The General's Daughter: The Mission

At the break of dawn, the city of Lanura lay suspended between night and morning, cloaked in a haze of smoke and low-hanging fog that curled through the streets like a living thing. The eastern sky bruised into a deep indigo, making the orange glow of streetlights and office windows burn brighter, harsher—artificial stars in a city that never fully slept.

East of the capital, tucked behind guarded gates and manicured hedges, sprawled a plush subdivision where greenery still dared to thrive. Towering trees arched over paved walkways, their leaves whispering softly as if sharing secrets the skyscrapers downtown had long forgotten. The jogging path wound like a serpent around Zuvel Mansion, its stone façade looming quiet and watchful.

Lara moved along the path at a steady pace, her breath visible in faint puffs against the cold morning air.

When most of Lanura was still buried under quilts and dreams, Lara had already rolled out her yoga mat, following a soft-spoken instructor on YouTube. The hospital stay had added a pound or two on her, but it wasn’t vanity that pushed her—it was survival. Her body still felt fragile, like glass stretched too thin. She needed strength. Control.

She had slipped out silently before sunrise, leaving Shay tangled in pastel sheets, fast asleep on her Disney princess bed. The child had insisted—no, demanded—that Lara stay with her through the night. And Lara hadn’t minded. Shay’s warm, milky scent clung to her clothes even now, soothing her nerves, stirring memories she never fully allowed herself to examine. A familiar comfort from another lifetime.

After stretching, she laced up her shoes and started running.

By her third lap, sweat dampened her temples and her lungs burned in a familiar, grounding way. Then, without warning, pain sliced through her calves like a blade.

Her muscles seized violently, her legs locking beneath her as her balance disappeared. The world tilted, the pavement rushing up to meet her—

—but it never did.

Strong hands caught her mid-fall, firm and unyielding, pulling her upright with ease. The scent of expensive cologne—dark, masculine, unmistakable—hit her before the voice did.

”Careful.”

The word was low, controlled, threaded with authority.

Lara looked up.

A pair of obsidian eyes stared back at her, sharp and unreadable, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights. Ares Zuvel. His presence was overwhelming up close—tailored athletic wear clinging to a powerful frame, jaw set in stone, posture rigid even in stillness.

He released her slowly, as if testing whether she could stand on her own, then took a step back.

”Thank you, Sir,” Lara said, steadying herself despite the lingering tremor in her legs. Her voice was polite, distant—carefully so.

Ares studied her, his gaze lingering longer than necessary. ”I didn’t know Miss Reyes jogged this early.” A pause. Then, smoothly, ”Did the doctor say you can already do these exercises?”

”Yes,” Lara answered briefly as she stretched out her legs. ”I already started with light workouts in the hospital.”

”Then, allow me to accompany you.”

The offer wasn’t phrased like a question.

Lara hesitated, fingers curling slightly at her sides. ”I think I’m done for today,” she replied evenly. ”I’ve got leg cramps. I’ll sit here and rest for a while.”

For a fraction of a second, silence stretched between them.

Then Ares’ expression darkened.

Not anger—something colder.

Interesting, he thought.

Women usually bent over backward for his attention. Found excuses to linger. To be seen. To be chosen. Yet here she was, dismissing him with effortless indifference, as if he were just another passerby on the path.

And that—more than anything—caught his attention.

He glanced at the bench beside the trail, then back at her. ”Suit yourself,” he said finally, voice unreadable.

The city began to wake around them, but something had already shifted in the quiet of dawn.

And Ares had not realized it yet.

...

The entire mansion was already steeped in molten gold when Lara returned to her room. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting warm ribbons across the tiled floor and the carved furniture.

She bathed in silence, letting the heat draw the fatigue and sweat from her skin. The bathtub and the shower felt familiar beneath her hands—too familiar. They were not new to her, not in the way one encountered something for the first time. Instead, they stirred a faint recognition, as though her body remembered what her mind had forgotten.

She recalled—unbidden—that she had once designed a bathroom much like this one: a luxurious space with a glazed tub instead of the customary wooden bath, and a shower fashioned in the same manner as the one cascading over her now. At the time, it had been considered an oddity, even an extravagance—an idea far ahead of its era.

Lara remained beneath the shower long after the water should have gone cold, eyes closed, breath steady, searching the shadows of her thoughts. Why did these memories surface so clearly? Where had they come from—and why did they carry the weight of lived experience?

Yannis Fenn’s words echoed in her mind. He had said she might have once read a novel she was deeply immersed in, and that the accident had tangled memory with imagination, convincing her that borrowed stories were her own.

Yet standing there, with water streaming down her skin and the quiet pressing in around her, Lara could not shake the unsettling certainty that these were not memories she had read.

They were memories she had lived.

She heard faint knocking from the door. She hurried out of the shower and changed into comfortable lounge wear—a soft yellow tank top and loose pants she discovered in the wardrobe, their color echoing the sunlight outside. Unaccustomed to the hum of a hair dryer, she merely pressed a towel to her hair, squeezing away the excess water, leaving dark strands to dry naturally over her shoulders.

The voice chimed from the doorway, light and cheerful. Lara turned to see Shay’s bright face peeking in, hair adorably disheveled. Behind her stood Ares, freshly bathed and already in a tailored suit, his presence steady and immovable.

For a fleeting moment, Lara’s breath caught.

For an instant, the doorway was no longer steel and tempered glass, but heavy wood gilded in gold—and Ares was not standing casually behind a child, but at attention, with an outstretched hand, as if waiting for her.

Lara blinked, and the vision vanished.

But the unease remained.