Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 264: Reightful Heir 2

"Lara, I’ve been looking everywhere for you."

Freya swept in from the grand ballroom, her gown trailing behind her like a banner of moonlight. She moved gracefully through the arched hallway to the east wing, finding Lara standing in front of the carved double doors of Faisala Hall. Her voice, though elegant, carried a note of concern. "I just went to the restroom after your dance, and when I came back, many people were gone."

Lara tilted her head slightly and gestured toward the room behind her. "Father is inside. They’re discussing... something important."

Freya’s expression tensed. But the worry melted away when she pieced the context together—this wasn’t scandal or danger. This was protocol. Ceremony. The formal announcement of the heir. Her shoulders dropped in relief, and she offered her daughter a gentle smile.

"Come, then. Let us enjoy the feast before it grows cold," she said warmly, slipping her arm through Lara’s and guiding her back toward the illuminated banquet hall.

Lara cast one last glance behind her. The heavy doors slowly creaked shut, swallowing the conversation within.

As the two reentered the hall, the noble ladies, who had moments ago kept a respectful distance while Lara danced with Prince Alaric, noticed the prince’s absence. Now, with Lara walking beside Freya, curiosity bloomed like wildfire. One by one, they began to drift closer, drawn in by the sudden availability of the mysterious girl who had so captivated the room.

"Lady Lara," one woman cooed, her eyelashes fluttering with excitement, "your dance was enchanting. Who taught you? It was unlike anything we’ve ever seen."

Lara offered a poised smile, carefully choosing her words. "I taught myself, actually. I spent the last two years in the mountains, watching how animals move, how the branches sway with the wind. That’s where I found my rhythm. And I practiced—a great deal."

A chorus of impressed murmurs rippled through the group.

"Would you teach us?" asked a young noblewoman, her eyes wide with admiration. There was something sincere in her tone, a brightness unmarred by competition.

Lara turned to her, taking in the hopeful gaze. She saw not just curiosity, but opportunity. She needed connections, and what better way to begin forging bonds than this?

"Why not?" she replied with a calm grace. "I’d be honored."

The young woman clapped her hands in delight, but the mood shifted subtly when Mira stepped forward. Her smile was polished to perfection, but her eyes held something else—a calculating glint masked by charm.

"Then, Sister," Mira said sweetly, "could you also teach me? And if you’re ever too busy, I’d be more than happy to pass along your techniques to the others."

Lara’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. She could hear the subtext: I will take your spotlight if you let me. There was no mistaking the challenge in Mira’s voice, cloaked though it was in sisterly affection.

After a pause, Lara inclined her head ever so slightly. "Sure," she said, the word laced with quiet steel.

The game had begun.

...

Inside Faisala Hall, the air was thick with tension, a storm was brewing and waiting to be unleashed. Gilded chandeliers blazed overhead, casting long shadows over the faces gathered in a chamber.

At the head of the dais, King Heimdal sat like a figure carved from stone, his cold gaze a blade honed by power and suspicion.

"How dare you challenge my decision?" he thundered, his sharp and merciless voice slicing through the stillness. It echoed against the marble pillars.

Alaric stood unmoving. His tone was measured, stripped of any warmth. "I didn’t submit the challenge, Your Majesty." He hadn’t called Heimdal "Father" in years—not since love had been replaced by silence, and not after so many heartaches and frustrations.

The king leaned forward, fury coiling around his words. "No? Then who?" He snatched a parchment from the table beside him, shaking it. "The document bears your name."

A stir moved through the hall. The ministers and generals shifted uncomfortably. Courtiers leaned in.

Reuben stepped into the circle of scrutiny, his robes rustling like silk hiding daggers. "Is this your game, brother?" he said, voice smooth with derision. "You hide behind senile advisors and rumors of bloodline rights, hoping to steal what you’ve never earned?"

Alaric didn’t flinch. "I’ve never wanted the throne," he said evenly. His face was a mask of detachment, but his words carried the weight of old wounds.

"Do I?" Reuben’s calm smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Then why did you let him submit it?"

From his seat near the back, Prince Dakota raised a white brow, a flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. His wrinkled face turned toward Reuben as if the younger prince’s insult had merely brushed off his worn shoulders.

The room was silent for a long, tense beat.

Then a voice rasped through the quiet like gravel over stone.

"If Alaric had truly wanted the crown, he’d have taken it long ago." Though the voice was a little raspy, it still oozed with a sense of wisdom, experience, and authenticity.

Heads turned as Prince Dakota rose, old and bent. The years had shrunk his frame, but not his presence. Draped in his ceremonial cloak, he stepped forward with solemn dignity, his eyes burning with the fire of memory and truth. freēwēbnovel.com

His presence was a thunderclap.

"I submitted the petition," he said, his voice stronger now—clear and unyielding.

The hall exploded.

Gasps broke from the gathered nobles. Some shouted in disbelief, others in support.

King Heimdal stood. "Uncle, it is you? What madness is this? Are you questioning my decision?" The king was frustrated. He did not expect that the one who questioned the legitimacy of Reuben’s declaration as the heir to the throne was his father’s brother.

Prince Dakota faced him without fear.

"I question your memory," he said quietly. "Or perhaps your conscience. Isn’t Alaric your firstborn, the legitimate son of the first Queen?" He asked, his eyes never leaving Heimdal. "By birthright, the crown is his. You dishonored not only Astrid’s memory, but you also disregarded her sacrifice to keep her son alive, only to be bullied and trampled by you."

The mention of Astrid’s name struck like a blow.

Heimdal’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared. The late queen’s name was forbidden in these halls—buried deep beneath the weight of shame and regret.

"Watch your tongue, old man," he growled, the formality falling from his voice like a discarded crown. "You forget who you are speaking to. I am—and still—your KING."