Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 269: Can He Forgive?

Alaric reached out for the glass of wine and swirled the red liquid inside—but not to drink. He simply held it, cradled in both hands, staring into the blood-red depths as if it might answer all the questions neither of them had dared ask aloud.

"You lost her," Alaric said. "And in some way... so did I. But I didn’t lose her all at once. I lost her in pieces. Every time you looked through me. Every time I wasn’t invited to court or celebrations or even to sit by your side."

Heimdal flinched. It was obvious that his words hit their mark. Alaric paused. His voice did not rise. There was no fury now. Only the strange, steady numbness had settled like ash on his heart.

"I became strong because you forced me to be. And cold, because that was safer than hoping." Alaric’s voice was flat, emotionless.

Silence stretched between them like a taut thread. "I don’t know if I can forgive you," he said finally. "Not yet."

He saw the flinch in his father’s eyes. Just a flicker, but it was there.

"But I think I want to."

He raised the glass—not in toast, but in quiet acknowledgment-and set it back down.

"That’s something, isn’t it?"

He turned from the portrait, from his father, from the memories clinging to the walls like ivy, and walked slowly toward the door.

"Wait!" Heimdal cried with urgency.

At the threshold, Alaric stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

King Heimdal took something from his cloak and walked slowly toward Alaric.

"I told you I have something from your mother that I want to give you." He pressed the locket into Alaric’s palm, and for a moment, Alaric felt that Hendrick’s hand was warm.

He flicked the lock open and was surprised to see a painting inside.

He murmured a thank you .

"You don’t get redemption in a single night, Father. You’ll have to earn it."

And with that, Alaric stepped out of his mother’s boudoir and into the corridor beyond, where the cold stone walls whispered nothing and everything all at once.

King Heimdal was frozen in his place. While Alaric’s voice was cold and he looked indifferent, he had called him Father.

Alaric’s footsteps echoed softly off the cold marble tiles, each step carrying the weight of what had just passed between him and the king. The torches mounted along the stone walls flickered faintly, their flames subdued as if the castle itself held its breath.

He didn’t know where he was going—not exactly. He only knew that he needed to breathe air that didn’t reek of old grief and perfume-scented ghosts.

The long corridor led to a small garden, rarely visited at this hour. Alaric stepped through the archway, and the night air hit him like a balm—cool, crisp, and scented faintly with lilac and damp earth. Moonlight spilled across the paving stones, pooling in silver puddles between the shadows of carefully trimmed hedges.

He sat on a stone bench beneath a flowering magnolia and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely as he stared at the gravel path.

He expected to feel something more—relief, vindication, rage... anything. But there was only the slow turning of thoughts in his mind, like gears grinding after years of rust.

The king had said he was afraid. Afraid to love Alaric and lose him, just as he had lost Astrid.

Cowardice, wrapped in the shape of protection. Alaric smirked. But then he remembered that the king admitted to being a coward.

It was a cruel truth, but Alaric knew something about fear. He had lived with it too: the fear of never being enough, of always being a shadow. He had worn it like armor—sharp, invisible, and exhausting.

A quiet footfall stirred the gravel behind him. His hand went reflexively to the hilt of his blade, though he did not draw it.

"It’s just me," came a gentle voice.

Alaric turned slightly. Ceres. His half-sister, Helga’s adopted daughter, and yet the most favored among the princesses.

She wore a soft gray cloak over her nightdress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, silvered slightly by the moonlight. Her eyes, a mirror of their father’s, watched him not with pity—but with something deeper. Understanding.

"You saw, Father," she said, not a question.

"I did."

"And?" She walked toward him, her steps light as snow on stone.

"He apologized," Alaric replied. "Said he was sorry, that he was ashamed. He said he wants forgiveness."

Ceres stopped a few paces away, her gaze unreadable. "And do you believe him?"

Alaric hesitated. "Yes. I believe his regret is real. I just don’t know if that’s enough."

Ceres sank onto the bench beside him, her presence quiet and unintrusive. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant hush of wind stirring the trees.

"I used to envy you," she said softly. "Mother always spoke of you with awe, even when she wasn’t allowed to say your name at court. She said you had your mother’s fire. Her strength."

Alaric looked at her, brow furrowed.

"She loved you," Ceres continued.

Alaric chuckled. This half-sister of his was so naive, so pure.

"And Father... Father never looked at me the way he looked at you, not even when he was pretending you didn’t exist. I always wondered what made you so important that even ignoring you hurt him more than loving us helped."

Alaric didn’t know what to say to that. He looked at Ceres with curiosity. Was there something wrong with her perception?

"You’re not what they say, you know," Ceres added, her tone firmer now. "You’re not a jinx or a threat. You’re a scar—yes—but not a shameful one. Just... one that reminds the kingdom of what it lost."

Alaric looked at Ceres like she had grown twor heads. What was she babbling about?

He turned his eyes to the stars above. They blinked down indifferently, ancient and cold.

"I’m not sure who I am anymore," he said quietly

Ceres reached out, placed a warm hand over his.

"You’re Alaric. That’s enough. And if you choose to be more... the realm will have to reckon with that."

Before the sound of the rustle, Alaric looked back, and standing on the archway was Lara.