Elara’s POV
Two years changed more than I expected.
The village still smelled the same when rain hit the dust, and the market still rang with the same voices, but people looked at me differently now. Not with pity anymore. Not with careful sympathy. With something closer to assessment. I was no longer the grieving girl who sharpened knives in silence. I was a young woman, and the world had decided that meant something.
Vivian would have smiled at the way I walked now.
I caught myself straightening my shoulders without thinking, smoothing my skirts before sitting, lowering my voice when I spoke to elders. Her lessons lingered in muscle and memory, quiet and persistent. She had taught me how to pour tea without spilling, how to listen without interrupting, how to look someone in the eye without challenging them. None of it dulled the fire inside me, but it wrapped it in something smoother, more controlled.
Grace, she had called it.
Dani noticed the change, even if he never said so.
He still trained me behind the cottage at dawn, the way he always had. The drills were harsher now, longer, more precise. He corrected me with fewer words, his approval measured in silence rather than praise. I learned to read his moods by the way he adjusted his grip on the blade, by how long he lingered before dismissing me.
“You’re faster,” he said once, almost surprised.
“Because you trained me,” I replied.
He didn’t answer.
When training ended, he often left immediately for the guard grounds, leaving me alone with sweat cooling on my skin and questions I never asked out loud. We spoke less these days, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything we said scraped against old wounds.
I still dreamed of becoming a soldier.
The dream had changed shape over the years. It wasn’t about glory anymore, or banners, or proving myself. It was about purpose. About leaving this village that felt both safe and suffocating. About standing somewhere that my strength meant something beyond survival.
Sometimes, late at night, I imagined armor settling over my shoulders like a promise.
Dani never asked about my dreams. He pretended they didn’t exist, the way he pretended grief had been buried alongside Vivian. But grief had a way of resurfacing in unexpected places. In the pauses between sentences. In the way he stiffened when I laughed too freely. In the way his eyes followed me when I trained, sharp with fear he refused to name.
At dinner one evening, he cleared his throat and set his cup down carefully.
“We need to talk,” he said.
My stomach tightened. “About what?”
“Your future.”
I tilted my head. “I have one.”
He winced, just barely. “You know what I mean.”
I waited.
“You’re of age,” he continued. “People are starting to notice.”
“I’ve been noticed since I could walk,” I replied. “It didn’t kill me.”
“That’s not funny,” he snapped.
“I wasn’t joking.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and familiar.
“I’ve spoken to a few men,” Dani said finally.
The words landed wrong. “About what?”
“About marriage.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“Marriage,” I repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
I set my fork down. “You didn’t ask me.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m telling you now.”
“You’re informing me,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
“Elara,” he said sharply, then stopped himself. His voice softened. “This is for your safety.”
“My safety,” I echoed. “Or your peace of mind?”
He flinched.
“I’m not marrying anyone,” I said quietly.
“That’s not how this works,” he replied. “You don’t live alone in the world.”
“I want to choose,” I said. “I want a life that’s mine.”
“You want danger,” he snapped.
“I want purpose,” I shot back. “You taught me that survival isn’t enough.”
“I taught you to live,” he said. “Not to throw yourself into a life that will break you.”
I stood, my chair scraping loudly. “You don’t get to decide what breaks me.”
His eyes flashed. “I’m your father.”
“And I’m not a child,” I replied.
He rose too, anger and fear colliding in his expression. “You don’t understand what’s waiting beyond this village.”
“Then tell me,” I demanded. “Stop hiding things from me.”
His mouth opened, then closed. His hands curled into fists.
“You will marry,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve already begun arranging matches.”
The finality of it stole my breath.
I stared at him, heart pounding, realizing that the future I’d imagined was slipping through my fingers without my consent. Somewhere deep inside, something old and familiar stirred.
Defiance. And this time, it refused to be quiet.