Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 572: The Little Woman

Kasmeri had emerged from the banquet hall, his posture composed, his eyes bright with restrained fire.

"Forgive my directness," he said calmly, "but I will not allow such an assumptions to stand unchallenged. The tributes presented to Westalis were all conceived, designed, and crafted by the Gabriella Guild — a guild consisting entirely of women."

The Crown Prince studied him. He do not look like an ordinary merchant. He has the bearing of a prince. Was he a prince in disguise?

Slowly, he leaned back — and then laughed.

But this time, the sound was smooth, controlled.

"Is that so?" he said lightly, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender that felt more mocking than apologetic. "How careless of me. I might lose my head if I continue insulting such capable women."

His gaze slid back to Lara — calculating, appraising.

"I believe you," he added softly. "For now."

To the side, forgotten but watching everything, Ziva’s fingers tightened in the soft folds of her skirt, twisting the delicate fabric until the embroidery bit faintly into her skin. No one was looking at her. No one ever truly did — not in corridors like this, not in halls where voices of men filled the air and decided the fate of nations.

Her chest tightened, and her breath turned shallow.

So... there were kingdoms where women were allowed to stand in the light, where their words carried weight, where their hands shaped history rather than merely cradling it.

She had seen it in Nympha’s posture — the way she stood without shrinking. More so with Lara, the way she met a prince’s gaze without apology. She had heard it in her voice — calm, assured, unafraid. These women were not ornaments. They were not shadows trailing behind men.

They were seen.

A dull ache settled behind Ziva’s ribs.

In Westalis, girls were taught early to soften their voices, not even to speak when adults and men were discussing, to lower their eyes, to smile, no matter what sat heavy in their hearts, to make themselves smaller, quieter, and easier to ignore.

Honor for a man meant power, title, and authority. Honor for a woman meant being subservient.

Was dignity only meant for sons and brothers? Was it something a woman was never supposed to reach for?

For the first time, the thought rose unbidden and dangerous:

What would it feel like... to be more?

And just as quickly, she buried it.

Because in Westalis, such thoughts were dangerous.

What was the fate of women who tried to challenge the status quo? Those few women who took the courage to speak out were accused of being heretics and burned alive. Others were beaten and stoned to death.

Ziva loosened her grip. The fabric of her skirt slipped free of her fingers, wrinkled but not torn. Her hands, pale and shaking slightly, folded instead at her waist, a posture of composure she’d practiced since childhood.

But something had shifted. She lifted her gaze. Not fully, not boldly but just enough to see without asking permission.

Her eyes followed Lara as she spoke, tracing the line of her shoulders, the calm certainty in the way she held herself. There was no arrogance there. No cruelty. Just... unyielding presence.

She doesn’t shrink, Ziva thought. She doesn’t ask for the space she occupies. How could she have that confidence?

No one noticed Ziva’s small defiance — not Landor, who was too occupied with courtly thoughts, not the Crown Prince, circling politics like a predator, not even the servants lining the walls.

But Lara noticed. Her gaze held hers for a few seconds. Clear light brown eyes that almost looked like amber in the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the hallway.

Ziva’s breath hitched. Her heart beat louder.

For the first time, she asked herself questions she had never dared to voice: What if obedience was not the same as virtue? What if silence was not the same as grace? What if sweetness was not the same as worth?

It was a tiny thing, barely visible and easily dismissed.

And yet, in a kingdom that had trained its women to bend, it was a quiet revolution.

She did not speak. She did not act. She did not yet dare to defy. But she looked. She longed. She dared to hope. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Ziva remained where she was, hands folded neatly before her, the perfect image of a noblewoman of Westalis — outwardly.

But inwardly, something shifted. Her eyes followed the movement of the two Azurverdan women without being obvious — small, careful glances stolen between heartbeats. She traced the way they carried themselves through the hall, how their spines remained straight without stiffness, how their gazes didn’t dart nervously to the floor.

They spoke when they wished to be heard. They paused when they wanted to be considered. They did not shrink when men looked their way.

How does that feel? she wondered. To be spoken to, not spoken over. To stand in front, not hover behind.

She watched Lara tilt her head slightly while listening to the Crown Prince, her expression calm, composed, not flattered by attention nor diminished by scrutiny. There was no false softness nor coquetry in her manners, no practiced smile to soothe a male ego.

And that, perhaps, was what unsettled Ziva most.

These women weren’t loud. They weren’t crude. They weren’t defiant in any way Westalis would call improper. They were simply acting freely.

Ziva had been taught that a woman’s virtue was measured by how little space she occupied. By how quietly she moved through rooms that belonged to men.

Yet here were women who occupied space without apology.

Her fingers tightened slightly at her waist.

Are they not afraid? Or were they never taught fear at all?

Without realizing it, she began to listen more closely when these women spoke. Their words weren’t soft decorations. They were deliberate. Informed. Their voices carried with quiet authority.

She found herself remembering them. The cadence of their speech. The confidence in their pauses. The steadiness in their eyes.

She began to mirror them in tiny, imperceptible ways. A straighter spine. A confident step. A calmer breath when spoken to.

No one noticed. No one corrected her. But to Ziva, it felt like theft. Like she was stealing something that did not belong to women of Westalis. And somehow... that made it precious. That made it sacred.

She knew she could never speak this admiration aloud. She could never say that she envied them, that she respected them, and wanted to be like them.

So she locked it inside her chest. A quiet place. A hidden place.

Where no one could take it from her, waiting for the right moment to let it out.

Someday, she would be free of her cage.