In the somnolent town of Selmar, with its rolling hills and dense forests, the quiet routine that molded the life of Elara Voss remained. It was an age where she had turned twenty-one, an anchor to her family, and she labored relentlessly with her father in a small workshop they ran. The Voss’s were known for being artisans with skillful fingers, working intricate clockwork devices, and delicate mechanical wonders. Though talented, they held an unassuming place in society. People liked their work, but they were on the outs in the social circles of the town.
Gear hums, smells of metal and oil, endless clatter of tools—Elara's days were full. Her father had given her all he knew, for he was few with words but large in skill. It was in their craft that the Voss family took great pride, and it served as the wellspring of strength for the family in hard times of struggle for existence. Her father always used to say, "It's the quality of our work that defines us, not the wealth we lack." Elara lived by that maxim, pouring heart into every piece she created.
She was a young woman of striking presence but seldom paid any attention to her appearance. Her chestnut hair was long, generally tied back into a practical braid, and her eyes gleamed green with curiosity, with veins of determination etched into their depths. She moved with quiet grace; in her posture there was confidence, but also humility. Her hands were calloused from years of work but capable of the finest precision—a testament to being attached to her craft.
Yet in this most predictable of lives she lived, something had always pulled at Elara to feel there was more beyond Selmar. It was a hum, like that insistent murmur, telling her she was meant for more than this base routine she knew. She often dismissed such thoughts as fanciful dreams, for in a world where blood and coin determined a person's lot, what good it seemed to dream of more.
One evening, when the sun was sending a good length of shadow across the workshop, Elara found herself alone. Her father had gone off to market and she was to close up. She swept around the workbenches, sweeping away scraps of wood and pattern drawings, when a sudden draft of chill air on her skin came from the far corner, where an old tapestry hung. The tapestry, handed down through generations of the family, described some forgotten place in ancient days wherein no one spoke anymore.
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Elara walked towards the tapestry. All of her life, she had been intrigued by the faded images, but for some reason, she felt more interested than usual. She reached out, feeling the material, and as her fingers made contact, she felt the slightest shift at her feet. Sliding the tapestry aside revealed a small door set flush into the wall, hidden from view. The door was made of some dark wood and carved, but it was banded with iron strips, and it was covered in dust from years of not having been opened.
She felt her heart race as she surveyed the door. For the amount of hours she spent in this workshop, she found it more than passing strange that she had never noticed it before. Symbols she couldn't decipher filled carvings that marked the door, and the air seemed to thrum with anticipation. With a deep breath, she grabbed a thin chisel and carefully popped open the rusted lock and door.
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As the door creaked open, it revealed a narrow stairway descending into darkness. After a moment's hesitation, Elara lit a lantern and stepped through the passage. The air was progressively cooler, earthy with age, as she went down until finally, she reached the base of the stairs in a small chamber barely large enough to stand in.
In the room's center stood a chest, darkened with age in its wood and tarnished in brass fittings. It was of good workmanship, an art piece of furniture that spoke to another age altogether. The dust and cobwebs had been interwoven into the very fabric of the shroud, but Elara felt an odd familiarity as she approached to kneel beside it. She swept the dust away, gazing intently at the chest and the strange symbols etched thereon, corresponding to those of the walls.
She opened the simple lock with a steady hand and lifted the lid. Inside lay a collection of things, carefully wrapped in cloth: old documents, a finely wrought dagger, and a small, exquisitely carved box. These put aside, her eyes strayed to the bottom of the chest, where deep, hidden the shadow of the chests corner walls, lay some small, ornate locket. It was of silver, and etched on to it, a symbol that resembled a bird flying, its wings spread, which formed a design strange and yet familiar.
Elara picked up the locket. Its cool metal touched her skin, humming with a very faint, gentle energy that seemed to vibrate deep inside her. She looked at it more closely and saw on one side a small latch. With a soft click, the locket opened, revealing a tiny painting of a woman. The woman was unmistakable: green eyes, chestnut-colored hair; it was Elara. At least, she looked identical to her.
She caught her breath. Who could she be, and why does she look so much like Elara? Was it a grandmother or aunt that she never met? The questions tumbled into her head, but before she could consider them, she heard footsteps over her head. Her father must have returned.
Hastily, she put the locket back into the chest and rearranged the things inside to make it look as it was when she opened it. She shut the top. This finding of a secret place, the treasure within speaking of history buried long ago—beckoned her of legacy. A mix of thrill and unease swirled in her—a feeling that her life was going to change in ways she could hardly begin to fathom.
She quickened her pace up the stairs, closing her door behind her as she pushed the tapestry back into place over the door. As she blew out the lantern to go into the kitchen, she could not help but feel like she had disturbed something deep, which would set her down a path of questions: everything she had ever thought she knew about herself and her family.
It was supper, and she sat down with her father—the locket, together with the secret room, a little heavier on her mind than earlier. Further, she then purposed to know more. To delve deep into the secrets of the ancestors, and uncover the truth behind the portrait on the locket. She little realized that an act so simple was to thrust her onto a course from which there would be no turning back, forever to change her life's direction and that of a kingdom's destiny.