Elara’s POV
The house felt wrong without mom.
Not empty, exactly. Just hollow, like the walls had learned how to breathe and then forgotten how to speak. Her shawl still hung by the door. Her cup still sat on the shelf, chipped at the rim. Every corner held the shape of her, and every shape reminded me she would never fill it again.
Dani moved through the days like a shadow. He left before sunrise to train the village guards and returned long after dark, his boots caked with dirt, his eyes distant. Sometimes he forgot to eat. Sometimes he forgot to speak.
“Did you sleep?” I asked him one morning, setting a bowl of porridge in front of him.
He stared at it as if he didn’t know what it was. “I’ll eat later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
He nodded vaguely and reached for his cloak.
“Dad,” I said, sharper than I meant. “You can’t keep disappearing.”
He paused at the door. For a moment I thought he might turn around, might say something real, something heavy enough to touch. Instead, he only said, “The guards need me.”
“They always do,” I replied.
He flinched, then left.
I sat alone at the table, the silence pressing against my ears until I wanted to scream just to break it. Vivian used to fill mornings with small sounds: humming, the scrape of wood, the soft murmur of prayers. Without her, the house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen next.
I trained anyway.
At first it felt wrong, like I was betraying her memory by lifting a sword without her watching. But the ache in my body was easier to carry than the ache in my chest. I practiced footwork behind the cottage, repeating drills Dani had taught me years ago, pushing myself until sweat blurred my vision.
I imagined leaving.
Not running away, exactly. Leaving with purpose. Becoming a warrior somewhere far from this village, somewhere grief didn’t follow me like a second skin. I imagined armor, discipline, a place where pain meant progress instead of loss.
When I finally worked up the courage to speak, Dani shut it down in three words.
“No,” he said.
“That’s all?” I asked, stunned. “You won’t even listen?”
He kept sharpening his blade. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“I can’t stay here forever,” I argued. “I’m suffocating.”
“You’re safe,” he snapped.
“Safe isn’t living,” I said. “Mother believed in me.”
The blade slipped. Dani swore under his breath.
“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“She would have understood,” I insisted. “She wanted me strong.”
“She wanted you alive,” he said, voice raw. “And this world doesn’t spare girls who chase swords.”
I clenched my fists. “You trained me.”
“To survive,” he replied. “Not to disappear into blood and banners.”
“You’re afraid,” I said quietly.
His shoulders went rigid. “You don’t know what I’m afraid of.”
That was always the end of it.
Days blurred together. The village tried to be kind. Neighbors brought bread, herbs, condolences that felt like pebbles dropped into an endless well. I nodded and thanked them and waited for the weight in my chest to lessen. It didn’t.
The market was the only place that felt remotely alive.
On market days, noise crowded out thought. Sellers shouted. Children ran. Life went on without asking my permission, and sometimes that helped. I took a stall mending leather straps and sharpening knives, work that kept my hands busy and my mind dull.
Elsa leaned over from the spice stall, her voice low. “You’re quieter.”
“I don’t feel like talking,” I replied.
She nodded. “Fair.”
I worked in silence for a while, focusing on the scrape of stone against metal.
“You should eat more,” Elsa added gently. “You’re losing weight.”
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t push. She never did.
A group of boys passed, laughing too loudly. One of them looked at me too long, his smile wrong. I met his gaze until he looked away.
“You scare people now,” Elsa said softly.
“I always did,” I replied.
She smiled faintly. “True.”
I finished a blade and handed it back to its owner. Coins clinked into my palm. I barely noticed.
The afternoon wore on. The sun shifted. Shadows stretched across the square. I felt restless, the familiar itch under my skin.
“Hey,” Elsa said suddenly.
I glanced up. Her expression had changed, curiosity edged with caution.
“What?”
She leaned closer, pretending to rearrange jars. “There was a boy earlier.”
I shrugged. “There are always boys.”
“Not like this one,” she said. “He caused trouble.”
My grip tightened on the knife. “What kind of trouble?”
“He pushed a merchant. Didn’t apologize. Acted like the world owed him something.”
I snorted. “Sounds ordinary.”
“He wasn’t,” Elsa insisted. “Didn’t dress like a noble, but he didn’t move like a villager either.”
I felt a strange prickle along my spine. “So?”
She hesitated. “He asked questions. About the guards. About who trained them.”
I stilled. “Did you answer?”
“No,” she said quickly. “But others did.”
I wiped the blade clean. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. Then her voice dropped further. “But he’s headed this way.”
I frowned. “Here?”
She nodded, eyes flicking toward the edge of the square. “Straight toward your stall.”
I followed her gaze, my heart beginning to pound for reasons I couldn’t name.
“Probably just another mouth with opinions,” I said, though unease curled tight in my stomach.
Elsa didn’t smile. “Maybe.”
I set the knife down and straightened, scanning the crowd. I didn’t see him yet. But something told me I was about to.