Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 167: Alaric’s Childhood

Chapter 167: Alaric’s Childhood

"Your Highness," Lara said gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Just call me by name, Lara," Prince Alaric interjected, the corner of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly. "I owe you my life. That earns you the right to call me by my nickname."

There was a quiet shift in the room, a stillness that settled as the words hung in the air.

Agilus rolled his eyes and settled comfortably on the wooden chair.

From his place nearby, the white-haired man watched with an unreadable expression. General Kromwel’s sly grin barely masked the pride gleaming in his eyes. Though Alaric was not the favored prince of the kingdom, he was still a royal—his bearing and resolve befitting of a true leader. He was a perfect match for his disciple.

Samuel met Jethru’s gaze for a heartbeat. The older man’s arched brows conveyed a silent, knowing amusement.

Lara exhaled slowly, as if releasing more than just breath. "Alright then... Ari." The name felt strange on her tongue but warm. She called him that when they were in the plateau. But that was when she did not know of his identity.

"I haven’t told you about Sandoz. He’s the son of Duke Arces. He was abducted the same day as us. Maybe... maybe it’s time he went home to his family."

At that moment, the boy who had been fidgeting beside Ivan suddenly crumpled, like a dam breaking all at once.

"No, sister!" Sandoz sobbed, clinging to Lara with trembling hands. "I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here—with you. No one there cares for me... except for my mother." His voice cracked under the weight of his sorrow. "They hurt her because of me. I don’t want her to be hurt. Even if I miss her... I don’t want to go back." His cries turned raw, each sob striking Lara like a knife.

Prince Alaric’s obsidian eyes narrowed as he watched the boy collapse into Lara’s embrace. Sandoz—small, fragile, and so heartbreakingly sincere—stirred something deep within him. Something old. Something painful. He recognized that look in the boy’s eyes. It was the same look he’d worn all those years ago.

The boy’s pitiful cries felt like a whisper from the past, reminiscent of the darkest time of his life.

No... not that memory.

But it came anyway—unbidden.

His gaze settled once again on the boy. I guess I am luckier than him, as I have a few fond memories of me, my mother, and my father, who doted on me at that time. The memories were vague, but they were still there.

If he tried harder, then he could look beyond his hazy memory and have a glimpse of a time when joy and warmth enveloped him like a soft embrace.

Alaric’s gaze softened as the past wrapped around him like a fog. He remembered, just barely, the sunlit days when laughter filled the palace halls, of running barefoot through sun-dappled meadows, his mother’s melodious laughter echoing in the breeze, and his father’s strong arms lifting him high in the air, spinning him around before nestling him onto his shoulders.

Those fleeting memories felt hazy, like shadows cast by flickering candlelight, but they were bright enough to bring a bittersweet smile to his lips.

He closed his eyes and tried to hold on to that fading scene, a little boy, the four-year-old him astride his father’s broad shoulders while his mother with her beautiful tresses cascading down her shoulder to her waist was walking serenely basking in the late afternoon sun along the palace beautiful gardens.

That was the happiest day of his life. He felt that he was at the top of the world and not on his father’s shoulders.

But that day... was also the last.

It was also the saddest day of his life. On that day, his beautiful mother took the sword on his behalf and his life changed.

Alaric had been four years old. He didn’t understand. One moment he stood in the sunlight, then he felt his mother’s warm embrace, the next he was trapped beneath her lifeless body, hearing the screams of men and the metallic clang of swords. Then, blackness.

When he awoke, nothing was the same.

Gone were the warm smiles. Gone was the gentle father. In his place stood a king who loathed the sight of him. Servants turned cold. Loathing replaced greetings. And the worst of all—he was no longer allowed to see her. Not even to say goodbye.

He was deeply hurt. Why was he not allowed near his mother? And the hate from his father’s gaze, even at a tender age, he clearly understood.

One day, he spotted his father walking in the gardens. Desperate for comfort, for love, Alaric had run to him and asked for his mother.

The king had turned on him like a wild animal. With a single blow, he sent the child flying. Alaric’s small body crashed into the ground, pain blooming through his ribs and chest. He had nearly died from the internal injuries which took months to heal.

From that day on, he kept his distance. His fear for his father has become bone deep.

But he longed for his father, so he would hide behind trees and watch him play and laugh with his other sons. A woman with eerily similar features stood beside the king—his aunt, his mother’s sister, his Aunt Helga, who had taken her place as queen.

At least his father no longer drowned himself with alcohol. But the light in his eyes every time he looked at his mother was no longer there.

Alaric learned not to cry. Not to speak. To shrink into silence. Even the servants pinched and mocked him freely, emboldened by the king’s disdain. And through it all, he believed he deserved it. He had killed her, hadn’t he?

If not for his grandmother, he could have died several times. His father had forgotten about him, so everyone also forgot that he was the eldest prince of Northem.

He had no one else apart from a loyal guard and a nanny that his mother had assigned to him when she was still alive.

Alaric was brought back to the present when his gaze settled on the little boy whose head was resting on Lara’s bosom. Then he saw her hands move slowly and carressed his hair and his back as she comforted him with soothing words.

His lips curled into a bitter smile.

No, Sandoz wasn’t the unlucky one. The boy had three people—Lara, Reya, Jethru—who loved him. Who stood by him.

"What a damn lucky brat," Alaric muttered to himself.