Chapter 1
The cottage slumped on the hill, a hunched shoulder against the biting wind. It was less a home and more a cage for Elara, fourteen years old and silent. Since before she could remember, the cloying scent of stale embers and damp earth had been her world, punctuated only by the shrill demands of the woman who owned her. Elara's thoughts were a melody only she could hear, a quiet, internal "singing" filling the void where her voice should have been. Her hands, calloused and nimble, worked swiftly, mending fishing nets by the weak light of a single tallow candle.
The woman, her 'boss,' snored from the next room, a rasping comfort compared to her waking sharp words. Tonight, Elara's internal song was a low hum of weary anticipation. The woman had been muttering for days about "debts" and "hard times," her gaze lingering on Elara with an unpleasant calculation.
A sudden, sharp rap echoed through the quiet cottage. The woman stirred, groaning, before her eyes snapped open with a familiar avarice.
"Who's there?" she barked, her voice rough.
A deep, silken voice answered from beyond the door. "I believe you were expecting me."
The woman scrambled from her cot, a sickeningly subservient smile plastered on her face. "Master Lysander," she simpered, bowing low as she pulled the door open. "Such an honor. Please, come in, come in from the cold!"
The door creaked open, admitting a gust of frigid air and a figure that seemed to drink the very light from the room. He was impossibly tall, draped in shadows that clung to him like a second skin. His face, when he stepped fully into the candlelight, was a study in ancient, unyielding power – sharp angles, high cheekbones, and eyes like chips of obsidian, devoid of warmth. This was Lysander.
His gaze swept past the fawning woman as if she were dust, settling on Elara. His dark eyes, ancient and fathomless, bore into her, dissecting her very soul. Elara felt an instinctive, bone-deep terror, a primal fear she had never known. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her hands instinctively clenching into fists.
"You have something for me, I believe?" Lysander murmured, his voice a silken rasp that seemed to vibrate through the very air.
The woman wrung her hands. "Oh, yes, Master! The girl! Just as we discussed. She's... unique, Master. Quite a find, if I do say so myself." She pushed Elara forward with her foot. "Go on, girl! Present yourself!"
Elara flinched but remained rooted, her wide eyes fixed on Lysander. The fear, the silent plea, the sudden, overwhelming despair that washed over her face—Lysander's smile widened, a flicker of something dark and satisfied in his eyes. He saw the emotions, raw and untainted.
"She doesn't speak, you said?" Lysander asked, his gaze never leaving Elara.
"Never a peep, Master! Not a sound since birth!" the woman chirped, relieved. "Mute as the grave. But so useful! And... very expressive, isn't she, girl?" She nudged Elara again, harder.
"Indeed," Lysander said, his smile growing, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that showed too many teeth. He produced a small, heavy pouch and tossed it onto the table. The clink of coins was startlingly loud in the tense silence. "A fair price, I think, for such... expressiveness."
The woman snatched the pouch, her eyes alight. "More than fair, Master! More than fair! She's all yours! Go on, girl! Go with the Master!"
Elara felt the cold touch of Lysander's hand on her arm. It was not gentle, yet it was not rough; it was simply a possessive grip that left no room for resistance. Her mind screamed, a wordless, agonizing "NO!", but no sound escaped her throat. Her eyes streamed tears of silent terror, reflecting the chilling smile of her new master.
"Come," Lysander said, his voice now a low command. "We have places to be."
He led her out of the cottage, away from the only life she had ever known, and into the deepening gloom of the twilight. The last thing she saw was the woman counting coins by the flickering candle, oblivious to the silent screams of the child she had just sold to a monster. Elara was no longer a slave of the cottage; she was now the property of Lysander, heading towards a fate far darker than she could ever imagine, towards a castle shrouded in perpetual night.