The palace courtyard had fallen silent.
The people, the count, his family, the guards, and Elara's maids all stood frozen after the ragged boy had been dragged from the crowd by her hair.
He had fled, stumbling barefoot through the gate, his skinny frame vanishing into the streets with her command ringing in his ears:
"Go. Bring your people here."
Now, anticipation pressed on every soul gathered. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Men shifted uneasily, whispering in low voices. The count's gaunt face was grave as he looked between Elara and the empty street.
Even the air seemed heavier.
Elara stood tall in front of them all, her bandaged hand trembling slightly from fatigue, her white hair writhing faintly as if it breathed with her.
Inside, she felt the drain of battle, the sting of her wounds, and the weight of hundreds of eyes pressing against her back. But she refused to let it show.
Beside her, Lysandra watched with cool patience, one hand resting at her hip, the other lightly brushing against Elara's arm for balance.
The maids — Liora, Brenna, and Aveline — flanked her in a neat triangle, their eyes sharp, awaiting orders.
The silence stretched until a murmur rippled through the crowd.
"They won't come," someone whispered.
"They'll run."
"They'll bring blades…"
Elara's hair twitched. The whispers died at once.
The boy returned.
Not alone.
From the cracked streets beyond the gate, a group of shadows emerged, slow and wary. Men and women, gaunt and ragged, children clinging to their sides.
Their clothes were torn, their faces streaked with dirt, and their ribs showed starkly beneath paper-thin skin. They looked less like bandits and more like ghosts dragged from hunger itself.
At their head was an older boy, perhaps sixteen. His hair hung long and unkempt over his hollow face, but his eyes burned fiercely — too sharp, too defiant for someone half-starved.
He walked with a limp, but he carried a rusted blade in one hand, gripping it so tightly his knuckles shone white.
The smaller boy who had fled earlier ran beside him, glancing nervously up at his elder brother.
Behind them shuffled perhaps twenty more — mothers holding babies, men carrying sticks or broken knives, girls with eyes far too old for their years.
The crowd gasped. Some shouted in rage.
"Thieves!"
"Murderers!"
"They starved us—!"
The bandits froze just inside the gate, facing the sea of commoners glaring at them. Their leader lifted his chin, defiance twisting his features.
The courtyard trembled with shouts.
"You took our food!"
Count Varrow stepped forward, raising his hand. His voice carried over the noise, thin but steady.
"They are the ones who bled this land. Robbers. Murderers. Lady Elara, why have you brought them here? To shame us further?"
Elara did not answer. Not yet. Her black-and-white eyes scanned the crowd, the bandits, the hungry faces twisted by rage and fear. Her hair stirred restlessly, tasting the air.
The elder boy at last stepped forward, shoving the younger behind him. His rusty blade gleamed faintly in the fading light.
"You think you can command us?" he spat, his voice hoarse with hunger but sharp with hate. "You drag my brother like a dog, and then you tell us to come crawling? You're no savior. You're just another tyrant."
Gasps rippled through the people.
The boy raised his blade — and charged.
The crowd screamed. The younger brother cried out, reaching for him. The bandits shouted in alarm, some moving to hold him back, others too weak to react.
Elara did not move.
Her hair did.
Like a whip, a mass of white strands lashed forward, wrapping around the boy's arm, his chest, his waist, and in a blink — he was lifted into the air.
The rusty blade clattered to the stones below.
The boy dangled upside down, thrashing wildly, curses spilling from his mouth. His face reddened as the hair tightened its grip. The crowd gasped in unison, mothers covering their children's eyes, men stepping back as though fearing the strands might turn on them next.
The boy's defiance did not vanish, but his voice cracked. "Monster! Let me down! Kill me if you dare!"
Elara's eyes narrowed.
Her voice was calm, but it cut through the courtyard like steel.
"You think hunger gives you the right to steal, to kill? You think rage will make you strong? Look at yourself."
The boy's thrashing slowed, his breath heaving.
Elara lifted her bandaged hand high, so all could see the red seeping through.
"I bleed too. But I do not waste blood on fury. I spend it to build."
Her hair lowered the boy — not gently, but enough to throw him onto the stones before her. He landed hard, groaning, his pride shattered but his body intact.