Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 265: Relinquishing the Right To Succession

Dakota shook his head, slow and heavy with sorrow, as though the weight of his thoughts could no longer be borne. His eyes, dulled with a grief too old to name, settled on the young man before him. The boy he had once mentored—the bright, curious prince with fire in his heart and dreams too big for the palace walls—was gone. In his place stood a man carved from ice and steel, unreadable and cold—a stranger.

His eyes shifted to Alaric, who stood tall, composed even as whispers rippled like thunder through the great hall. Yet the prince remained unmoved—serene, dignified. Dakota’s heart clenched. He wanted to shield him, but he was old now, a relic in a kingdom that had little use for wisdom of the old.

"Grandfather," he said softly, "thank you for speaking on my behalf. But remember what we agreed upon. " Then Alaric mouthed the words ’Please trust me.’

He turned back toward the dais, every movement deliberate. Then he bowed—deep and respectful.

"Your Majesty," he said, his deep voice reaching every corner of the hall. "As I’ve said before, I have no desire for the crown."

He paused when the hall was filled with murmurs.

Prince Alaric is a hypocrite. Who wouldn’t want the crown?

Is the prince serious? Who doesn’t want power?

Do you think this is his ploy to gain the king’s pity? To gain our support?

Alaric slowly raised his gaze and turned his head. His eyes, dark as obsidian and just as cutting, met the faces of his critics. The whispers died instantly under the weight of his stare.

He stood upright, shoulders squared, voice resolute.

"With all the nobles and ministers present to bear witness," he declared, "I, Alaric Kromwel—eldest son of King Heimdal and the late Queen Astrid, and first in line to the throne—do hereby relinquish any claim I hold to the crown of the Kingdom of Northem. My only condition is this: that the fiefdom assigned to me in exile be granted to me irrevocably, and that the betrothal promised to me during my mother’s lifetime be honored by this court and its king."

Silence gripped the room.

Dakota’s breath caught. Alaric, no... His lips parted, but no words came. How could the boy give it all up so easily? So coldly? Then he remembered his words, ’Trust Me.’ Dakota relaxed and settled back on his seat.

Reuben, seated to his father’s right, nearly smiled with relief. He heard the renunciation, but not the entirety of the declaration. His brother had cleared the path for him. He would stop targeting him.

Aldreran, on the king’s left, frowned. His fingers curled into fists. This wasn’t right. Alaric should have fought. Should have wanted the throne. Was he playing some deeper game? Did he really not want the throne? Who didn’t want power?

But King Heimdal was the most impacted. He remained still for a full five minutes. Struck speechless by the words that echoed across the chamber, he stared at his son as though seeing him for the first time in a long time.

Gone was the boy he had avoided, the son he could barely bear to look at. In his place stood a man—tall, poised, eerily calm, and painfully handsome. His mother’s face lived in him, every line and angle a haunting memory. Heimdal blinked, and for a brief moment, Alaric’s gaze became Astrid’s—soft, loving, loyal. Then it morphed into something darker: wounded, betrayed, accusing.

Astrid. The wife he dearly missed.

Heimdal’s throat tightened. He could hardly breathe.

King Heimdal blinked twice, and this time he was staring at Prince Alaric. The momentary vision of Astrid must be a hallucination. He swept Alaric with his gaze once again. He was a reminder of his failure to protect the woman he loved. Every time he saw his face, he would see Astrid with her death-pale face and the light leaving her eyes.

He had hated himself for his failure. But it was easier to hate Alaric. So he channelled that hatred to the innocent boy.

He blamed him because if not for him, Astrid would not have died. But was it really the case? When he investigated, he learned that the assassin’s target that day was Astrid, all because of a petty jealousy of one of his concubines—the daughter of the then Minister of War. Because it was difficult to get hold of Astrid, they targeted little Alaric.

The assassin knew that Astrid would do everything for her son, even give up her own life, that’s why at the last minute he changed his target to Alaric. And they succeeded.

Looking at the son he had hated and neglected, King Heimdal started to question himself. Was he wrong? He could not hate himself, so he hated his son instead.

But now, seeing him so decisive in giving up his claim to the throne, King Heimdal did not know what to think or feel. Alaric was the only living memory Astrid had left for him. But he could not look Alaric in the eyes because he always felt the guilt gnawing at him. And so he built that impenetrable wall of hatred and indifference between them.

Now, as the prince handed him a sealed parchment—his formal renunciation of the throne—the king felt a tremor in his hand. The boy no longer called him Father. Somewhere along the way, Alaric had started calling him ’Your Majesty,’ and he hadn’t noticed until now.

"Your Majesty," Alaric’s voice was respectful yet distant, a subject to his king. "People are still waiting at the banquet. The sooner that you seal this declaration, the sooner Reuben’s inheritance to the throne will be secured."

Heimdal flinched at how formal Alaric addressed him.

He stared at the parchment as if it was a blade drawn against his heart. His hand hovered over the royal seal, fingers shaking.

A memory slipped through his mind, soft as candlelight, and fleeting like the sand passing through the fingers.

"Darling, look at Alaric. So clever, so brave. He’ll make a finer king than either of us one day."

Heimdal swallowed hard.

Alaric had been her hope. Her legacy. The last living piece of her.

And now he was giving all of it away.

King Heimdal trembled. He took his seal and raised it, but he hesitated.