Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 183: A Prince’s Shamelessness

Chapter 183: A Prince’s Shamelessness

"Lara," the prince’s voice was low and flirtatious. "I have come for another reason."

He had asked her to join him in the garden—the one nestled on the left side of the house, where the swing and a wooden garden set were after following a short cobblestone path. The biting chill of the January evening clung to her skin, prompting her to instinctively wrap her arms around herself.

Alaric noticed. Without a word, he unclasped the heavy cloak from his shoulders and stepped behind her. He draped it gently around her body, the gesture intimate, almost reverent.

"You’re cold," he murmured, as if stating something he already intended to change.

Lara noticed that his scent had changed. It was no longer the smell of herbs but something subtle and pleasant to the olfactory nerve. She breathed his lingering scent on the cloak, the smell of forest pine, musk, and something unmistakably him. Its warmth sank into her bones, offering more than just physical comfort.

"Thank you," Lara said softly. "What would you like to talk about?" Lara inquired, her voice soft yet curious, as she wrapped the heavy cloak tighter around her frame. The dim light from the moon flickered around them, casting soft, silver halos that danced across the garden walls and flicked shadows over their faces like a dream trying not to wake.

Alaric sat down lazily on a carved bench opposite her, separated by an old circular table, its top polished smooth from years of weathering—a tree stump, hollowed by time and silence.

"You’ve learned of my illness," he said, his gaze steady. "So, I want you to cure it."

Lara blinked, her brows lifting slightly at the way he phrased it. I want. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command softened only by the velvet smoothness of his tone.

"But I have no idea how to cure it." Lara protested.

"If you were at the palace," he replied, almost casually, "and gave that answer, your head would be rolling by now."

The words should have frightened her, but there was no menace in them. His tone was far too gentle—like he was teasing the idea rather than threatening her. Still, her answer came more cautiously this time.

"I need your help to learn about the illness, then. What triggers it? When do you experience it? Are there symptoms before the illness overwhelms you?" Lara has shifted to doctor mode and asked a barrage of questions.

A faint smile flickered across Alaric’s lips, a brief glimmer of warmth that was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Lara, preoccupied with her thoughts, didn’t even notice the subtle transformation on his face, missing the brief spark of emotion that momentarily lit up his features.

"Your highness?" Lara followed up.

Alaric hesitated. For a heartbeat, she thought he might deflect, but something shifted in his eyes—like the walls he had built so carefully were trembling under the weight of memory.

Revealing details about his ’illness’ felt like peeling back the layers of a long-festering scar, exposing deep wounds from the past that he desperately tried to overlook. Each recollection was a reminder of pain he wished to forget, yet the desire for treatment urged him to confront those shadows. Despite the weight of his memories, he was driven by a flicker of hope, seeking a path to healing that he knew was almost within his grasp.

"Whenever I see a scene...something that reminds me of my mother’s death," he said slowly, "that’s the trigger. I just blacked out."

Lara’s lips parted, but no words came out. She could see how tightly he was holding himself together.

"That’s dangerous," she said finally, eyes narrowing in thought. "If someone, especially your enemy, if they found out, wouldn’t they use that against you?"

Silence stretched between them.

He knew. Of course, he knew.

Lara leaned forward slightly. "So, what do you do when you blacked out? I mean after you become conscious?" Lara’s curiosity was piqued. Does he turn to another person and do certain things?

"I hurt myself," he said simply, as if it was nothing more than a casual talk.

She stared. "Self-harm?" The words sounded foreign in the air, heavy and strange. "What do you mean?"

"One time, I was woken up by the pain in my wrist and found out that I cut it without me knowing. I didn’t even remember doing it. I was twelve then."

"What?" Lara gasped softly, horror flashing across her face. "Do you hurt others?"

"No," Alaric replied calmly. "They’ll be harmed only when they interfere with me when I am in that state."

"I see." Her voice was low, reflective. She looked down at her hands, trying to draw from the limited medical knowledge she possessed, searching her memories for something—anything—that could help. She had attended professional classes on medicine, but she could not remember attending a course on dissociative disorder.

"Unfortunately, my specialization is suturing and treating wounds and common illnesses... not this." She looked up at him, eyes apologetic but determined. "Still... I’ll try. Even if I fail, I want to try."

He looked at her for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. Then, he said softly, "Ari. Call me Ari. I heard you yesterday... when I was in the darkness."

Lara’s eyes widened. "You heard me?" Her voice was almost a whisper. "Then... maybe the name means something to you?"

"It’s what my mother used to call me," he said, his voice devoid of emotion—but something flickered in his eyes, a glint of pain that hadn’t fully dulled.

The dim light deepened the color of Lara’s eyes, turning them into pools of warm shadow. She met his gaze steadily, feeling the weight of unspoken things between them.

Is he saying that every time I call him ’Ari’... he sees her mother in me? The thought pressed against her chest like a bruise. She thought that somehow she was special to him. But it was just her wishful thinking. But wasn’t she too young to be treated as a mother figure?

And somehow, that made her heart ache.