Word spread quickly. By midday, the sound of voices rose beyond the palace gates. Villagers trickled in, some hesitant, some bold. Thin men with hollow cheeks carried woven baskets, women in patched skirts clutched children by the hand, and even the youngest came with small arms full of straw or cloth.
At first, they only stood at the threshold, whispering, uncertain whether they were welcome. The palace had long been a place of absence, a hollow shell where no one dared linger.
It was Elara who broke the silence. She stepped forward, her long hair trailing across the floor, her pale eyes fixed on the crowd.
"Bring your hands," she said softly, but the words carried through the courtyard. "If this place is to stand again, it will not be by mine alone."
The hesitation cracked. One woman stepped forward, her shoulders bent but her jaw set with stubborn resolve. She carried a bundle of rotted straw and dumped it near the guards hauling debris.
Then another man came, dragging a broken beam with the help of his son. Soon more followed — the sound of labour rising in the palace as voices mingled with scraping wood and shifting stone.
By the afternoon, the once-empty halls buzzed with movement.
The most surprising figures were the bandits. At first, the villagers eyed them with suspicion when they entered the palace courtyard. The boy — thin and sharp-eyed, no older than twelve — led them, his clothes ragged but his chin lifted defiantly.
Behind him came a handful of older youths and gaunt men, each with the look of those who had lived too long on hunger and thievery.
Murmurs rose immediately.
"Bandits!"
"Thieves!"
"They'll steal while we work!"
But the boy stepped forward, his voice cracking with the effort of shouting.
"We came because she told us to!" He pointed at Elara, who stood silent at the top of the steps. "If she says we work, then we work."
A murmur swept the crowd, confusion mingled with awe.
Elara did not move, only inclined her head slightly. The message was clear.
And so, the bandits bent their backs beside the villagers. Their hands carried rubble, their shoulders bore beams. The boy himself carried bucket after bucket of rat-chewed cloth, though his thin arms shook with the weight.
At first, no one would stand near them. But as hours passed, lines blurred. A farmer passed one bandit a waterskin without comment. A woman handed another a bundle of straw to burn. Slowly, suspicion gave way to necessity, and necessity gave way — almost imperceptibly — to the beginnings of trust.
Elara moved among them all, silent and watchful. Her presence was like the shadow of a storm — both feared and strangely comforting. Her hair shifted occasionally to help where human strength faltered, lifting beams, sweeping debris, or coiling around broken stones to drag them outside.
Each time it moved, gasps followed, but so too did relief.
By sunset, the great hall looked less like a tomb and more like the bones of something alive. Dust still clung to the air, and mould still streaked the walls, but the piles of broken wood and stone were gone.
The cracked tiles gleamed faintly where they had been scrubbed. And the people — villagers, bandits, guards, and maids — stood together, weary but upright, their chests rising with something more than breath.
It was the first day the palace had felt inhabited in decades. Elara stood at the threshold once more, the golden light of dusk catching in her white hair. Around her, the people paused, their eyes drawn to her as though by instinct.
She raised her bandaged hand, and her voice carried across the courtyard.
"This place was broken," she said. "Like all of us. But broken things can be mended. And when they are, they are harder to shatter again."
A hush fell. Then, slowly, applause began — hesitant at first, then rising. Not the thunderous cries of worship from before, but something quieter. More human.
Respect.