The General's Daughter: The Mission

Soon, a second delegation arrived to join the first. Among its members were the Governor of Laguna, the Mayor of Calma, and Anton Trillo, each eager to witness the extraordinary rediscovery of Hevenfort.

Amelia and her grandfather, Persius, welcomed the newcomers before leading them deeper into the ancient fortress. Their footsteps echoed through the restored corridors as they guided the delegation from chamber to chamber, recounting the history and purpose of each space.

Lara followed a few paces behind.

Unlike her usual self, she was quiet. The excitement that filled everyone else seemed distant, replaced by a wistful look in her eyes as she gazed at the familiar halls.

Amelia glanced back and slowed her pace.

”Lara, what’s wrong?” she asked softly. ”You’ve barely said a word. You’re the one who brought this place to life for me. I only had the blueprints, but you filled them with stories—every room, every corridor, every little detail. Without you, I could never have imagined Hevenfort the way it truly was.”

Lara offered a faint smile and shook her head.

”I don’t want to steal your thunder,” she replied. ”You poured your heart into making this possible. Today belongs to you.”

Amelia looked at her for a moment but let the matter rest.

Most of the original wooden furniture had long since decayed. As the timber rotted away over the centuries, it left behind perfectly shaped cavities within the hardened volcanic ash.

Archaeologists carefully injected liquid plaster into those hollow spaces, creating precise casts of ancient beds, tables, cabinets, chairs, and chests exactly as they had stood on the day the city was buried.

The furnishings displayed throughout Hevenfort were therefore meticulous replicas—not the originals, but faithful reconstructions born from the voids the originals had left behind.

Yet not every room had suffered the same fate.

In a handful of places, the thick, airtight blanket of volcanic ash and mud, combined with the intense heat of the eruption, had carbonized the wood instead of allowing it to decay.

Rather than being consumed, the furniture had been transformed into charcoal, preserving its form with astonishing detail. These fragile blackened relics offered an authentic glimpse into the past, surviving where ordinary wood should have vanished.

The room ahead was one of those rare exceptions.

A warm smile spread across Amelia’s face. She slipped her arm through Lara’s and gently drew her forward.

”Come on,” she said. ”This room deserves to be introduced by the person who knows it best.”

Together, they led the delegation toward the chamber, where genuine remnants of Hevenfort’s past had endured against all odds.

The Imperial Bedchamber.

A ripple of excitement passed through the delegation as they stepped inside. Even the officials who had maintained their composure throughout the tour could not hide their curiosity. This was the most anticipated chamber in all of Hevenfort—the place where history’s most powerful couple had lived beyond the eyes of the court.

Lara, however, stopped at the doorway.

She made no attempt to enter.

Instead, she gave Amelia a small nod, silently urging her to lead the others ahead.

The restoration of the chamber was still ongoing. Scaffolding occupied one corner, while conservation specialists worked carefully around the priceless relics. Unlike the other rooms, however, much of the furniture here was original.

Centuries ago, the volcanic ash had sealed the chamber in an almost airtight cocoon. The intense heat had carbonized the wooden furnishings instead of allowing them to decay, preserving their form in astonishing detail.

The archaeologists had painstakingly applied layers of protective lacquer. The treatment deepened the ebony surface, allowing the furniture to resemble polished black wood while retaining every carved detail left by the ancient craftsmen.

The room’s centerpiece lay beyond a low protective barrier.

A magnificent imperial bed, its intricate carvings remarkably intact despite the passage of time, rested exactly where it had stood on the day the capital was entombed.

The moment her eyes fell upon the bed, an overwhelming wave of nostalgia crashed over her, so powerful that she forgot to breathe.

This room...

It had witnessed an entire lifetime.

Her fingers trembled against the doorframe as memories, vivid as if they had happened yesterday, flooded her mind.

...The night of their wedding, when she and Alaric had crossed this threshold as husband and wife. That night, they discovered a kind of intimacy that had nothing to do with desire alone. It was quiet, tender, awkward at times, yet beautiful because it was built upon complete trust and unconditional love.

...The countless evenings that followed, when the Emperor of the empire left his imperial crown outside these walls. Here, Alaric was never the conqueror history remembered. He was simply her husband—a man who stole kisses while she read, complained about endless council meetings, laughed too loudly at his own jokes, and insisted on helping with chores only to make an even bigger mess.

...The dawn when agonizing hours of labor finally ended, and the cries of their newborn twins echoed through the chamber. Alaric had wept harder than the babies did, overwhelmed as he cradled his children for the first time.

Then came the final memory.

The room that had welcomed the beginning of their life together also became the place where it ended.

She could still feel the weight of an old Alaric resting against her.

His once-powerful body had become frail. His breathing had grown shallow.

She had held him until his final heartbeat faded beneath her trembling hands.

Even after centuries...the pain remained exactly the same.

Beside her, Ares quietly clenched his fists.

She was drifting away again. Lost in memories that belonged to another man.

Did she dream about this room too?

Did she... make love to him here?

An irrational jealousy tightened in his chest. He silently cursed Alaric.

You’ve been dead for centuries... so why are you still standing between us?

How was he supposed to compete with a man who had become immortal through memory?

A ghost could never disappoint. A legend could never grow old.

And no living man could ever surpass a perfect memory.

His jaw tightened as he forced himself to look inside the chamber.

Then...

Something stirred. Not a thought. Not imagination.

A memory.

It flashed through his mind so suddenly that it stole the breath from his lungs.

The room. The sunlight spilling across the floor from the high windows.

The scent of sandalwood.

A woman silently crying.

His heart ached with a grief so profound it did not belong to this lifetime.

The vision vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, dissolving before he could grasp it.

Yet one thing remained.

Those words.

Yes, words spoken in a voice that sounded unmistakably his own.

Soft. Hoarse but clear.

Filled with love that transcended death itself.

”I will find you in the next life.”

Another heartbeat.

”Even if I must search the world...”

His chest tightened.

”I still want to be your husband.”

The words echoed through his soul, leaving behind a certainty he could neither explain nor deny.

For the first time, Ares wondered...

What if those memories had never belonged to Alaric alone?

What if...

They had always been his?