The baskets were set out in the ruined square, and for a moment the crowd could only stare. No one reached forward. No one dared.
The bread alone was enough to steal their breath. It was not the dark, brick-like loaves they were used to — those hard lumps that cracked teeth and had to be soaked in broth before they could be swallowed.
No, this bread was golden, soft as pillows, with a crust that gleamed faintly in the dying light. Its scent drifted through the air, warm and sweet, almost unbearable to those who had never smelled such richness.
The fruits were worse — worse because they seemed like something out of a dream. Apples that shone red and green, smooth-skinned, round and plump.
Oranges with skins bright as embers, their tang filling the air with citrus sharpness. Grapes spilling in bunches, glistening with a wet sheen, each one like a drop of amethyst.
The milk, white and cold, was carried in jars that beaded with moisture. To the mothers holding thin, wailing babies, it was more precious than gold.
And the water — clear, clean water — poured into strange smooth cups with rubber rims, nothing like the clay mugs that chipped and cracked in every home.
The air grew thick with whispers.
"Is it real?"
"Food like that doesn't exist…"
"It smells too rich—maybe it's poison."
"No, look, she eats nothing. She gives it to us."
The Varrow family stood slightly apart, yet they, too, could not hide their reactions.
The Count himself remained stiff, his face a mask of control, but his eyes betrayed him — fixed on the bread, the fruit, the water, as though he could not pull away.
His wife pressed her hand against her lips, her eyes shining with both hunger and grief. She leaned slightly against him, but she said nothing, for she knew the eyes of the crowd were on them.
Their son, barely twelve, whispered too loudly to his sister:
"Is it magic? Did she make it from nothing?"
"Hush," the girl hissed back. She was nearing seventeen, her posture proud, though her arms were too thin in their silk sleeves.
She looked at Elara not with fear but with a strange, sharp curiosity, as though trying to measure her in the space of a glance.
The boy fidgeted, his stomach growling loud enough that his sister jabbed him with her elbow. His wide eyes kept darting between the food and Elara's hair, which twitched faintly in the air like a living thing.
Elara's voice cut across the crowd.
"Children first."
Liora moved sharply, her tone cold and commanding as she ordered them into four lines. Brenna's hands were gentler as she guided the first boy forward — a child so small he looked no older than five, his ribs pressing through the fabric of his tunic.
She broke a piece of bread, still steaming faintly, and placed it into his trembling hands.
The boy hesitated. His mother's voice shook as she whispered, "Eat."
He bit.
And then he froze, his wide eyes filling with tears. The bread was soft. Sweet. His mouth moved too fast, his small throat struggling to swallow, as if afraid it would vanish if he didn't devour it at once.
A sound tore from the mother's throat — half sob, half laugh — as she fell to her knees, clutching her son.
The crowd gasped, the sound breaking like a wave.
One by one, children were given bread, fruit, and sips of milk. The air was filled with the sound of chewing, gulping, and crying.
Count Varrow's daughter's hand had crept into her brother's without her noticing. She whispered, "They're crying because it's soft. Bread that soft… we've never…"
The boy leaned closer. "Sister… she's like a god."
She flinched, glancing toward their father, who heard but did not scold. He only pressed his lips tighter, as though sealing his own hunger away.
Lysandra had not touched the food. She stood beside Elara, her dark hair falling across her shoulders, her presence a quiet shadow.
Her eyes lingered on the loaves, on the fruits, on the strange rubber cups. She did not smile. She did not weep. She only studied.
When the maids passed a piece of bread to a child, she leaned close to Elara and murmured:
"This is not of this world."
Elara gave her the faintest smile. "I told you. I bought it."
"No market sells this." Lysandra's voice was low, so only Elara could hear. "No farmer grows fruit so bright. No well pours water so clean. And those cups—smooth, shaped by no craftsman I know."
Elara's smile widened, though her heart thumped in her chest. "Then perhaps I am more of a monster than they thought."
Lysandra's lips twitched, not quite a smile. Her eyes softened, briefly, before turning sharp again. "Monster or not, they will follow you.
But you must know this: gifts like these will bind them to you more than fear ever could. They will need you. Desperately."
Elara looked back at the children, wiping crumbs from their mouths, at the mothers weeping as babies drank milk for the first time in weeks. Her hair twitched faintly, restless, but she forced it still.
"Then let them bind," she said softly.