Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 308: Reuben’s Scheme 2

Reuben pursed his lips, the taste of wine suddenly bitter on his tongue as the haze of drink evaporated in a rush of cold clarity. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring with the weight of his title. He fixed Alaric with a searing glare, his voice rising like a whipcrack in the charged air.

"How dare you!" he roared, his finger stabbing the space between them. "I am the Crown Prince! And you—you are nothing but an exiled wretch, a prince stripped of his birthright. Don’t you dare look at me with that smug, condescending gaze!"

His fury spilled over, sweeping the room. His eyes snapped to the noblewomen clustered nervously at the doorway, their fans trembling in delicate hands.

"All of you, get back to the banquet. What are you even doing here?"

His voice, deep and edged with command, sent the ladies scattering like startled doves, their slippers whispering against the stone floor as they fled.

Alaric lingered for a heartbeat, his dark eyes cutting into Reuben as if weighing him. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the banquet hall, the sound of the door closing behind him like a final judgment.

The moment Alaric disappeared, Reuben’s composure shattered. With a snarl, he lashed out at the door, his boot connecting with a solid thud that jarred through his bones. Pain flared sharp and immediate—he cursed, hopping on one foot, rage and humiliation burning hotter.

"Twice her size!" he barked at his companion, his voice cracking under the strain of his pride. "How could you let her overpower you? A woman!"

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I was caught off guard when she threw you to me." He paused and looked down as if ashamed. "I hadn’t expected that she was so strong."

Before Reuben could retort, a soft creak sounded—another presence slipping in through the hidden door, the one Espiyor had used earlier. A hooded figure, face shadowed, voice calm and chiding.

"You miscalculated, my prince. You should have drugged her. You let her choose the ground for this battle." The man sighed.

Reuben’s jaw clenched. "That would be reckless. Alaric watches over her like a hound. I’ve tried to snare her, corner her—but she slips away every time."

He exhaled slowly, leaning over the desk, his fingers splayed against its worn surface. The room smelled of old wood and secrets—Dakota’s old study, given over to Reuben whenever he visited the Grand Duke’s castle. A fitting place for schemes.

The hooded man’s voice was soft, almost admiring. "Alaric plays the hero. He wants the girl. But it isn’t just the girl he’s after. It’s her family’s allegiance."

A grim, knowing smile curved Reuben’s lips. "Let him."

Because Reuben understood something Alaric, in all his righteousness, never would.

The crown doesn’t fall into the hands of the righteous—it belongs to the one who reaches for it first.

Without another word, Reuben crossed the chamber to a cabinet half-hidden in shadow. From beneath his collar, he drew a key—small, cold metal against his skin—and opened the lock with a decisive click. Inside: scrolls sealed with his private seal, and beneath them, a cache of letters. Some intercepted. Some stolen. Some carefully forged.

Information.

Secrets.

Power.

He had hidden these things, not in his own manor, where prying eyes might find it—but here, deep within Dakota’s fortress, where it was safest.

Reuben had learned long ago: power isn’t forged in throne rooms or battlefields. It’s woven in secrets, in debts, in sins whispered in the dark—sins people would do anything to keep hidden and never surface.

His fingers hovered over one letter in particular, bearing the crest of a noble house with close ties to Lara’s family. He didn’t need to open it. He knew what it contained.

Scandal. Scandal tied to her family’s name. It did not matter if it was the truth or not. What mattered was the raging fire it could set ablaze.

I could burn her family with this, he thought.

But even as the idea flickered, it soured. Not yet. Not her.

He didn’t want to break her. He wanted to claim her—not as a prize, not as a possession, but as a symbol. Proof of his strength, his cunning. He would let the storm rise, let it rage—and then, when the world turned against her, he would step into the eye of it. He would be the one to shield her, to quiet the tempest.

And then she would be his, by her own choice. Or so she would believe.

With slow deliberation, Reuben locked the cabinet once more. He straightened his collar, smoothing the fabric as if shedding the last traces of his anger. The storm inside him had not abated—but it had a shape now. A purpose.

The game has changed, Reuben thought, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

And this time, he intended to win.

...

Back in the banquet hall, the air thick with perfume and the hum of courtly chatter, Lara found herself cornered. With subtle nudges and honeyed words, Princess Ceres had maneuvered her into the center of a growing circle of noblewomen. Their painted smiles masked the hunger in their eyes—a hunger for spectacle, for gossip, for a chance to see her falter.

"Lady Lara," one of them cooed, her voice sweet as sugared wine, "everyone in the capital has heard of your elegance, your legendary grace upon the dance floor. Surely you won’t deny us the pleasure of witnessing it for ourselves?"

Before Lara could answer, a voice—young, sharp, edged with arrogance—cut through the throng. A young man stepped forward, his black hair bound in a topknot that immediately caught Lara’s attention.

"If you refuse," he said, loud enough for nearby guests to turn curious heads, "are we to assume you look down upon the House of Cardil? The elders of our house are here as guests of honor—surely you wouldn’t insult them?"

Lara’s right brow arched in cool disdain, the only outward sign of her rising irritation. She let her gaze settle on him, deliberate and unblinking. Her voice, when it came, was calm, but carried the bite of steel beneath its softness.

"I am a guest, invited by Prince Dakota," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Not a performer to be summoned at whim."

"Sis, this is Malcolm Cardil, the youngest son of Julian Cardil, the owner of the number one martial arts school in Northem, The Zen Warriors." Mira said in a coquettish voice as she introduced the man.

Julian Cardil. Zen Warriors.

Lara froze. But she recovered after a few seconds.

Her gaze landed to a dignified man with silver hair wearing a white robe. He seemed to be the same age as her master.

"Ah, Sis. Why are you staring at Lord Cardil? It is rude to stare at him like that." Mira said softly, yet her voice was loud enough to be heard by everyone congregating in their area.

Lara pulled her gaze away.

The Cardils. It wasn’t her battle. It was her master’s.