The morning sun slipped through the broken roof of the ruined palace, painting long golden stripes across the cracked stone floors. Dust floated in the light like drifting motes of ash. For the first time in years, the old hallways of the royal seat carried not only silence and rot, but footsteps.
Elara stood in the doorway of the throne room, her bandaged hand resting against the splintered frame. The night had been long; her nose still ached faintly from the strain of opening the space. But the air this morning felt different. Alive.
Behind her, the three maids moved quickly into the open hall, their skirts brushing against the dusty floor.
Liora, soft-spoken as always, immediately knelt near the walls where mould had spread in dark streaks. She dipped a rag into a bucket of water, wrung it carefully, and began scrubbing at the stone with slow, patient movements.
Brenna, sharp-eyed and practical, had no such patience. She clapped her hands at two nearby guards who had been leaning on their spears.
"Don't just stand there! That table isn't going to carry itself. Out with it — now!"
The guards blinked at her, momentarily startled that a maid was giving orders, but Brenna's glare was sharp enough to cut stone. With mutters under their breath, they shuffled forward and heaved at a worm-eaten table, its legs groaning as they dragged it toward the doors.
Meanwhile, Aveline, the youngest of the three, stood apart at first, biting her lip as she glanced around the ruined hall. Her hands trembled slightly as she held a small sewing kit she had salvaged. Then, with a breath of resolve, she gathered a handful of torn, moth-eaten curtains and began stitching, her fingers moving quickly despite her nerves.
Elara watched them work for a moment, quiet pride stirring in her chest. They were not noble-born, yet they carried themselves with a discipline that could rival soldiers. Her soldiers.
The clatter of heavy boots echoed as more guards entered. Their armour was dented, their faces weary, but they set to work without complaint. Broken chairs, shattered frames, and rusted candlesticks were lifted from corners where rats had gnawed for years.
The sound of wood scraping stone filled the hall, joined by the groans of men hauling burdens heavier than their bodies could comfortably bear.
One guard grunted as he tried to lift a cracked pillar fragment, sweat pouring down his brow. His partner rushed to help, but the stone barely shifted.
Before Elara thought, her hair stirred. Pale strands slithered across the floor like serpents, curling around the chunk of stone. With a single smooth movement, the hair lifted the weight as though it were made of feathers.
The guards stumbled back in shock, their eyes wide, as the stone floated across the hall and set itself gently by the door.
A hush fell. The maids froze, their cloths and needles still in their hands. Even Brenna, who rarely lost her composure, blinked in open disbelief.
Elara's gaze swept the hall, meeting every pair of eyes. Her voice was calm, but edged with steel.
"Do not fear the hand that works for you. Fear only if it turns against you."
The silence lingered for a breath, then the guards bowed their heads and resumed their work, though their movements were stiffer than before.
Lysandra, standing near the doorway, folded her arms, watching. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes missed nothing — not the way the guards avoided meeting Elara's gaze now, nor the way some of the townsfolk outside whispered at the sight of the living hair.