The General's Daughter: The Mission-Chapter 138: Finding A Lost Empire 3

Logan’s POV.

Logan moved through the mausoleum with the efficient focus of a soldier sweeping hostile territory.

His eyes did not linger on carvings or relics. He did not pause to admire craftsmanship that had survived millennia. Each coffin received only a brief, assessing glance — not curiosity, but calculation. Angles. Blind spots. Structural weaknesses. Potential concealment points.

History meant nothing if something inside it could still kill you. What if it were a plot against the Zuvels?

The assassination attempt on Ares failed that morning. The mastermind behind it wouldn’t rest until he achieved his goal.

So he was not there to marvel at the dead.

He was there to make sure the living stayed that way.

When he was satisfied there were no hidden threats — no unstable flooring, no suspicious mechanisms, no signs of recent disturbance — he circled back toward the center of the chamber.

Toward the dais.

Earlier, he noticed that Ares stood there, frozen before one particular sarcophagus — the one carved from luminous white marble.

Even from a distance, Logan could see the tension in his posture. The slight crease between his brows. The way he leaned forward as if trying to decipher something that refused to make sense.

Then Ares straightened abruptly.

The look on his face wasn’t fear. It was uncertainty.

The kind that comes when something impossible suddenly feels plausible.

Without a word, he turned and headed toward Lara.

Logan watched him go, instincts prickling.

Something about that coffin mattered.

He ascended the few steps to the dais, boots echoing hollowly in the vast chamber, and stopped before the white sarcophagus.

Up close, it was even more striking — luminous, almost ethereal against the oppressive darkness of the tomb beside it. It felt less like a coffin and more like a monument carved from moonlight.

Then he saw the inscription.

Lara Norse Kromwel.

Logan went very still.

A Norse.

His breath caught and his heartbeat stumbled — just once, but hard enough to feel.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the lid.

The engraved figure lay in regal repose, hands folded over her abdomen, crown resting upon flowing hair.

The artistry was so refined that it captured softness in stone — the curve of her lips, the calm authority in her features, the quiet strength in her eyes, which were wide open and looked through him as if she were staring into his very soul.

She looked less like a corpse memorial and more like a queen pausing between breaths.

Logan leaned closer.

A strange unease crawled up his spine.

"Why does she..." he murmured under his breath, voice barely more than a whisper, "...look a bit like Lara?"

Before he could stop himself, his gaze snapped across the chamber.

Lara stood beside Ares and Lucas near another coffin, her profile lit by a beam from the orb— composed, distant, untouchable.

For a split second, the resemblance felt too precise to be a coincidence.

Logan straightened sharply.

"Liam. Lucas. Get over here."

His voice carried through the chamber, bouncing off stone walls like a ricochet.

Every head turned.

Archaeologists.

Ares.

And Lara.

Logan lifted a hand in a casual wave, flashing an easy, almost sheepish grin.

"Relax, guys. Do your thing. I just need my brothers for a minute."

He even gave a half-shrug — the universal gesture of someone pretending they weren’t doing anything suspicious at all.

Liam and Lucas exchanged a look, then made their way up the steps to the dais.

Only when they were close did Logan’s expression lose its playfulness.

His voice dropped into a serious tone.

"Brothers... look."

He tapped the inscription with one finger.

Lara Norse Kromwel.

Liam and Lucas read the name simultaneously, their voices low but perfectly synchronized.

Silence fell.

Lucas swallowed. "A Norse. Is she... from our bloodline?"

There was a tremor in his voice — subtle, but unmistakable.

Logan pointed lower, to the date carved beneath the name.

"And check the year she died."

They leaned closer.

Lucas’s eyes widened.

"That’s... the same year Amiel Norse was born."

Their legendary ancestor. The one every branch of the family tree traced back to — as far as records allowed.

Liam’s expression shifted, wonder creeping into his usually controlled features.

"Maybe..." he said slowly, almost reverently, "maybe she is Amiel’s great-grandmother and our ancestor."

His gaze lifted to the sarcophagus, as if seeing it anew — not as an artifact, but as a missing origin.

"And maybe," he added, voice turning distant with possibility, "this place holds our lineage... before Amiel."

Behind them, the mausoleum seemed to grow quieter.

As if the dead were listening.

...

"Gentlemen, it’s getting late. It will be dark soon. We need to move out." Ares voice carried from the far end of the chamber. His tone was calm, but held the unmistakable authority of command.

Several archaeologists immediately protested, voices echoing anxiously in the chamber.

"Sir, with all due respect," Philip Hardy said, pushing his glasses up his nose, "down here it makes no difference whether it’s day or night."

Ares turned to him, expression polite but unyielding.

"Mr. Hardy, excavation isn’t just about time underground. You need planning, logistics, safety oversight. This site is delicate. Rushing increases the risk of irreversible damage."

A beat of silence.

Then, more quietly — but with steel underneath:

"Don’t take unnecessary risk."

"Let’s get out of here," Ares said with finality.

Hardy opened his mouth, then closed it. The authority of a powerful CEO — and the funding he represented — was not something he could easily argue against.

"...Very well," he muttered at last.

Ares cast one final look at the black sarcophagus.

For a split second, he had the irrational sensation that the polished surface was not reflecting light...

...but watching.

He turned away.

By the time the group emerged from the royal mausoleum, the world outside had shifted into molten gold and deepening shadow.

The sun was sinking behind the distant hills, staining the sky crimson — like a wound slowly closing.

Night was coming.

And with it, a strange, unshakable feeling settled in Ares’ chest.

Whatever they had disturbed down there...

had not been left behind in the dark.