Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 74: She Is Dead

Chapter 74: She Is Dead

"You have a lot of brothers," Asael mused. "And sisters?"

"I don’t have a sister. I’m the only daughter," she answered honestly, wanting to give hints about her lineage to Asael.

Asael slowed his steps, his gaze darkening as he turned toward her.

What the heck is he talking about? Is Kane gay?

"You’re joking, right?"

Lara just chuckled, and Asael took it as a ’Yes.’

For a moment, Asael said nothing. Then, in a voice that barely masked an unknown sorrow, he murmured, "I have a sister, too."

Lara caught the strain in his voice, the weight of something unspoken. Her curiosity flared.

"What happened to her?" She inquired, trying to make her voice expressionless.

Lara felt a chill ripple through her. The words were simple, but the agony behind them was unmistakable.

Asael hesitated, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. When he spoke, his voice was distant, as though recalling a memory too painful to bear.

"She went to visit our cousin in another town for her coming-of-age ceremony. She never came back."

Of course, she could not come back. But why did they not look for her? Even if there was a war, couldn’t her father arrange for people to look for her?

"Was she kidnapped?" Lara asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Asael’s jaw tightened. "Yes," he said, his voice raw with suppressed grief. "Someone saw them being taken, and they raised the alarm. A group went after them, but before they could be captured, the traffickers pushed my sister and her maid into the river. The current was strong..." His words faltered. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. "It took five days before their bodies were found."

Lara stiffened.

So they thought she had died?

"How do you know it was her? After five days in the water, the body must have been..." She trailed off, the unspoken words lingering between them. The anger in her voice was unmistakable, startling even Asael.

He studied her, confusion flickering across his face.

Lara took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down.

"It was the dress," he finally said. "And the silver bracelet she always wore." His eyes shut for a moment as if shielding himself from the memory.

Lara didn’t miss the way his hands curled into fists. He had seen the body. He had stared at the bloated, unrecognizable remains of a girl who had once been full of life.

"As soon as we recovered her, my brothers and I hunted the traffickers in Savadra. For an entire month, we tracked them down and threw them into prison." Asael’s voice was steel now, edged with the remnants of old vengeance. "I personally captured a dozen and had them flogged in the town square." His fingers twitched at his side. "But no matter how many we punished... she never came back."

Lara exhaled softly. "I’m sorry," she murmured.

For the first time, Asael realized he had let his guard down. He had shown a stranger the pain he had buried for years, his vulnerability.

Was it because of Kane’s resemblance to him? Or was it something else entirely?

They continued walking toward the infirmary, two large tents looming ahead—one for the lightly injured, the other for those barely clinging to life.

Aramis trailed behind, carrying sacks of yarrow and other herbs.

As they neared the entrance, a sickening stench filled the air. Lara gagged, nearly doubling over. The rancid odor of rotting flesh clung to everything, suffocating and vile.

Asael barely reacted. He had grown used to it.

Inside, rows of soldiers lay on thin, blood-stained mats. Some groaned in pain. Others lay motionless, their faces pale and drenched in sweat.

A lone military doctor worked feverishly over a wounded soldier, his hands slick with blood. He was focused, determined—but alone. No assistants, no medics.

In the twilight, when light and darkness fought for dominance, the doctor finally relaxed when the bleeding stopped.

By the time he was done cleaning the wound, the doctor straightened, his brows furrowed. He glanced around, clearly expecting someone to hand him herbs to cover the wound—only to remember that his assistant had left in search of supplies.

Lara saw the frustration on his face.

She stepped forward.

"Doctor, the wound is deep. If we don’t stitch it, it’ll tear open and bleed with every movement."

The man looked up, surprised. "Who are you? A doctor?" He didn’t wait for a reply. "If you know what you’re doing, save him. He’s only seventeen." And with that, he turned to his next patient.

Lara didn’t hesitate. She poured alcohol over the surrounding area of the wound, ignoring the soldier’s sharp intake of breath. "This will sting," she warned. Before he could brace himself, she pressed a soaked cotton pad against the gash.

She used a small amount as her alcohol supply was dwindling.

His body jolted in pain. She held him steady.

With practiced hands, she pulled out her suture kit and began stitching the wound closed. She worked quickly, the needle gliding through torn flesh. Around her, soldiers watched in silence, their exhaustion and pain momentarily forgotten.

The doctor, halfway to the next patient, paused to observe her.

"This place reeks of death," she told the doctor. "You need a third tent to separate the severely wounded. If infection spreads—"

"I’d like to," the doctor sighed. "But we have no extra tents." His exhaustion was evident. "You seem experienced. Help me check on the unconscious ones."

The middle-aged doctor sighed. He was tired. Two of the doctors were down with fever and exhaustion. He asked the other physician to rest and report on duty in the evening, and he said he would also take his rest.

Lara eyed the doctor and noticed his exhaustion. She nodded and started doing her rounds.

She borrowed his scalpel, disinfected it, and began cutting away dead flesh from the infected wounds. She moved methodically, ignoring the putrid smell, her hands steady.

Time blurred.

When she finally stood to stretch, the air inside the tent was different—no longer heavy with the stench of decay but laced with the crisp scent of alcohol and herbs.

She glanced at five of the most injured soldiers, now sleeping. Their faces were slightly less pained, and their breathing steadier.

By morning, she would know if they would live.

And if they didn’t...

At least she had given them a fighting chance.

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