Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 61: Call Me Ari

Chapter 61: Call Me Ari

Alaric’s intense gaze lingered on Lara’s face, his dark eyes probing, searching.

Lara shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Had she blown her cover? The previous night, she had barely managed to reach him in time. There had been no moment to disguise herself, no time to shift her voice into the deeper, more commanding tone of Kane. But Alaric had been barely conscious, his body ravaged by injury, his mind teetering on the edge of oblivion. Surely, he hadn’t been lucid enough to notice?

This morning, however, she had been careful. Every gesture, every word had been measured, precise. And yet, there was something in his gaze now—a flicker of awareness—that sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine.

Why was Alaric looking at her that way?

"My companions," he began, his voice low but steady, "they must be looking for me. If they can find me, then I have a way to deliver the letter to General Odin."

Lara exhaled slowly. So that was it. His thoughts were on his duty, on his mission. Not on her. Not on whether she was who she claimed to be.

"I can look for them in a while," she offered, her voice controlled.

Alaric’s expression flickered—just for a moment, a glimpse of something akin to worry.

Was he concerned for Kane’s safety? The deep jungles of Ourea were unforgiving. Even he, with all his skill, had barely survived. The bandits, the wild creatures that roamed the dense forest, the treacherous terrain—it was no place for the unprepared.

Will ’he’ not be in danger?

And yet...

Alaric’s thoughts drifted to the three flaming arrows that had cut through the night, striking the earth mere inches from him, warding off the wolves with unerring precision. The memory of the battle returned to him—the way ’Kane’ had wielded his sword, movements honed and precise. There was no doubt in Alaric’s mind that this was no ordinary soldier.

And then, there was his skill with medicine, the efficiency with which he had treated wounds that should have spelled death.

Alaric inhaled deeply. Whoever ’he’ was, ’he’ was not to be underestimated.

"If you can tell me which direction they headed," Lara said, breaking the silence, "I could try to find them."

"We separated about a kilometer north of where you found me last night," Alaric replied. "There were fifteen bandits in total. We managed to gravely injure six outside the cave behind the waterfall. Two were mauled by wolves. The last..." He trailed off, his expression darkening. "Well, you saw what happened to him."

Lara stiffened—the cave behind the waterfall.

Her master’s sacred ground. His refuge, his place of meditation. The thought of bandits desecrating it filled her with quiet fury. If he were to learn of it...

"You found them in the cave behind the waterfall?" Her voice was calm, but inside, her mind raced.

"Yes. It was well hidden. We were fortunate that they were careless. We saw smoke and followed it."

"I’ll go look for them," Lara said decisively. "Rest well, Sir Alaric. You need it to recover."

Before he could protest, she gathered the tray and empty bowl, leaving behind only the water jug on the bedside table. She turned swiftly, but Alaric’s gaze followed her, lingering.

Now that he knew—now that he had begun to see—he noticed things. The voice, though carefully pitched lower, still carried a warmth, a lightness. The fluidity of movement, the delicate hands that, despite their strength, did not belong to a man hardened by war.

How old was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? Perhaps younger? She had likely aged herself in appearance and demeanor to pass as Kane.

Lara returned moments later, carrying three pomegranates, a small bunch of longans still adorned with fresh leaves and a handful of wild berries. In a clay bowl, thinly sliced beetroot gleamed crimson under the morning light.

"You lost a lot of blood," she said matter-of-factly. "The pomegranate and beetroot will help restore your hemoglobin."

Alaric frowned. "Hemoglobin?"

Lara hesitated, realizing her mistake. "Uhm, they will help you recover from blood loss."

Something inside Alaric twisted. It had been a long time since someone had cared for him. Truly cared, without expectation, without seeking favor.

The last time...

His mother.

A shadow crossed his expression, dark and bitter. He saw her in his mind—the warmth of her embrace, the gentle hum of her lullabies. And then, the horror. Blood. So much blood. The crimson stain on the floor where she had fallen. The blood that was supposed to be his.

The red on the floor morphed into a bowl of beetroot shoved beneath his nose, dispelling the memory.

"Take this as your dessert."

Alaric hesitated. He felt disgusted, but when he saw the expectant look in Kane’s eyes, he reached for the bowl. His fingers brushed against ’his’ and suddenly, a jolt—a whisper of electricity. His eyes flicked up to ’his’ honey-like shade of brown, searching.

But there was nothing. No reaction. No acknowledgment of what he had just felt.

Did she not feel something? Was it only him?

Lara set down a clay jar beside the small wooden table. It had a narrow mouth but a large, rounded body, about the size of a five-liter water bottle of the modern era.

Alaric’s eyes flicked to it, puzzled. It seemed too large for drinking water, especially when he already had a jug by his bedside.

Lara hesitated, then glanced at him, her gaze assessing.

His face appeared deathly pale in the morning light against a backdrop of black locks. He has a square and strong jawline. His celestial obsidian eyes were deep set against black and well-shaped brows. His nose was finely sculpted like that of a Greek god.

And his lips...

Lara’s gaze lingered a second too long. Full, defined, a prominent Cupid’s bow that gave them a shape both firm and soft. What would they look like up close, once no longer parched and cracked from blood loss?

She realized she had been staring when Alaric cleared his throat.

"This..." she started, regaining her composure. "This jar is for you to relieve yourself. You shouldn’t strain your wound."

Color surged into Alaric’s face.

How could a young woman be speaking of such matters so... casually?

"I have to go, Sir Alaric."

"Ari."

Lara, who reached the door, paused. She turned around, her hand on the door frame. "What?"

"You can just call me Ari."

For a moment, she simply stared at him as though trying to gauge his intent. Then, with a nod, she turned and left.

Alaric lay back, staring at the ceiling made of slatted bamboo, the phantom sensation of her fingers still lingering on his own.

A woman disguised as a man.

A healer who knew the way of the sword.

A mystery wrapped in fire and shadow.

Kane, or whoever she truly was, had just become the most intriguing enigma of his life.

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