The night bled slowly into gray dawn. The fire burned low, crackling embers casting a faint glow over pale bones scattered in the clearing.
Elara stirred first. Her hair was heavy, damp with what remained of the blood it could not consume, and though it curled loosely around her body like a cocoon, it no longer writhed with hunger. It felt tired — as she did.
Lysandra was still at her side, sitting upright with sword across her lap, eyes sharp and sleepless. When Elara shifted, Lysandra's gaze softened a fraction.
"You're awake."
Elara pushed herself up on one elbow, her bandaged hand throbbing. "Barely."
"You need not be strong every second," Lysandra murmured, steady as stone. "That is why you have me. And them."
She gestured with her chin toward the three maids, who were already awake and preparing supplies. Liora tightened the straps on the packs, her jaw clenched in irritation at the broken carriage wheel. Brenna was helping one of the wounded guards rewrap his arm. Aveline poured water into a tin cup, her motions quiet and deliberate.
The survivors did not complain. They simply worked, though weariness hung over them all like a second skin.
By the time the sun's rim pierced the treetops, the camp was cleared. The broken carriage had been patched as best as possible; the surviving horses, skittish from the bloodshed, were calmed with whispered words and steady hands.
Elara climbed into her carriage with Lysandra's help, her body still sore, her hair dragging behind like a pale cloak. The maids mounted the second carriage, and the guards, though bandaged, took their posts.
As the wheels began to roll, the forest receded behind them, leaving only silence and bones in their wake.
The air was heavy as they traveled. No birds sang. No insects droned. It was as if the forest itself had emptied after the slaughter, unwilling to witness more.
Elara sat back against the cushioned seat, her bandaged hand resting in her lap. Her hair stirred faintly around her, not from hunger, but from a restless awareness. It no longer tried to drink the blood from her wounds — it was satiated for now — but it twitched every time the carriage hit a bump, like a beast roused in its sleep.
Lysandra sat across from her, eyes always sharp, though her body bore its own cuts and bruises. She watched Elara without speaking for a long time.
Finally, she said, "At the gate, they will look at you differently. Not just as a noble's daughter. Not just as a woman. They will see you as something else. You must be ready."
Elara's lips curved faintly, though the expression held no humor. "They already whisper villainess. Monster. What else is left?"
Lysandra leaned forward, her voice low. "They will whisper Queen. And that will be more dangerous than all the others."
Elara's hair twitched as if in agreement, coiling loosely around her ankles. She said nothing more, but the weight of Lysandra's words stayed in her chest like a stone.
Behind them, the maids were not silent. Liora's voice carried through the carriage walls as she cursed about every rut in the road. Brenna's steadier tones countered, offering to take the reins when the driver grew weary. Aveline hummed quietly — a fragile melody, soft enough to nearly vanish, yet soothing in its persistence.
It reminded Elara of the god of music, whose mark still glowed faintly on her brow. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the hum steady her breathing.
As the carriages rolled forward, they left the clearing behind. Yet the evidence of slaughter followed them for a while.
Crows had already begun circling, their black wings cutting against the dawn. Some had descended, pecking at the bones left gleaming on the ground. Their caws echoed eerily through the trees.
One guard muttered a prayer under his breath. None looked directly at Elara.
Her hair shifted faintly, restless, and she leaned her head against the window. She could feel it even now—the memory of blood in her strands, the taste lingering like a shadow on her tongue.
The hunger would never leave her. She was learning to live with it, but every heartbeat reminded her it was there.
She whispered, almost to herself, "They will call me a monster for this."
Lysandra's voice was calm, certain: "Then be the kind of monster they cannot chain."
The words settled deep in Elara's chest.
Hours passed. The forest thinned, giving way to rolling hills. The mist burned away under the rising sun, but unease lingered.
The group spoke little. Even Liora, usually sharp-tongued, stayed quiet. Only the wheels' creaks and the steady snort of horses filled the silence.
At midday, they stopped briefly to water the horses. Elara stayed inside the carriage, too weak to descend. Her hair curled around her like a living blanket, twitching faintly when anyone drew too close.
Brenna guarded the door, shield strapped tight, her eyes sweeping the horizon. "No sign of pursuit," she reported when Lysandra approached.
"For now," Lysandra murmured.
Inside, Elara ran her fingers down the length of her hair. The strands felt heavier than ever, like chains of their own. She thought of the crest burned into the commander's armor, of the visions of chanting and shadow.
This was no longer just about surviving the crown. Something darker moved behind the queen's orders. And Elara had been marked by it now—her gods had shown her just enough to know.
Elara sat with Lysandra inside the noble carriage. The seats, padded but worn, jolted with every stone in the road. Her hair coiled loosely around her, trailing faintly out the window like pale ribbons.
The silence of the journey was oppressive. Every tree, every shadow seemed to watch. The assassins had been destroyed, but the sigil burned in all their minds. If the queen had ties to an ancient order, then the ambush was not an isolated strike. It was the first move of a deeper war.
Hours passed. The forest thinned. Hills rolled gently, dotted with patches of farmland. Smoke curled from chimneys in distant villages. The closer they drew to the kingdom's walls, the more the air shifted.
It was not hostility. It was anticipation.
By late afternoon, the walls of the kingdom rose on the horizon. Tall, pale stone gleamed under the sun, banners snapping in the wind.
But it was not the fortifications that stole Elara's breath. It was the people.
Crowds gathered outside the gates, spilling into the road, lining the hillsides. Hundreds — no, thousands — of commoners pressed close, their clothes worn, their faces tired, but their eyes wide with something fierce.
Hope.
When the first carriage crested the final hill, a ripple ran through the crowd. Murmurs became cries. Cries became shouts.
"She comes!"
"The lady of gods!"
"Our savior!"
The noise swelled like a wave crashing against stone. Men and women wept openly, falling to their knees. Children pointed, their voices shrill with excitement. Farmers raised rough hands, bowing their heads.
Elara froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She had expected soldiers. She had expected hostility. But this — this raw adoration — she had not prepared for.
Lysandra leaned close, her voice low in her ear. "They see you. Not as a monster. Not as a villainess. They see what you are becoming."
Elara's lips trembled, but she did not speak. She could only look out the window, her strange eyes locking with theirs.
The carriage rolled more slowly, guards forcing a path through the crowd. Flowers were thrown into the dirt, bright splashes of color crushed beneath the wheels. Voices rose higher.
"Savior!"
"Lady Elara!"
Only one noble carriage waited by the gates.
Its crest marked it as the house of Count Varrow — a minor family, wealthy enough to maintain dignity, but not powerful enough to rival dukes or marquises. They stood apart from the commoners, dressed in fine but modest silks, their expressions carefully schooled.
The count himself, a tall, gaunt man with a lined face, stepped forward as Elara's carriage halted. He bowed deeply, his voice clear over the crowd.
"My lady Elara. Lady Lysandra. The Varrow family welcomes you to our gates."
Behind him stood his wife, her hands folded with restrained grace, and their two children — a boy of perhaps twelve, wide-eyed and fidgeting, and a girl just entering womanhood, who curtsied with nervous precision.
Elara pushed herself to stand, though her legs trembled. Lysandra offered her an arm, steadying her as she stepped down from the carriage. Her maids flanked her immediately, forming a protective wall with quiet efficiency.
The crowd gasped at the sight of her — her long white hair, her black-and-white eyes, the bandages still wrapped around her hand. She raised her chin, forcing strength into her stance, though inside she still felt the weakness clawing at her bones.
Count Varrow did not meet her gaze for long. There was awe there, yes, but also caution — the look of a man standing before a storm he could neither command nor escape.
"On behalf of the people," he said, bowing again, "we thank you. Word has spread of what you endured. Of what you conquered. You are hope made flesh."
The crowd roared, their voices shaking the very stones of the gate.
Elara's throat tightened. Her hair twitched faintly, restless, as though reacting to the flood of human emotion pressing around her. But it did not strike. Not this time.
She raised her bandaged hand slightly, letting the people see the scars.
"I am no savior," she said, her voice carrying despite its softness. The cries dimmed, hushed, straining to hear her. "I am flesh. I am blood. I bleed as you do. But if they come for me…" Her eyes hardened, glinting black and white. "Then they come for all of us. And I will not fall."
The crowd erupted, their voices deafening. Tears streamed down cheeks. Men lifted their children high, pointing toward her.
"Savior!"
"Lady Elara!"
Even the guards at the gate shifted uneasily, unsure whether they should bow or hold their ground.
Count Varrow inclined his head again. "Then let the gates open."
And they did.
With a deep groan, the massive doors swung wide. Beyond them, the streets of the kingdom stretched, lined with more people pressing forward to see her.
Elara glanced once at Lysandra, who gave her the faintest smile.
"Your road begins," Lysandra murmured.
Elara stepped forward.