Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 577: The Crown Prince’s Schemes

Bener could not tear his gaze away from Shaya. It clung to her like a brand, sharp and unrelenting, as though he meant to carve her image into memory. Shaya felt it immediately—the weight of his attention scorching her skin, stealing the air from her lungs.

When she finally looked back, her heart seemed to stutter, then stop altogether.

Bener.

He had come for her.

Duke Kassius caught the hesitation in his daughter’s stance, the brief falter in her composure. His eyes followed her line of sight and landed upon a cluster of envoys clad in Azurverdan colors, their bearing unmistakably foreign and dangerously self-assured.

So they knew each other.

A chill crept down his spine.

His eldest daughter had always been troublesome—too willful, too proud. She had fled rather than submit to the marriage he arranged, refusing to become a mere concubine, a decorative possession in another man’s household. In desperation, Kassius had groveled before the king, sacrificing pride for survival. He begged for a better match—one that would make her a principal wife, even if it meant binding her to the unremarkable fifth prince.

Prestige was a currency more precious than blood. Without royal ties, his dukedom would wither. He did not want that.

His only son—his heir—should have been a perfect consort for one of the king’s daughters. But King Midas had never cherished his children; his daughters were mere pawns, traded away to foreign countries for marriage alliances without sentiment or hesitation.

And so Kassius had been cornered.

His daughter would be the sacrifice.

"You may go and take your seats. The banquet has already begun." King Midas dismissed them with a lazy flick of his hand, already bored. His attention drifted back to the offerings laid before him by Kasmeri—rare metals, silks, relics—and finally to the Azurverdan delicacies presented by Nympha. He sampled the dried preserves with visible satisfaction.

Before the final courses were served, the king’s seal had already been pressed onto parchment—trade agreements signed, a three-year pact of cooperation forged with the Empire of Azurverda.

...

Across the banquet hall, the crown prince of Westalis had set his sights on Lara. His smiles were honeyed, his words thick with innuendo, every glance calculated to corner her into flustered compliance.

Unfortunately for him, she was not unguarded prey.

He whispered instructions to his personal maid, a woman well-versed in the venomous arts of palace women. The plan was crude but effective: spilled wine, feigned embarrassment, a forced touch—any excuse to place Lara into his arms and stain her reputation.

The goblet tipped.

Before it could fall, multiple hands shot out, steady and precise and caught the goblet.

"Aramis, how could you steal my thunder?" Logan muttered with exaggerated disappointment. "You should have let me catch it."

Aramis scoffed. "If Master Jethru learns how slow you are, he’ll be ashamed to claim you as his disciple."

Logan shrunk back.

The crown prince’s smile stiffened.

Moments later, another maid stumbled—or rather, was propelled—forward, her shoulder striking Lara with enough force to cause her to fall. The motion was crude, but carefully timed. Lara’s balance shifted just enough for the watching eyes to believe she would fall.

The crown prince moved.

He surged toward her, hand outstretched, heart quickening as anticipation coiled tight in his gut. He imagined the weight of her yielding body, the startled softness of her against his chest, the perfect excuse to linger—an accident witnessed by dozens, a scandal that could not be undone.

But Gideon moved faster.

He cut in front of the prince like a blade drawn from its sheath, his body interposing itself with lethal precision. One hand closed firmly around Lara’s arm—not to steady her, but to claim the moment before anyone else could.

"Sister, be careful," Gideon said, voice warm and mild, as though nothing had occurred.

But his eyes told another story. They flicked to the crown prince—cold, assessing, utterly unimpressed. It was the look of a man who had already marked his opponent and found him lacking.

Lara allowed herself a faint, almost amused smile. As if she truly required saving. As if a nudge from a palace maid could send her sprawling. She leaned into the illusion for Gideon’s sake, playing the obedient sister, the fragile woman the court expected her to be.

The crown prince froze mid-step.

For a heartbeat, the hall seemed to tighten around him. He felt the sting of humiliation burn up his throat, sharp and public. His carefully laid snare had been sprung—and rendered useless—before the entire hall.

Rage followed swiftly, thick and suffocating.

His jaw clenched. His pulse thundered. He was a prince, damn it. She was not supposed to evade him, not supposed to humiliate him, and not supposed to be protected.

If subtlety could be thwarted by watchful eyes and quicker hands, then subtlety was no longer required.

He would abandon pretense. He would use authority instead—coercion dressed as courtesy, command disguised as invitation.

And this time, there would be no brother to step between them.

He instructed his crown princess to invite Lara to a side room for a talk.

Lara politely obliged.

"Lady Lara," the crown princess began, voice syrup-sweet, "I truly admire you. You are so young, yet so accomplished. And the men, the men, they...they respect you."

Lara just hummed.

The crown princess pressed a goblet of wine into Lara’s hand and offered a plate bearing a delicate pastry. "This comes from the Northwest—a tribute from the governor himself."

A strawberry cake.

Strawberries grew only in the coldest regions, found in the northernmost territories of Westalis. It was very rare and expensive.

Lara took a bite.

By the second taste, her suspicion crystallized into certainty. The wine carried a subtle bitterness beneath the fragrance; the pastry bore a warmth and sweetness that had no place in sugar and fruit.

It contained not poison but aphrodisiac.

Unfortunately for them, Lara was no naïve noblewoman. She had been trained to recognize toxins, stimulants, and aphrodisiacs not only by scent, but by taste.

When the crown princess turned her head, Lara switched their goblets with effortless precision and slipped the remaining pastry into the hidden pocket of her dress.

When the crown prince finally arrived, flushed with anticipation, the side hall had only the crown princess.

Lara was gone.

He ground his teeth, fury burning in his chest, forced instead to contend with a crown princess whose desire now burned unchecked—a fire he himself had lit.

Schemes had been laid, but Lara had escaped unscathed.