The General's Daughter: The Mission

Artemio summoned Aquilo.

Inside his private quarters, the air felt heavier, insulated from the world beyond. Thick curtains muted the daylight, and even the faint hum of the excavation outside seemed to vanish the moment Aquilo stepped in.

Artemio stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back.

He didn’t turn immediately.

”I sent Lara on a mission,” he began, his voice low, measured. ”Under the identity of Larissa Reyes. Her objective was to infiltrate the Norse household.”

A beat.

Then—

”She met with an accident.”

The words landed harder than they sounded.

”She survived,” Artemio continued, finally turning, his sharp gaze cutting straight through Aquilo. ”But she lost her memories.”

Silence stretched between them—tight, suffocating.

”One of the reasons I had you transferred here,” Artemio added, each word deliberate, ”is to help her recover them. Familiar faces. Familiar presence. Sometimes... that’s enough to pull someone back.”

Aquilo’s spine snapped straight on instinct. His fist struck his chest in a crisp salute.

”Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

His voice was steady. Too steady.

Back then, you sent me north to keep us apart... Now you want me at her side?

The thought simmered beneath the surface, sharp and unspoken.

He clenched his jaw—but then, unexpectedly, something softer broke through.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Back then, Lara had looked at him like he was something steady in a chaotic world. Someone safe.

And he—he had felt it too.

Not loud. Not reckless. But real.

And just as it began to take shape...

It was cut short before it could even breathe.

A wasted beginning. A story that never had the chance to start.

But now—

Now fate was offering him to find the melody again.

A second chance.

Aquilo closed his eyes.

And the past surged forward, vivid and intense.

He saw her again, buried in the shadows. In the mouth of that cave, concealed by thick, wild vines.

The stench of damp earth and blood assaulted his nose.

He remembered pushing through, slicing the tangled growth aside—

And there she was.

Curled into herself. Pale. Burning with fever. Hungry. Injured.

But alive.

Her hand had lifted weakly, shielding her eyes from the sudden intrusion of light... and him.

And in that fragile, fleeting moment—

He saw relief in her tired eyes. Pure, unguarded relief.

As if the moment she saw him...

She knew she was safe.

That was only one of their encounters. There were several more, and each time, Lara’s gaze told him it was not just admiration and respect but something more.

Aquilo’s eyes snapped open.

His expression hardened—but the storm beneath it didn’t fade.

If she doesn’t remember...

Then I’ll make her remember.

Or—

He exhaled slowly.

I’ll make her fall for me all over again.

Behind him, Artemio waved a hand dismissively, already turning back to the matters on his desk.

”You may go,” he said. ”Accompany her. You also need to familiarize yourself with the area.”

A pause.

”I still have things to discuss with General Norse.”

Aquilo turned on his heel, boots striking the wooden floor with quiet precision.

But as he reached the door—

His hand lingered on the handle for half a second longer than necessary.

Because somewhere beyond that door...

Was a girl who no longer knew him.

And Aquilo wasn’t sure if that made things easier...

Or far more dangerous.

...

The east gate stood open to the sky—a towering arch of ancient stone that had survived centuries of wind, war, and silence.

It didn’t feel abandoned.

It felt... waiting.

Aquilo Vibora arrived with Logan and Larissa Reyes at the threshold of the ruins the excavation team had cautiously named Hevenfort—a title borrowed from the bestselling novel that recently swept the entire nation.

What began as a convenient reference now felt eerily fitting.

Someone suggested simply calling it Hidden Place, but Ares strongly opposed it, as he felt the scale of it hinted at something grander.

Behind them trailed a small group—two foreign experts, a historian and an archaeologist, both visibly brimming with restrained excitement, and a local team member assigned as their guide.

The moment they stepped closer—

The air changed.

Even Logan, who rarely paid attention to anything that wasn’t a threat, slowed his stride.

And Lara—

She stopped completely.

Her eyes lifted, drawn to the massive relief carved on the arch above.

A firebird.

Its wings spread wide in eternal ascent, feathers etched with impossible precision—each line sharp despite the passing of time. It looked as though it might take flight at any moment, breaking free from the stone that imprisoned it.

Beside it were the sigils of the four kingdoms—each carved with striking force: a warhorse frozen mid-charge, muscles taut with power; an eagle plunging from the sky, wings cutting through air; a wolf caught in a silent, haunting howl; and a Leviathan coiled in the depths, its presence vast and ominous, as if the sea itself bowed to its will.

Lara’s breath stilled.

Molavi’s craftsmanship...frozen in time and now alive. The master artisan who served Duke Kasmeri, Alaric’s cousin.

The realization surfaced effortlessly, instinctively.

The detailing. The symmetry. The deliberate aggression in the wing angles.

There was no mistaking it.

Her gaze shifted, slower now, more deliberate.

The two pillars supporting the arch had been meticulously cleaned—too clean. Every grain of dirt removed, every crevice brushed free of time’s decay.

Which meant, nothing was hidden anymore.

And everything... was exposed.

Lara stepped closer.

Her fingers hovered just above the carvings, not touching—just tracing the air as if reacquainting herself with something deeply familiar.

The four kings of the vassal kingdoms—and their siblings.

All of them immortalized in stone, carved from the pale, unyielding marble of Mount Roca.

Lara’s gaze lingered on the left pillar.

A sharp jaw. Crown ridges etched with authority. That unmistakable, commanding presence—

King Aragon of Estalis.

Even in stone, he looked as if he could issue an order that would shake armies.

Beside him stood a figure softer in expression, but no less striking. The same noble bloodline ran through every line of his face.

Aramis. Aragon’s younger half-brother —