—but loyal only to themselves. And they used you to bring down Northem’s strongest pillars."

Reuben’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Tell me," Heimdal continued, his voice now like flint on steel, "did you consider it that when Estalis marches deeper into Fereya, Zura would storm the capital and you will be caught offguard? Turik is very cunning and does not play by rule. He fears no one except Odin and yet you drive the general away. What will you do when the capital falls under Turik? Offer tribute? Will you kneel before them as a vassal king? Or will you finally remember that you were born to rule, not to bargain?"

Reuben lifted his eyes. "I came for your guidance, Father. Not to be accused of treason."

"Then act like a king," Heimdal retorted. "Not a trembling steward in borrowed robes."

A tense silence fell between them. Mira and Amielle stood frozen near the door, exchanging glances but daring not to speak.

At last, Heimdal leaned back against the pillows, his strength fading even as his gaze remained sharp.

"You wish to save Northem?" he asked.

"Then stop pretending this game is about borders or armies. This is about legacy. Bloodlines. Allegiances that stretch back generations. The Estalians come with swords, yes—but it’s the knives already in your court you should fear most."

Reuben’s voice was low. "Then what must I do?"