Elara's hair writhed back into place, falling behind her like a ghostly cloak.
She looked down at the boy, then raised her gaze to the crowd and the bandits alike.
"I told your brother to bring you here, not to punish you, but to show you: hunger will not be solved by stealing from your own. You are starving. They are starving. But together, we will eat."
The people stared at her in stunned silence.
The boy on the ground blinked up at her, trembling. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his fury had quieted, replaced by confusion.
Elara turned away from the trembling crowd and strode back into the ruined palace. The maids followed without question, their steps soft on the cracked tiles. Lysandra's presence was a shadow close behind.
Inside, the air was damp and smelled of mildew. The walls were streaked where water had leaked for years. She walked through the broken hall until she reached a small chamber — a space she had quietly prepared the moment she set foot in this place.
Her fingers brushed across the wall, finding the seam of a space not built by the hands of this world. A ripple shimmered, faint and pale, as she pulled it open.
And from within, she began to draw food.
Loaves of soft bread, golden and fresh. Baskets of fruits — apples, oranges, grapes that glistened with dew. Clay jars of milk, still cold to the touch.
Clear water in glass containers. And strange drinks in bottles, capped with twists of metal.
She set them one by one upon the cracked table, her maids watching silently.
Aveline's eyes widened. "This bread… It's soft. Like clouds."
Brenna whispered, "The fruit looks… alive."
Liora, practical as ever, only asked, "How much have you hidden, my lady?"
"Enough," Elara said, though her heart skipped. Enough for now — but never endless.
Lysandra's gaze lingered on the bread. Her voice was quiet, edged with suspicion.
"Where did you find this?"
Elara turned to her, a faint smile curving her lips. "I bought it."
Lysandra's dark eyes narrowed. "No market in this kingdom sells such food. Bread here is as hard as stone. Fruit this fresh doesn't exist, not even for nobles."
Elara laughed softly and shook her head, but did not answer. The truth — that this food came from her world, the world she had once lived in — remained her secret. For now.
Elara raised her hand. Her maids moved at once. Brenna and Aveline carried the baskets of fruit and bread, while Liora bore the jugs of milk and water.
They placed them in the open square, their movements precise, ritual-like.
The people stared, breathless.
The scent spread quickly — warm bread, sweet fruit, clean water. It was overwhelming to those who had not tasted such things in years.
Children whimpered, reaching instinctively before their mothers pulled them back.
Elara's hair twitched, tasting the hunger around her, but she kept it close, bound to her will.
Elara turned to her maids.
"Liora. Brenna. Aveline. Line them up."
"Children first," Elara commanded. "Then women. Then men. Then the elders. Four lines. Guards, keep order."
The three maids moved instantly, their discipline clear.
The maids moved at once, Brenna stepping forward with commanding authority. "Children first! Women after! Then men, then the elderly. Four lines. Move!"
Aveline and Liora echoed her orders, pushing the crowd into shape. Guards lifted their spears, shepherding the desperate into order.
At first, there was chaos — people shoving, crying out, some too weak to stand. But slowly, order took hold.
Four lines formed in the courtyard, stretching far back toward the gates. The smallest children stood at the front, thin arms clutching their mothers' skirts. Women supported the elderly. Men tried to hold their families together.
The people hesitated, but the authority in her voice brooked no refusal. Slowly, shakily, they began to move into place, forming uneven lines in the courtyard.
Mothers carried thin babies, children shuffled nervously, old men leaned on sticks, their eyes hollow.
The bandits obeyed, too, drawn into the lines by Elara's order, though fear and shame weighed heavily on their faces.
As the lines began to form, Count Varrow stepped closer to Lysandra. His gaze lingered on her face, sharp and calculating.
"I know you," he said quietly.
Lysandra stiffened. "You are mistaken."
But the Count shook his head. "No. I remember. You are the daughter of the queen who was murdered. The true heir." His voice dropped lower. "If your uncle knew you lived…"
Lysandra's eyes flicked to Elara, then back to him. "Then let us hope he never knows."
The Count studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. "I will keep your secret. But understand — secrets this heavy do not stay buried forever."