The roar of the crowd had not yet faded when Elara's gaze settled once more upon the Varrow family. She had heard their name whispered before — a count's house, loyal enough to survive but never powerful enough to thrive. Now, seeing them with her own eyes, she understood.
Count Varrow, tall but withered, bowed with impeccable form, but his body betrayed him. His robes of faded blue silk were neatly mended at the sleeves, but they hung loosely, as if the flesh beneath had melted away with hunger.
His wife, standing just behind, carried herself with grace, but her cheeks were hollow, her skin stretched pale across bone.
Her hands clutched each other tightly at her waist, not out of etiquette, but to hide their trembling.
The children were worse.
The boy, perhaps twelve, wore a tunic that had once been fine linen, though it now hung loose about his too-thin frame.
Their hands fidgeted not from childish energy, but from the restless gnaw of hunger. Their eyes darted between Elara's hair and the crowd, uncertain whether to fear or revere her.
The girl curtsied with a precision taught in noble halls, but her knees wobbled as she did so.
She was barely at the age where a woman's strength should begin to blossom, yet her arms were thin reeds, and her skin lacked the flush of youth.
They were nobles, and yet they looked no stronger than the commoners beyond the gate.
Elara's bandaged hand tightened at her side. She studied the count's wife in particular — the woman's eyes were soft, but rimmed with exhaustion.
Rumors had said she was bedridden, but now Elara saw the truth: she was not confined to a bed, but illness and hunger weighed her down all the same.
This was a family still standing only because of pride.
The gates groaned open, and the procession began its slow march into the city proper.
Elara did not ride. She chose to walk, her maids flanking her in silence, Lysandra just a step behind.
The carriages followed, creaking on their wheels, carrying the few wounded guards who had survived the journey.
The streets beyond were worse than she had imagined.
The houses sagged on broken beams, their walls cracked and spotted with mildew. Roofs of thatch or tile had caved inward, patched with whatever scraps the people could find.
The cobblestone roads were fractured, riddled with potholes filled with stale rainwater that stank faintly of rot.
But the people were the true wound.
They lined the streets, thin and pale, their clothes little more than rags. Children with wide eyes and stick-like limbs clung to their mothers' skirts.
Old men leaned on staffs of splintered wood. Women covered their mouths with cloth as they coughed, their bodies trembling from the effort.
And yet — they cried out for her.
"Lady Elara!"
"Hope has come!"
"Save us!"
Their voices cracked, but their eyes shone, desperate and alive.
Elara walked on, her white hair trailing behind her like a banner. It stirred faintly, restless, as though it smelled the sickness and hunger.
Some people flinched at the sight of it, whispering of gods and curses. Others pressed closer, bowing low.
Her maids — Liora, Brenna, and Aveline — exchanged glances but said nothing. They held their formation, each watching the crowd with sharp eyes, blades hidden but ready.
Lysandra walked steadily, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. She seemed unbothered by the desperation pressing in on every side. Instead, she studied Elara, reading every flicker of her expression.
Elara's chest ached. These people were starving, wasting away in plain sight, and yet they greeted her as salvation.
She thought of her other world — of full tables, of bread thrown away without thought, of streets lined with light and stone unbroken by time. She thought of how wasteful she had been, how blind.
And she thought of the hunger now curling in her own veins — the hunger of her hair, the taste of blood that made her stronger.
A bitter truth rose in her throat.
These people wanted to be saved. But what would they say if they saw how she had been saved?
The palace should have been the crown of the kingdom. Instead, it was its gravestone.
The gates sagged on rusted hinges. The walls, once white, were grey and cracked, plaster peeling in long strips.
Moss crept along the stone like rot spreading through flesh. Windows were broken, their shutters hanging loose, some nailed shut with splintered boards.
As they entered the courtyard, Elara saw weeds choking what had once been gardens. Statues lay toppled, their faces broken. The fountain in the center was dry, its basin cracked and filled with stagnant water.
Inside was no better.
The grand hall smelled of mildew. The walls were streaked with damp, paint peeling in wide flakes. Once-gilded chandeliers hung dull and tarnished, cobwebs draping their arms.
The floor was cracked stone, patched with boards where the stone had given way. Furniture sat broken or eaten by rot.
This was to be her residence.
Elara stopped in the center of the hall, her boots scraping the dust. Her hair writhed faintly, as though reacting to the decay, tasting it.
Behind her, Count Varrow bowed again, though his shoulders hunched under the weight of shame.
"This was once the pride of our house," he said quietly. "Now it is only… shelter."
Elara turned her black-and-white eyes on him. "What happened here?"
The count hesitated, his throat working. His wife stepped forward instead, her voice soft but steady.
"Hunger," she said simply. "Bandits. Weakness. We cannot defend ourselves. We cannot grow enough. What little we have is stolen from us. And so we wither."
The boy lowered his head, ashamed. The girl bit her lip, her eyes shining with tears.
The truth lay bare in their thin frames, in the silence of the hall, in the broken kingdom that surrounded them.
Elara closed her eyes. Her hair curled tighter against her back, restless.