The night was heavy, cloaked in a silence broken only by the groan of wheels, the grunt of horses, and the hushed orders of servants. Lanterns swung like little moons in the dark, guiding men as they hoisted trunks into the carriages lined up in the courtyard.
Elara stood in her chamber, dressed already in her travelling gown: deep violet trimmed in black, the fabric heavy yet supple enough for the road. Her hair spilled long and pale behind her, brushing the floor, alive with an uneasy hum. It twitched, restless, coiling against itself as though it could sense what lay ahead.
Behind her, her three maids worked with silent determination.
Liora tightened the clasps of a travelling chest, ticking off items on her list in her neat hand. "One crate of preserved food. One chest of books. Two gowns for court appearances. The blade was wrapped in silk. Yes… all accounted for."
Brenna lounged against the doorframe, her red hair in a messy braid, smirking faintly. "If we pack much more, my lady, the horses will collapse before the first mile."
Aveline, folding the last of Elara's nightgowns, glanced nervously between them. "Better too much than too little, Brenna. What if we are attacked? Or stranded?"
Elara turned slightly, her voice calm but sharp enough to silence them. "It will not be the supplies that save us if that happens."
The maids fell quiet, exchanging looks.
Elara gathered her gloves and slid them on, her pale hands vanishing beneath black silk. Her gaze drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the manor grounds stretched under the moonlight, familiar and beloved. This had been her cage, her sanctuary, her battlefield. And now she was leaving it behind.
Her chest tightened. For a moment, she wished dawn would never come.
A knock came at the door.
"Elara?" Selene's soft voice carried through.
"Enter," Elara said.
The door creaked open, and her sisters slipped inside one by one. Selene, pale and thoughtful. Diana, bold and restless. Maris, quiet but with eyes sharp as knives.
They did not speak at first. They only looked at her—at their sister standing tall, dressed like a queen in exile, her hair alive with a life of its own.
Selene was the first to move. She crossed the room and embraced Elara tightly. "Promise me you'll come back."
Elara stiffened, then allowed her arms to fold around her sister. "I promise nothing. But I will try."
Diana scoffed lightly, though her voice cracked. "Try? That isn't enough. You'll come back because if you don't, I'll drag you back myself."
Maris only studied Elara in silence, then gave a single, firm nod—as if to say, "I believe you will return, because you must."
The weight of their gazes pressed into Elara. She looked away, her throat tight. "Go. You shouldn't linger here."
But Selene clung tighter. "Let us stay. Just until you leave."
And so they remained—three sisters standing with their fourth, unwilling to let go of her shadow until the sun itself demanded it.
By the time the first blush of dawn touched the sky, the manor courtyard was alive again. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath ghosting in the chill air. Carriages gleamed dark under the lantern light, their wheels freshly greased, their interiors lined with silks and furs.
The household gathered. Servants whispered in tight clusters, eyes wide with awe and fear. Guards shifted uneasily, gripping the hilts of their weapons though no threat yet showed.
Lord Duskbane stood at the steps of the manor, his shoulders broad beneath his fur cloak, his face carved from stone. Beside him, Lady Duskbane clutched her shawl tightly, her eyes glistening though she held herself with the dignity of a queen.
Caelum lingered behind them, silent, his expression unreadable.
The sisters flanked their parents, their dresses catching the pale light, their eyes fixed on Elara.
And then Elara appeared.
She stepped from the manor doors with Lysandra at her side. The sight of them together—two dark figures bound by fate—commanded silence. Elara's gown swept the stones, her pale hair trailing like a living veil. Lysandra walked with the ease of one who feared nothing, her blade at her hip, her eyes sharp with quiet fire.
Behind them came the maids, each burdened with bags, yet holding themselves with pride.
For a long heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Lady Duskbane broke the silence. "Elara." Her voice trembled, but she straightened, her dignity unbroken. "Go, and may the gods protect you."
Elara's black-and-white eyes met her mother's. "I do not need their protection." Her voice was steady, though inside her chest warred with pain. "But I will remember your words."
Lord Duskbane's jaw tightened. "Return stronger than you leave."
Elara inclined her head. "Always."
Her sisters could no longer restrain themselves. They rushed down the steps, throwing their arms around her one by one. Selene's tears dampened her gown. Diana clutched her shoulders hard enough to bruise. Maris lingered last, her hand brushing Elara's hair in a gesture both reverent and resigned.
"Go," Maris whispered. "And never let them cage you again."
At last, it was time.
The servants lifted the last trunks into place. The drivers climbed to their seats, reins in hand. Horses stamped, impatient.
Elara turned from her family and stepped into the decorated carriage set aside for her and Lysandra. Inside, silks lined the walls, the seats cushioned for long travel. The curtains were thick, the windows narrow—fit for nobles who expected both luxury and secrecy.
She sat beside Lysandra, who leaned casually back, one boot stretched out, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. "You did well," she murmured, low enough for only Elara to hear. "They will remember you as unbreakable."
Elara did not answer. She only stared at her hands, gloved in black silk, trembling faintly despite herself.
Outside, her maids entered their own carriage—plainer, smaller, meant for servants. Liora settled primly with her notes, already checking off supplies. Brenna sprawled across the seat, boots muddy, grinning faintly as though the tension thrilled her. Aveline sat straight, wringing her hands, whispering prayers under her breath.
The courtyard fell to silence.
The gates creaked open.
And with a lurch, the carriages rolled forward.
As the wheels clattered over stone and onto the road, Elara leaned to the window. Her family stood framed in the manor's archway—her father tall and stern, her mother regal despite her tears, her siblings pressed close. The sight blurred in the growing light of dawn.
Her chest ached. She pressed her palm to the glass.
The manor grew smaller, fading into the horizon.
Elara's hair stirred, restless, whispering against the carriage walls. It curled and twisted, coiling like a predator scenting prey.
Lysandra noticed. She reached out, resting a steady hand atop Elara's own. "Do you feel it?" she asked softly.
Elara's eyes burned with black and white fire. "Yes."
Her hair quivered, alive with hunger, as though the very road ahead was soaked in blood, only it could taste.
And so they left—bound for danger, destiny, and a kingdom trembling on the edge of their arrival.