Elian joined them. He waved, and ran, and called Kris’s name until his legs were steady again and he was walking beside Ophelia; it occurred to Ophelia that Elian’s smile was much richer when he was far from his comrades, or, perhaps closer to Kris—she didn’t know.

“You’re taking her to father? Alone?” Elian asked, in a tone that once again implied curiosity over disgust.

Kris shrugged. Beside them, children in tattered robes dashed past their figures and giggled despite their miserable states. “She is harmless, brother.”

“How do you know that?”

Ophelia observed Kris. As he scoffed and took a look back at her from over his shoulder, his gaze darkened with a chilling fog that inspired Ophelia with urges to escape back into the woods, where nothing was new and everything was wise. “She believes we have saved her.”

Stolen story; please report.

“Oh.” Elian’s smile faded. This time, he was neither facing Ophelia nor Kris—it was as if he sought out something far away, something that was greater than the crowd before then, greater than the fortress’s sturdy walls. “I see…” were the last words Ophelia heard him say for a good moment.

When they had finally passed many faces now forgotten, Elian spoke again. “Does she speak our tongue?”

Ophelia parted her lips to reply, Yes, I do. Yet, the pieces that remained of phrases unspoken were but a mere set of lonely croaks that escaped her throat, leaving both the young men before her oblivious to her attempt; stolen—by what? She did not know.

The scent of burnt pinewood surrounded her senses as a large bonfire kept many a shadow warm. They danced with each other under the twilight and stars that filled the deep violet sky like a myriad of lost souls wandering inside the darkest of voids.

Soon, the sight of them disappeared—along with the flames—once Ophelia was led, slow and steady, into the tallest tower of the castle.