Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 286: The Weak Link

That day, Sandoz had pleaded with his father, voice trembling but eyes resolute, to let him spend the night at Lara’s estate. After a tense pause, Duke Connor—burdened by a mix of guilt and obligation—reluctantly gave his consent. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was a small recompense for the hardships his son had endured under the guise of "training." As always, Linnea accompanied her son, her presence non-negotiable. No other servants were allowed to follow.

On the return journey to the Norse manor, the carriage rolled gently through the dusky countryside. Inside, Lara sat across from Sandoz, her posture poised but her gaze thoughtful.

"Madam Linnea," she said softly, her words precise but not unkind, "I know how difficult it must be to live under the same roof as the duchess. You’ve done what you can to shield Sandoz, in your own quiet way. But if you don’t grow stronger—if you don’t learn to defend him with more than just silence—he will continue to suffer the moment his father turns his back."

Linnea flushed, her cheeks blooming with the sting of shame. Though Lara’s voice held no malice, the meaning was clear: her passivity was endangering her son.

Before Linnea could respond, Lara gently pulled back the sleeve of her dress. Linnea froze. A series of dark, purpling marks lined Lara’s upper arm—pinch marks, unmistakably cruel and deliberate.

Sandoz drew in a sharp breath.

With panic flaring in her eyes, Linnea hurriedly reached across to cover her arm, as if she could undo the moment. Her hand trembled. Then, as though something inside her snapped, she turned a glare toward Lara—reflexive, defensive, and full of raw emotion. But as quickly as it came, she caught herself, and her expression crumpled into guilt.

"I’m sorry," she whispered, eyes downcast.

At just seven years old, Sandoz was unusually perceptive. He watched the exchange in silence, a strange mix of rage and helplessness swelling in his chest. His mother looked healthier now than she had when he first returned—less gaunt, more alive. Her bones no longer jutted from beneath her skin, and when he hugged her now, it no longer felt like embracing a skeleton. Yet those bruises on her arm looked jarring.

Linnea tried to explain, her voice faltering. "It’s nothing... I bumped into a door. Just a bruise."

Lara didn’t reply. She met Linnea’s eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them. She would not shame her. But Sandoz, watching closely, understood now what those marks meant. And for the first time, the illusions of childhood began to fall away.

The silence in the carriage deepened, heavy as velvet. Outside, dusk crept slowly across the landscape, swallowing the last golden slivers of daylight. The horizon bled into shadow, and the wheels beneath them drummed on—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing through bone.

Sandoz sat beside Lara, motionless in body but restless in thought. His gaze drifted to his mother, who sat across from him, her eyes fixed on the passing trees as though trying to disappear into them. She blinked too often, her expression too still. In the soft twilight, where day blurred into night, shadows clung to her face like bruises—hollows beneath her eyes, the tight press of her lips. She looked small. Shrinking.

He hated that look.

"Why does the duchess hurt my mother?" he asked abruptly, his voice sharp and startling in the hush, like a knife slipping from its sheath.

Linnea flinched, her head snapping toward him. "Sandoz... what are you talking about?"

"Mother didn’t bump into a door," he said flatly. "The maids pinch her. They think no one saw, but I did. She has bruises, and no one says anything. Everyone just lets it happen."

A silence followed, deeper than before. Lara placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Speaking truths can be dangerous, Sandoz. Especially in a house ruled by fear."

"But that’s wrong," he murmured. "You always said a master protects the weak. Why do the servants act like they’re in charge?"

Lara’s expression hardened slightly, though her voice remained soft. "Because they know they’re protected. The duchess shields them, and so they act with impunity. But that can change."

Sandoz’s eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed again. "Why can’t we just tell Father? He likes me now. He even dotes on me sometimes."

Linnea turned away, her hands tightening in her lap. Her eyes glistened, but she refused to let the tears fall. She had cried too many times—into pillows, behind locked doors, in gardens where the wind carried her sobs away. She had been quiet for so long she feared her voice might crumble if she tried to use it now.

"Sandoz," Lara said gently, "what matters is that you see. That you understand. That already makes you stronger than most grown men in that house."

The boy stared down at his hands, which were small, though the calluses were beginning to form across his palms. His father’s hands were strong, commanding, noble. Yet somehow, they hadn’t protected the woman Sandoz loved most in the world.

Lara glanced toward Linnea, her gaze lingering. There was strength in the woman’s stillness, but also fragility—like a flower pressed between pages. She was beautiful, yes, and young. Too young to wear so much silence. Perhaps that alone was reason enough for the duchess’s cruelty.

"How about we teach your mother self-defence, some trick that would make those servants who think they could trample on their master because they thought they had the duchess backing them."

Sandoz turned to Linnea and reached for her hand, his small fingers curling tightly around hers. "I’ll protect you too," he whispered. "One day."

Linnea’s heart swelled, and she pulled him into a fierce embrace. For a moment, all the grief, fear, and quiet defiance between them collapsed into warmth.

The carriage swayed gently as it neared the gates of Norse Manor, rising like a shadowed fortress beneath the torchlight. Flames flickered against stone and steel as guards stood rigid with swords in hand.

Sandoz peered through the window, his breath fogging the glass. The gates creaked open slowly, and the guards bowed low as they recognized the passengers.

"Welcome home, General Odin. Marchioness."

The manor loomed ahead, cold and beautiful, like a crown of thorns. Sandoz felt the warmth of his mother’s embrace still clinging to him, even as the cold world waited beyond the carriage door.