The General's Daughter: The Mission

Governor Rogel Sanchez finally stepped forward from the emperor’s sarcophagus.

Unlike the others, he had spent several minutes silently studying the massive black coffin at the center of the chamber.

The intricate carvings alone radiated power.

But what truly captured his attention was the stone effigy resting atop it.

Emperor Alaric.

Even after centuries, the man’s presence felt overwhelming.

The sculpted emperor wore battle armor beneath heavy imperial robes, one hand gripping the hilt of a sword while the other rested calmly across his chest.

He looked less like a dead ruler...

And more like a king merely waiting to wake up.

Governor Sanchez found himself strangely unsettled by it.

”Miss Reyes,” he called.

Lara turned toward him.

”Yes, Governor?”

He gestured toward the effigy.

”How old was Emperor Alaric in this effigy?”

Lara’s eyes slowly drifted back toward the stone figure.

For a brief second, something unreadable flickered across her face.

Longing.

Pain.

Something ancient.

Then it vanished.

”He was twenty-eight,” she answered quietly. ”The original was commissioned shortly after he ascended the throne. This is a copy.”

Silence.

A heavy silence.

Several people turned toward her at once.

Even Dr. Grace Varona looked surprised.

Because nowhere in the chamber was the emperor’s age written.

Anton Trillo’s eyes narrowed slightly.

And this time—

Even he stopped smiling.

”How did you know that?” Grace demanded, her voice sharper this time, edged with disbelief. The dim torchlight flickered across her face, revealing the tension in her narrowed eyes. ”None of the inscriptions mention that. I’ve gone through every carving here—and the manuscripts recovered from the northern archives never said anything about it either.”

For a brief moment, silence settled over the chamber.

Dust drifted lazily through the cold air as Lara lifted her gaze toward Amelia, as though silently asking permission before speaking further.

”You are right, Dr. Grace,” Lara began calmly. ”The details of Emperor Alaric’s coronation,” ”were recorded in the private scrolls safeguarded by Professor Persius Nades.” Her voice echoed faintly against the ancient stone walls. ”And during that era, it was customary for sculptors to use the monarch’s ascension portrait as the primary reference when crafting funerary effigies.”

The explanation struck the group into silence.

Grace’s lips parted slightly, but no rebuttal came.

At the elevated platform in the center of the chamber rested the enormous black-stone sarcophagus, its polished surface swallowing the light whole. Both Anton Trillo and Governor Sanchez instinctively turned toward it again, their eyes tracing the sheer length of the tomb. In their minds, they reconstructed the figure of the man buried within—a ruler towering in both stature and legend.

Alaric must have been magnificent in his prime.

Anton slowly lowered his gaze to the screen of his phone. Displayed there was an AI-rendered reconstruction of Emperor Alaric standing beside Empress Lara, generated from fragments of surviving coronation art and historical descriptions.

The emperor’s imposing frame radiated authority even through the digital rendering, yet it was not Alaric that held Anton’s attention.

It was Lara.

Or rather, the uncanny resemblance.

His eyes shifted from the glowing image on his phone to the woman standing before the tomb, then back again. The similarities were impossible to ignore—the same regal eyes, the same delicate jawline, even the quiet intensity in her expression.

Governor Rogel noticed it too.

He stared at the image for a long moment before murmuring, almost to himself, ”Larissa Reyes... bears a striking resemblance to the First Empress of Azuverda.”

No one answered.

But Anton silently agreed.

And with that realization, his curiosity deepened into something far more dangerous.

...

They stopped in front of the fifth tomb.

Compared to the grand sarcophagi of the previous royals, this one looked simpler—but somehow heavier. More intimidating.

The black marble coffin sat on a raised platform beneath a cracked archway lined with silver patterns that had survived centuries underground.

Artificial candles placed by modern historians flickered around it, their flames dancing against walls covered in ancient murals.

This was the resting place of Prince Edward.

The youngest son of Emperor Alaric and Empress Lara.

The prince who never became emperor.

Like two of his brothers, Edward never ascended the imperial throne of Azuverda. But he had ruled the Kingdom of Zura as Regent for ten years—a decade describe in the inscriptions on his coffin as the ”Silent Reign.”

No coronation. No throne. Yet nobles, generals, and even rival kingdoms had feared him more than most crowned rulers.

Many historians believed the kingdom would have collapsed into civil war without him.

His tomb reflected neither extravagance nor excess.

It radiated authority and surrounded by vivid murals of battlefields, burning citadels, and kneeling nobles swearing allegiance. Above it, illuminated by the trembling glow of the lanterns, hung Prince Edward’s portrait.

Anton found himself unable to look away.

The colors remained impossibly vivid, preserved so perfectly that the painting appeared centuries younger than actual time it was painted.

Edward’s face carried the unmistakable traits of the Kromwel bloodline—the sharp aristocratic brows, high nose bridge, the piercing obsidian eyes, and the kind of beauty that felt cold enough to command both fear and admiration.

Anton’s gaze darkened.

His own eyes were the deepest shade of brown, so dark they often appeared black beneath dim light, but not as dark as obsidian.

And his eyebrows...

Weeks ago, he had unconsciously begun shaping them to resemble the leaked reconstruction portrait of Prince Edward circulating among historians and online forums.

It was a calculated move from his end.

Standing there now, beneath the prince’s unrelenting painted stare, the similarity of their eyebrows felt disturbingly intimate.

”You seem unusually interested in this prince, Anton,” Governor Sanchez remarked lightly, though curiosity lingered beneath his smile. ”You’re studying every inscription like your life depends on it. Even the frescoes and paintings.”

At those words, Lara and Amelia exchanged quick, furtive glances.

Anton did not notice.

Or perhaps he simply chose not to.

”Indeed,” Anton replied, his voice low and strangely serious. His eyes never left the portrait. ”I feel... connected to him.”

The chamber fell quiet.

”A familial pull,” he continued. ”You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

Governor Rogel blinked, visibly startled. His usually tired, drooping eyes widened as he stared at Anton in disbelief.

”You mean...” Rogel hesitated. ”You think you might be a descendant of the Kromwels?”

A soft chuckle escaped Anton’s lips, though it lacked humor.

”Why do you sound so shocked?” he asked. ”Is it really that impossible for royal blood to run through my veins?”

”That’s not what I meant,” Rogel replied quickly.

But even as he said it, his gaze drifted back toward Prince Edward’s portrait.

And for the first time since entering the tomb, the resemblance began to unsettle him too.