Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 319: The Plot Of Rebellion

Chapter 319: The Plot Of Rebellion

Kasmer and Nasser sat at a corner table in the bustling common room of the inn, the morning sun spilling through the tall windows in golden slants. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharper aroma of fried eggs and sausages, but it did little to improve Nasser’s mood.

"I still can’t believe Matthias thought we’d tolerate sleeping behind a workshop," Nasser muttered, jabbing his fork into a boiled potato like it had personally offended him. "The soot, the smoke, the rats. I’m a merchant, not a blacksmith’s apprentice."

Kasmer chuckled.

Matthias felt humiliated by Nasser’s endless complaints. In the end, he agreed that the room behind the workshop was indeed not suitable for the two merchants, so he arranged for them to transfer to an inn that was the nearest to the Norse estate.

The news of the arson and murders travelled fast. It reached Nasser’s ears while they were enjoying their meal at the inn before going to the Norse estate to continue meeting with Lara and her brothers about the collaboration on the iron horse, which Gideon wanted to call m-tryke. He said that m-tryke sounded cool.

The clatter of cutlery and hum of conversation swirled around them, but both men turned their heads when a shrill voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Have you heard the news? Four people died in the fire last night. They said Prince Alaric orchestrated it. There are witnesses." A plump woman did not linger in the inn. After delivering the news, she exited and proceeded to the next shop.

"Damn it! Did you hear that?" Nasser was fuming. "How could these idiots believe the lies being spread about Alaric rebelling for being banished?"

Kasmer’s eyes darkened as the words pierced the air. Behind his calm facade, a storm was brewing—one that twisted beneath his ribs and clawed at his composure. The shadows in his gaze deepened, as though a hundred memories flickered through him at once.

From a nearby table near the hearth, a group of finely dressed noblewomen was gossiping with the kind of breathless urgency that only accompanied scandal.

"Who would have thought Prince Alaric, the war hero, would rebel? Do you think it is true?" A young woman said in a loud voice.

Another woman, older and matronly, nodded solemnly. "He was Queen Astrid’s son. The firstborn. If only she had lived... maybe he would’ve been crowned instead of Reuben. I thought he was a good person. Maybe he was so disappointed, that’s why..."

"Auntie, you are right. But then, the queen died, and Prince Alaric was abandoned and banished despite his accomplishments." A younger woman said. "It is right for him to rebel."

"Yes, you are right. And now they claim he’s behind those fires last night," said a younger girl, barely past twenty, her cheeks flushed with fascination. "Can you blame him? After all he’s done, all the battles he fought, only to be cast out like a dog? If I were him, I’d rebel too. The throne was his, by birthright."

Nasser cursed under his breath. "Idiots. They believe whatever story the court whispers into the wind. No one’s even asking why this is happening."

Kasmer said nothing. His silence was louder than anger. He watched the women with the kind of expression that could freeze rain in the sky.

He couldn’t afford to react here—not in public. Not while they were this close to the Norse estate. But he made a mental note of the tide already turning. Even here, in an inn over breakfast, the narrative was being shaped—and it was sharp enough to kill.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low and measured. "They’ve taken control of the story. Which means they are hatching a plan against Alaric."

Nasser leaned back, rubbing his face. "If they’re planting seeds now... it means they’re planning something worse. We’ll be too late if we don’t act."

Kasmer’s jaw tightened.

Then, from the doorway, a courier boy burst in—mud on his boots, breath short from running.

"Message for Master Kasmer of Cavinta!" he called out, holding up a sealed letter.

Kasmer stood quickly, taking the letter and breaking the wax with a flick of his thumb. As his eyes scanned the parchment, the color drained from his face.

Nasser stood slowly. "What is it?"

Kasmer looked up, his voice a whisper. "They’re moving early. The ambush... it’s not in two days anymore. It’s tomorrow night."

Kasmer’s heart thudded once, hard, his brows furrowed.

"We need to warn them," he said, in a cold and resolute voice.

Nasser shoved the letter into the folds of his coat and threw a few coins onto the table, nearly knocking over his tea.

Kasmer was already at the door.

They moved fast through the cobbled streets, the morning bustle of the capital just beginning to stir. Bakers shouted from stalls, carriages clattered past, and children darted between alleys with bundles of bread or mischief. But the two men moved through it all like wolves in a pasture—focused, silent, unblinking.

"Who sent the warning?" Kasmer asked the boy who followed them, keeping his eyes forward.

"Matthias’s informant. One of Malik’s men got drunk in the southern quarter. Boasted that the prince wanted Alaric and his supporters crushed before they reached Anvoya.’ He said the trap was moved to tomorrow night. They want him to die at the hands of the bandits."

"Damn it," Nasser muttered. "Reuben is really Alaric’s good brother."

Kasmer’s pace quickened.

The Norse estate loomed at the end of the lane—an elegant stone manor surrounded by high wrought-iron fencing and guarded gates. The Norse siblings had power, wealth, and ambition to match it. More importantly, they were willing to support Alaric, to fund and house his cause.

They could not fall into a trap.

As they approached the gate, one of the guards stepped forward. "Sirs, the Lady Lara is expecting you. This way."

Inside, the estate smelled of cedarwood and mint. Polished floors gleamed. Tapestries bearing the Norse sigil— a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire—hung from the halls. The steward led them to a sunlit drawing room where Lara Norse and her two brothers, Percival and Peredur, stood waiting.

Lara, dressed in a crimson riding coat with her hair braided like a crown, smiled faintly as they entered. "You’re late," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "We are beginning to think you’d—"

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