The line stretched across the courtyard, lanterns swinging as people shuffled forward. The guards stood at intervals, keeping the peace with lowered spears. The maids managed the tables hastily set with crates and baskets.
One by one, families stepped forward.
A little girl clutched a hunk of bread with both hands, staring at its softness as though it might vanish. She bit into it, and tears sprang to her eyes as it melted in her mouth. She sobbed openly, stuffing more in, while her mother clutched her shoulders and wept silently.
An old man knelt when he was handed a cup of water. His hands shook so badly that Aveline, trembling herself, steadied them for him. He drank in gasps, then lowered the cup with a sigh that broke into a ragged laugh. "I thought I would never taste this again," he whispered, pressing his forehead to the clay.
Children cried when they tore pieces of chicken from the bone, grease shining on their thin cheeks. For many, it was the first meat they had tasted in years. The courtyard filled with sounds rarely heard — laughter, choked sobs, gasps of wonder.
Count Varrow's wife, Lady Varrow, stood near the line with her daughter. She held a piece of bread in trembling fingers, staring at it as though afraid to eat. When her daughter nudged her gently, she bit, and her face crumpled. She pressed her free hand over her mouth, tears streaming, and pulled her daughter against her chest.
From the dais, Count Varrow watched silently. His lined face betrayed little, but his eyes flicked constantly — not to the food itself, but to the way the people looked at Elara. Not just with gratitude. Not even with awe. With something deeper. Reverence.
The way subjects looked at a queen.
As the food spread and the courtyard settled into quiet joy, murmurs began at the edges of the crowd. Old women bent together, whispering into each other's ears. Men spoke in low voices, glancing at Elara's hair where it shimmered faintly in the torchlight.
One phrase rose again and again, carried on the breeze.
"The hair that devours."
An ancient legend, half-forgotten, retold in fragments: of a woman marked by gods, her hair a living weapon, who would rise when kingdoms fell and reshape the world with blood and hunger.
A villager whispered to his neighbour, "It is her. It must be. Look how it moves."
Another muttered, "If the stories are true, then this is not only mercy. It is destiny."
The whispers spread like fire in dry grass.
Through it all, Lysandra stood close at Elara's side. She did not smile at the joy around her, nor did she join in the whispers. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, watching everything — the lines of people, the way the bandits worked without stealing, the way Count Varrow's gaze lingered.
When Elara swayed slightly, still pale from the strain of the space, Lysandra steadied her with a subtle hand at her elbow.
"Careful," she murmured so only Elara could hear. "Even gods must pace themselves."
Elara exhaled slowly, her eyes never leaving the crowd. "I am no god."
Lysandra's lips curved faintly. "No. But they will not believe that much longer."
By the time the last family had taken their share, the stars had risen high. The courtyard was quieter now, filled with the sounds of children dozing against parents' shoulders, of carts creaking as villagers carried food back to their homes.
The bandits lingered last, waiting awkwardly until Elara gave them a nod. They shouldered bundles without complaint and followed the villagers into the night.
Only Count Varrow and his family remained a while longer. His wife dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, while his daughter clutched her arm. His son stared openly at Elara, admiration bright in his young face.
The Count himself bowed slightly, though his eyes were shadowed. "My lady… tonight you have given them life. That will not be forgotten."
Elara inclined her head, saying nothing.
When the Varrows departed, the courtyard fell still at last. Torches flickered, casting long shadows across the stone.
Elara stood in silence, her hair curling faintly in the night breeze. Around her, whispers of prophecy still lingered like smoke.
And in her chest, she felt it — not just exhaustion, but the pull of something larger, heavier.
The road ahead was no longer hers alone.