The square was emptying at last.
The cries of joy, the sobs of relief, the clatter of cups, and the tearing of soft bread — all of it had faded into the night like smoke.
Only the faint smell of baked crusts and spilled milk lingered in the air, mixing with the cool scent of stone and earth after the day's heat.
Elara stood very still in the shadow of the ruined palace gates, her bandaged hand resting loosely at her side. Her hair stirred faintly, curling around her ankles as though restless even in calm.
The people had eaten until their bellies were full for the first time in years; the sight of their thin frames sinking onto the ground with sighs of comfort was still carved into her mind.
But now, silence pressed in. The square was empty, but not forgotten. All around, shuttered windows creaked open, children peeking out shyly at her glowing figure framed by torchlight.
"Lady Elara…" one voice whispered from a doorway, then quickly withdrew.
Lysandra was at her shoulder, quiet as a drawn blade. The three maids stood a respectful step behind, Liora with her hands folded tightly, Brenna with her sharp eyes darting over every shadow, Aveline biting her lip as if to keep words inside.
The guards were weary, bandages visible even under their armor, their faces pale with exhaustion. They stood, but their shoulders drooped, and their swords hung heavy.
Elara finally exhaled, her voice low, meant only for those near her."They are fed. Tonight they sleep with hope."
Lysandra glanced sidelong at her, the faintest of smiles tugging her lips."And tomorrow?"
Elara did not answer. Her hair shifted instead, like the twitch of a restless beast, as though it carried her reply.
The palace loomed ahead.
Up close, the once-grand gates were rusted through, their hinges shrieking as the guards pushed them open. Weeds climbed the stone walls, cracks spreading like veins across the masonry. A faded banner, once bearing the royal crest, hung in tatters, snapping faintly in the night breeze.
Elara's steps were slow as she passed through. Her body ached from the strain of the day — from the fight, from the blood, from the summoning of food from her secret space. Her head still felt light, as though shadows pressed against the edges of her vision.
The maids flanked her without command, each one mirroring her stride. Behind them, Lysandra walked steadily, a quiet pillar of strength.
The courtyard inside was little better than the streets. Grass grew unchecked through broken cobblestones. A dry fountain stood at the center, its basin cracked, a nest of twigs lying where water should have flowed. The smell of mildew clung to the stones.
Aveline, unable to hold her tongue, whispered: "This place is… unfit for you, my lady."
Elara's lips twitched, but she did not rebuke her. Instead, she walked on, up the worn steps into the palace itself.
The air hit her first — thick, stale, carrying the scent of rot and dust. It clung to her throat, making her cough softly.
The great entry hall stretched into darkness, where once there had been chandeliers; only rusted hooks remained. The walls were streaked with peeling paint, patches of black mould spreading like bruises.
Broken furniture lay abandoned, one chair missing legs, another toppled on its side. A rug that might have once been crimson was now dull brown, worn to threads.
The guards shifted uneasily. Even Brenna, ever sharp and cold, wrinkled her nose.
"This…" Liora murmured, voice faint. "This was a king's hall?"
Elara's eyes swept the ruin, and for a moment, she felt her chest tighten. She remembered her father's halls — warm, gleaming, filled with laughter and the glow of firelight. And here…
This was rot made manifest.
"Yes," she said. Her voice did not rise, but the word was heavy enough that the others lowered their eyes.
Lysandra touched the wall with one hand, her sharp gaze assessing. "It was allowed to die slowly. Just as they let the people starve."
Elara did not disagree.
They climbed the grand staircase — the railing cracked, steps creaking beneath their boots — until they reached the corridors above.
One by one, the doors opened onto bedchambers. Each revealed the same decay: mattresses sunken and stained, frames broken, sheets gnawed by rats. Dust puffed into the air with every step.
Aveline gagged softly. Liora pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Even Brenna, hardened as she was, frowned deeply.
One guard muttered under his breath: "This is no place for ladies."
Elara paused at the threshold of one chamber. Its window was shattered, the moonlight spilling through broken glass. A bedframe leaned crookedly, its mattress little more than rotting straw.
Her hand curled at her side. For a heartbeat, weariness threatened to crush her.
Lysandra stepped closer, her voice quiet, steady: "This is not worthy of you. Not worthy of what you are."
Elara turned to her maids, her voice calm, though her eyes burned faintly with resolve. "Follow me. Bring no one else."
The maids exchanged glances but obeyed.
Elara led them into the ruined chamber, her hair brushing against the walls. Once all were inside, she turned, pressed the heavy door shut, and slid the iron bolt into place with a loud scrape.
The maids looked uneasy. The ruined bed loomed behind them, sagging under its own weight. Dust danced in the air.
Brenna finally asked, cautiously:"My lady… what do you mean to do?"
Elara turned her gaze on the three of them. Her pale face was calm, but the bandaged hand trembled faintly at her side.
"What I must," she said.
She raised her other hand, palm outward. Already, the air around her shimmered faintly, like heat rising from stone. Her breath caught in her throat, and a hot line trickled from her nose.
The maids gasped softly.
Liora took a half step forward. "My lady, you're bleeding—"
"Hold steady," Elara commanded, her voice sharper than before. Her hair lifted faintly, like threads rising in unseen wind. "Do not interfere. Not unless I ask."
The air thickened. The shimmer grew.
And behind her eyes, memories surged — of a different place, a different time.
The day she found the space.