The General's Daughter: The Mission

Lara stood at the edge of the lawn.

Beyond it, the orchard glowed.

Thousands of tiny lights hung between the branches, scattered like fallen stars. They flickered in the dark, alive and restless, like a swarm of fireflies caught mid-flight.

She couldn’t look away.

A sound stirred the air behind her. A footstep—light, nearly weightless. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

But Lara did.

Since the year of silence, her senses had sharpened as if the world were compensating for what had been taken away. Every sound cut clean.

She didn’t turn. Her gaze remained on the glowing orchard.

”I never thought I’d see the fiery little girl who loved gloves, punches, and kicks,” a man said behind her, his voice edged with amusement, ”standing around in a dress, admiring—” he glanced toward the trees, ”—these trivial lights.”

Lara turned slowly.

It was the man who stood beside Artemio Fuegerra. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a wall—muscle packed tight beneath skin that looked carved rather than grown. The type of body built from years of punishment and training.

”Excuse me,” Lara said coolly, her expression unreadable, ”do I know you?”

He slipped off his leather jacket. The tight black shirt underneath didn’t hide anything. It clung to a body that didn’t need to show off to intimidate.

”Huh,” he said with a short laugh. ”So you really don’t remember.” His eyes searched her face. ”Guess the boss wasn’t joking after all. Name’s Rocky.”

He reached into the jacket draped over his arm and pulled out a card.

”I own a gym,” he said. ”A boxing gym.”

He paused, watching closely—waiting for something. Recognition. Irritation. Anything.

Lara’s face remained still. Calm as an undisturbed lake.

Rocky frowned.

”This is a lifetime membership.” He held the card out. ”You can come anytime. Might help jog your memory.”

Lara took it. His hand lingered over hers a second longer than necessary.

She withdrew instinctively.

Rocky chuckled. ”Still sharp as ever.”

Without another word, he turned and headed back toward the VIP tables.

Lara studied the card in her palm. The gold logo caught the light, flaring briefly—too bright, too familiar.

Something inside her shifted.

The world tilted.

A memory surged forward, sudden and violent, like the tempest in August.

No.

It wasn’t a memory.

It was the past—closing in, pulling her under.

...

A sharp, searing pain shot through Lara’s forehead, jolting her out of her daze.

White. Blinding.

It felt like a nail driven straight through her forehead.

She staggered—

”How many times have I told you not to lose focus?!”

The voice cracked through the gym like thunder, bouncing off concrete walls and metal racks.

Lara flinched.

Rocky loomed over her.

Broad shoulders. Thick neck. Arms roped with muscle. He didn’t look like a trainer—he looked like a wrecking ball with fists.

Lara trembled as her eyes locked onto Rocky.

Her trainer. A professional boxer infamous for breaking sparring partners.

He trained with two rules:

No mercy. No leniency. No matter what.

At twelve, Lara barely reached his chest.

Her gloves looked oversized. Her ribs showed through sweat-soaked fabric. Purple bruises bloomed across her skin like ink stains.

He didn’t care.

”Lose focus again,” Rocky growled, stepping closer, ”and the next punch breaks your nose.”

His shadow swallowed her. She felt small.

”Don’t think being a kid saves you. Your father paid me to train you, not protect you.”

He jabbed a finger toward himself.

”I’m not here to pity you. Now, kick!”

The command boomed like a whip cracking, filling the gym with tension.

Blood slid from the corner of Lara’s mouth. She wiped it with her glove. Red smeared across the leather.

Her right eye was swelling shut. Her vision doubled. The last punch still rang inside her skull.

She felt dizziness creep in, her balance teetering as she attempted a kick.

”Common, move!” Rocky barked.

She forced her leg up and kicked.

It was too slow and too weak.

Weak and half-hearted, her leg swung out again.

Rocky caught her ankle mid-air.

Just caught it with one hand.

His grip tightened, like a vice digging into Lara’s flesh.

Pain shot up her leg, and she choked on a cry, certain her ankle would crack if he squeezed even a fraction harder.

Then—

He let go.

But not without a parting gift. A powerful shove sent her flying backward. She hit the cement flat on her back. The impact blasted the air from her lungs. Sound vanished. For a second, there was nothing but ringing.

She tried to breathe but couldn’t.

Her face throbbed. Her ribs screamed. Her ankle burned like it had been set on fire.

Everything hurt. Everywhere. She couldn’t tell which part of her body hurt more.

Then footsteps approached.

Rocky’s voice, distant now. ”Get up.”

She tried.

Her arms shook.

The floor felt cold against her cheek.

Darkness crept in at the edges of her vision, slow and heavy.

The lights above blurred, then went out.

Lara’s small body lay motionless on the gym floor, and her consciousness slipped away.

...

”Hey. Larissa. You with me?”

Ares’s deep voice cut through the noise like a hand on her shoulder.

The orchard lights snapped back into focus.

The music, the chatter, and the clink of glasses filled her senses.

She was back at the present.

”I’m fine,” she said.

Too quick. Too thin.

For a second, the world still tilted—but she steadied herself and straightened, slipping her mask back on like it had never fallen.

Ares’s eyes dropped to her hand.

The card.

Then to the ground.

A shattered dessert plate lay at her feet, cream and berries smeared across the grass.

”I saw a guy come over,” he said calmly and carefully. ”Did he bother you?”

His gaze lingered on the gold-embossed logo.

He looked suspicious.

Lara closed her fingers around the card and slid it into her clutch.

”No,” she said. ”Just got dizzy. Probably I had too much wine.”

The lie came easily.

Ares studied her a moment longer, like he didn’t quite buy it. He was watching her earlier. She didn’t even finish a glass.

”Shay’s looking for you,” he said. ”She’s worried.”

”I’m okay.” A small breath. Steady now. Controlled. ”Let’s go back.”

She stepped past him before he could ask anything else.

The card felt heavy in her hand.

Like it wasn’t PVC—

But a key... a trigger.