The wind howled like a banshee around Blackwood Manor, a place as grim and foreboding as its name suggested. Elara, a wisp of a girl with eyes the color of storm clouds and hair like spun moonlight, huddled deeper into the threadbare shawl that was her only defense against the biting chill. At seventeen, she was an orphan, taken in by distant relatives who saw her as nothing more than a burden.
Her days were filled with drudgery, scrubbing floors, tending to the meager garden, and enduring the sharp tongues of her aunt and cousins. But Elara found solace in the hidden corners of the manor's sprawling library, losing herself in tales of brave knights, fair maidens, and kingdoms far removed from her own bleak existence.
One such tale spoke of Arvis, a land of rolling hills and sun-drenched vineyards, ruled by a lineage as noble as it was ancient. Elara dreamed of Arvis, a place where kindness and beauty were not mere words in a book, but a way of life.
That evening, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, her aunt's shrill voice cut through the air. "Elara! There's a messenger from the royal court. Get yourself presentable, girl!"
A messenger? Here? Elara's heart pounded in her chest. Messengers from the court were rare, and they never came to Blackwood Manor.
Trembling, she washed her face and smoothed her hair, her reflection a pale ghost in the dim light. When she entered the parlor, a man in the resplendent livery of Arvis stood stiffly, a scroll in his hand.
"Elara Blackwood," he announced, his voice formal and cold. "By order of King Theron of Arvis, you are summoned to the royal court."