Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 271: The Darkness of The Heart

The banquet soon ended beneath the flickering glow of chandeliers and the fading echoes of laughter. Goblets had long been emptied, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine still lingering like a ghost in the air.

Prince Reuben, flushed and unsteady from countless toasts raised in his honor, was gently ushered away by attendants, his laughter slurring into incoherent murmurs as he vanished down the corridor toward his chambers.

In the grand hall, Queen Helga stood with practiced grace, bidding farewell to Freya and her kin. Her voice was warm, her gestures regal, until a palace maid approached, head bowed low, and whispered something urgently into her ear.

A shadow passed over Helga’s face—a crack in the face of calmness. Her smile faltered for the briefest moment before she smoothed it back into place with the elegance of someone who had mastered the art of appearances. She waved gracefully at the departing guests, her demeanor as radiant as ever.

But the moment the last carriage exited the palace gates and disappeared into the night, her smile dropped like a mask—the warmth drained from her expression, replaced by a glacial calm that quickly curdled into something darker. Fury, tightly coiled and simmering.

Without a word, she turned and began the long walk to Astrid’s chambers in the northern wing of the palace, the forbidden place. Her shoes clicked sharply against the marble floor, echoing like distant thunder in the silent corridors.

The guards posted outside the chamber stiffened as she approached.

"Good evening, Your Majesty. King Heimdal is already in bed." One of the more courageous guards informed the queen.

"I don’t intend to disturb him. I want to check on him, and then I’ll leave," she said, her voice flat and devoid of warmth.

The guards exchanged glances and, after a hesitant nod, pushed open the heavy door. The creak of old wood groaned like a warning, echoing ominously down the stone hall.

Helga stepped just beyond the threshold, the scent of lavender oil and rose washing over her. In the soft candlelight, she could make out the figure of King Heimdal, lying peacefully on his side, his back to the room, facing the grand wall where Astrid’s portrait loomed.

Something in Helga’s chest twisted. She was dead for a very long time and yet, Heimdal still could not forget her.

She didn’t move forward. Instead, she stood frozen in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat. The candlelight flickered over Astrid’s painted eyes, and in that wavering light, the former queen seemed almost alive—her gaze sharp, unwavering, accusatory. It was as if she could see the deepest secrets of her soul, and the painting itself had turned to judge her.

Helga took a step back, her composure wavering under the weight of those deep eyes. The room felt tight, the air too thick to breathe. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, commanding her heart to slow.

Then she opened them again.

She stared directly into Astrid’s eyes, lips curling into a smile—cruel, triumphant.

"No matter how loved and adored you are, Astrid," she whispered, her voice dripping with venom, "you’re still dead. And the dead can do nothing."

Her smile deepened, satisfaction blooming coldly across her face. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

"Tonight, my son was named Crown Prince. And yours? He will rot in exile, forgotten in the southern wilds. I have won, you lost."

With one last glance at the painting, she turned and swept from the room, her footsteps soft but resolute, leaving only shadows in her wake.

The corridors were empty now, save for the flickering torches that cast tall, shivering shadows along the stone walls. Helga moved through them like a phantom, her thoughts circling the memory of Astrid—not just her portrait, but the woman herself: poised, beloved, dangerous.

And once... a hindrance, an obstacle to her becoming the queen.

She returned to her own chambers in the east tower, where a few guards lingered and no servants dared loiter after nightfall. The heavy oak door creaked shut behind her with a low groan, and she exhaled—slowly. Almost as if removing a mask.

"Astrid never saw it coming," Helga whispered, holding the vial up to the moonlight filtering through the stained glass. She relished at the relaxing scent. "Too trusting. Too noble."

The day of Astrid’s death came back to her like a vivid dream—one she’d memorized detail by detail. The assassin, disguised as a gardener, tending the flowers in the garden. The sword that was about to end Alaric’s life that landed on Astrid’s stomach. It was a calculated move. The assassin’s thrust was slow and deliberate as if waiting for Astrid to come and save Alaric. Then the blood that seeped from her chest and pooled around her body. She died on her son’s stead and she witnessed it all.

The court mourned her. Mourned her beauty, her wisdom, her son.

She rejoiced because the obstacle had been removed.

They called it a tragedy. An assassination that struck quickly and left no time for goodbyes.

The culprit was found and punished, and justice was served.

But Helga knew better.

...

The painting hadn’t always been there. Astrid’s portrait had only been hung after her death, by order of the king himself—his way of preserving her memory and legacy.

Helga scoffed.

Her gaze drifted to the mirror across the room. For a fleeting moment, she saw Astrid standing behind her—not as a ghost, but as a memory. Cold eyes. Pale skin. A queen to the very end. Helga blinked, and the illusion vanished.

That night, she summoned her most loyal servant, a tall and slender man named Talon who had once served as a dungeon warden before his talents were put to more... delicate use.

"Send word to the hunters in the south," she ordered. "Prince Alaric is to be watched. Closely. Should he try to return... he is to be silenced. No mistakes."

Talon bowed low, his shadow long and thin. "As you command, my queen."

She watched him disappear into the night, and then turned back to the window. A storm was building on the horizon. Thunder rolled distantly, as if the heavens themselves stirred restlessly.

Let them rage, she thought.

Let the world remember and mourn Astrid.

But let it never uncover the truth.

Helga would see her son crowned king—no matter the cost.