The General's Daughter: The Mission

Shay cried for her father.

Lara sang lullabies, and her sobs finally faded into soft, hiccupping breaths long before the night went still. Lara’s songs—low, steady, threaded with a melody from a world that no longer existed—wrapped around the child like a promise.

Sandro fought sleep like it was an enemy he could outsmart.

His jaw clenched. His back stayed stiff.

Exhaustion dragged at him hard, heavier than hunger, heavier than fear.

His eyelids dropped inch by inch until they sealed shut. The boy who swore he wouldn’t break first finally surrendered to the dark.

The oil lamp in the corner sputtered its last breath and died. The hut fell into shadow, thick and close.

Outside, a few torches burned along the perimeter of the stronghold, their flames licking the air, throwing long, twitching shadows that made the bamboo walls look like they were breathing.

The door—nothing more than woven coconut leaves tied to a thin bamboo frame—creaked open with a tired groan.

A figure filled the doorway.

He was just a boy.

Not a man.

A boy trying to stand like one.

Torchlight behind him cast his outline in fire, sharpening his thin shoulders, catching the uneven line of his jaw. His voice cracked when he spoke.

”Hey. You. The boss is calling you.”

The words scraped out of him, rough and awkward—puberty still wrestling with his throat. He tried to sound manly enough but failed.

Lara’s stomach tightened.

How could they do this? Turn children into rebels. Into weapons. Into mouthpieces for monsters.

She swallowed the bitterness before it could show on her face.

First, she has to think Shay and Sandro.

Lara adjusted the little girl carefully, tucking her in like she was laying down something fragile and sacred.

The tunic she still wore—sleeveless, light green with dark green edging, cinched at the waist with a yellow sash—looked almost too bright for this place. It was the Earth Kingdom garb from Treasure Island, the most famous attraction in Wonderland amusement park.

The loose green trousers on her short legs were meant for freedom of movement, for running through open fields, not surviving captivity in a jungle stronghold.

Earlier, Lara had spread her own jacket on the hut floor as a mat.

It was thin, but better than bare bamboo.

She’d gathered herbs as they trekked along—crushed them between her palms until their scent turned sharp and bitter—then placed them near the children to keep mosquitoes and crawling insects away.

In places like this, even the tiniest of insects could draw blood.

From her backpack, she pulled out the malong she kept rolled tight—a tubular cloth, not the usual bright colored patterns, but plain black like charcoal. It swallowed light.

Perfect for disappearing when the time came.

She draped it over Shay and Sandro, covering them both.

She paused and looked at her hands, then looked at the children again, wondering why she was so adept at what she just did.

”Hurry up,” the lad at the door snapped, trying again to sound older than he was.

”Don’t keep the boss waiting. He’s not patient.”

Lara rose in one smooth motion. The hut’s floor was raised half a meter off the ground—just enough to keep out snakes and scuttling things that lived in the dirt.

She’d noticed that the moment they were thrown in.

She always observed. Always calculated.

Fear pressed against her ribs.

Not for her, but for the two little angels left behind.

She didn’t let it show.

When she stepped outside, her face was calm—cold. A mask carved from stone.

The torchlight painted gold across her cheekbones, but her eyes stayed sharp and unreadable.

The lad escorting her faltered for half a second.

He’d expected tears. Begging. Anger.

Not this.

Not a girl walking toward an unknown fate like she was the one in control.

They had dragged countless women into this stronghold before her.

Some had clawed at the dirt.

Some had screamed until their throats bled.

Others had tried to bash their own heads against stone walls, anything to avoid being escorted to the leaders’ inner court.

The bosses would ”taste” them first—like they were expensive liquor—then toss them down the ranks like leftovers.

The stronghold fed on fear. It expected it. It thrived on it.

But this woman...

She didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake.

She walked with her back straight. Chin lifted. Like she was stepping into a meeting she had scheduled herself.

The lad escorting her felt something cold creep up his spine.

Why wasn’t she scared?

She was too calm, too nonchalant, and too sure of herself that it unsettled him.

Or worse—was she used to this?

No.

She didn’t carry herself like someone broken. She moved like someone calculating.

Lara followed him in silence.

They passed through a narrow corridor of boulders arranged with intention—nature weaponized. The rocks formed a deceptive barrier that hid a two-story stone house carved directly into a jagged limestone cliff. The cliff served as the back wall; thick stone slabs sealed the sides and front. It wasn’t just a hideout.

It was a fortress.

A monument to every ugly thing that had happened inside it.

At least twenty men loitered around the enclosure, rifles slung over shoulders or cradled casually in their hands. Some smoked. Some laughed. Some watched her openly, eyes crawling over her frame.

Escape? Almost impossible.

She counted them anyway.

Inside, the air hit her like a fist—thick smoke, cheap liquor, sweat soaked into wood and stone. She coughed once before she could stop herself.

At a heavy wooden table sat Amante, Gruffy, and the four men who had captured them. Cards slapped against the table. Bottles clinked. A pile of crumpled cash sat in the center like an offering.

They barely looked at her.

”We leave at first light, We got the video,” Amante muttered, studying his cards.

”Boss,” Gruffy snickered, nodding toward Lara, ”aren’t you going to play with her first? She’s a beauty.”

Amante flicked his eyes up once—slow, assessing, dismissive.

”Not my type. Too skinny. Chest too small.” He waved a hand. ”I want the chubby one. Let Agila enjoy her.”

Lara kept her face neutral but subconsciously looked at her chest. She was a size C.

”Ah, thank you,” Agila grinned, already half-drunk but steady. ”I’ll take her upstairs.”

”Don’t disturb me,” he added with a lazy chuckle. ”I haven’t had a woman in a long time. I’ll be busy all night.”

His gaze roamed over Lara, and then he approached with a menace.