Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 78: Secrets Of The Night

Chapter 78: Secrets Of The Night

"Both of you—go find food before it gets dark. Take Berlin with you."

Bener and Kellan groaned in unison, but neither dared to argue. Muttering under their breath, they grabbed their weapons and disappeared into the dense underbrush.

"Look for pheasants!" Lara called after them. "There should be plenty around here!"

She settled on a fallen log as she pulled out a bundle of bamboo nodes—leftovers from the bridge’s construction. With practiced hands, she began cutting them into makeshift arrows, her fingers steady despite the weariness in her bones.

Without a word, Asael knelt beside her and started helping. His movements were careful, deliberate. They both knew the importance of being prepared—arrows might be the difference between survival and death if battle came sooner than expected.

Lara hesitated before finally voicing the thought that had been gnawing at her. "Why did General Odin go through with the attack, even after being warned it was a trap?"

Asael’s hands slowed. The bonfire which they lighted early to ward off insects and predators, flickered across his face, casting long shadows over his furrowed brow. "It was the consensus of the other generals. They convinced the second prince, and he made the final decision. They believed General Alaric might have misjudged the situation."

Silence settled between them, heavy as the humid air. Somewhere, an owl hooted, its mournful call a reminder that it was already twilight and the jungle was alive, watching.

As darkness descended into the mountain, the hunting party returned, their arms laden with game. The scent of fresh blood and wild earth clung to them. Some carried rabbits, others pheasants, and a few had gathered wild fruits.

Lara’s eyes flicked around, searching for someone. Aramis.

He had vanished after crossing the bridge. Was he avoiding Asael? The thought made her frown.

Meanwhile, Asael’s men moved with swift efficiency, plucking feathers from the pheasants with practiced hands and tossing them toward Lara. The plumes would serve well for fletching.

As fires were stoked and food were prepared heavy footsteps and rustles caught everyone’s attention.

General Odin had arrived.

His presence commanded instant silence. Behind him, his carefully selected force of five hundred warriors crossed the bridge, carrying torches, their faces shadowed by exhaustion yet tempered with unwavering resolve.

But another sound followed—the unmistakable thud of something massive hitting the ground.

All eyes turned to the figure standing at the edge of the campfire. Aramis.

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Then—soldiers cheered, patting Aramis on the back. Earlier, they had worried whether the hares and pheasants would be enough to feed them all. Hunting had no longer been an option—the darkness had set in too deep. But now, with the boar, they could feast.

Aramis smirked, clearly pleased with himself.

Lara crossed her arms, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Do you know that the first animal I ever hunted when I was lost in the mountains was a boar?" She grinned, meeting Aramis’s gaze. "I was only thirteen then."

His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, and she saw it—the faintest flicker of disbelief, as if she had stolen the thunder from his grand moment.

Lara stifled a laugh. Gotcha.

Aramis turned away, his usual smugness replaced by sulking silence.

Lara chuckled. "Hey, Aramis. You did a good job getting that boar. Don’t pout. Come help me fletch these arrows."

At that, his head lifted. He shot her a sideways glance before breaking into a grin. Without hesitation, he joined her, grabbing the pheasant feathers and carefully tying them to the shafts.

The night wore on, filled with the comforting sounds of crackling fire, quiet conversations, and the scent of roasted meat that lingered in the air.

But Lara’s mind was elsewhere.

The clearing was small, crowded with makeshift tents and hastily assembled shelters. Soldiers dozed beneath blankets, some even climbing trees to fashion hammocks out of cloth. Space was scarce—every step had to be carefully placed.

Lara weaved through the camp, following the sound of running water.

She found them by the stream.

General Odin sat on a large rock, his broad shoulders tense, his face half-lit by the moon’s glow. Asael and Bener were with him, their expressions unreadable.

Lara hesitated.

Are they discussing family matters?

Then it struck her.

Wasn’t she part of this family?

Odin seemed to sense her presence. He turned his head, his sharp eyes softening when he saw her standing there, silhouetted against the firelight.

"Come here, Kane."

His voice was different this time—not the voice of a commander, but that of a father.

Lara inhaled deeply, steeling herself before stepping forward. The hesitation she had felt moments ago melted away.

"I heard from Asael that the bridge was your idea," Odin said. "And that you helped in the infirmary last night? You also brought a stock of herbs with you?"

Lara nodded. "Yes, General. I have experience dealing with wounds, including suturing. As for the herbs, there were plenty on the hills beside Mount Ourea. Since I was already delivering the letter, I gathered as much as I could."

Odin’s expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, he gave a single nod. "Very good." He turned to Bener. "When we return to camp, tell the scribe to record the herbs Kane brought. The treasury will compensate him."

Odin studied her for a moment longer. "Who taught you medicine?"

"My master. His name is Jethru."

Odin nodded again, filing the information away. Then his voice dropped slightly.

"Did Alaric say anything to you when he gave you the second letter?"

Lara glanced around. They were far enough from the others—no one would hear unless they possessed unnaturally sharp ears.

"Yes." She met Odin’s gaze. "He said the traitor is someone close. Someone you would never suspect."

Odin’s jaw clenched.

For the first time, the weight of command seemed to settle visibly on his shoulders. He exhaled heavily, closing his eyes as if wrestling with something deep inside.

Alaric had been injured, perhaps delirious. But Odin was no fool. His instincts, honed over decades, had warned him of treachery. That was why he had altered his plans at the last moment.

He had split his ten thousand soldiers into two groups.

Only five hundred—the most elite of his warriors—would enter the southwest territories through MarNubes with him. The rest, led by his deputy general, had taken a secondary route, one that was unknown even to the other generals.

He couldn’t afford to trust anyone.

But he kept that thought to himself.

His gaze drifted to Asael and Kane, standing side by side, their faces flickering in the bonfire. For a fleeting moment, something unfamiliar settled in his chest.

They look like brothers.

He shook the thought away.

"Rest early," he said at last. "Asael, your unit leaves at dawn."

Then, without warning, he lifted a hand and ruffled Lara’s hair.

Lara froze.

The fire crackled softly in the silence. Shadows danced across Odin’s weathered face.

For the first time in a long while, Lara felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest.

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