Elara

The pale morning light filtered through the high, narrow windows of the palace kitchen, casting long shadows across the worn stone floor. Elara Winfield wiped her hands on her apron, her fingers aching from the cold water of the washbasin. The kitchen was already alive with the bustle of servants preparing the morning meal, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the sharp aroma of herbs and roasting meat.

Elara worked in silence, her mind elsewhere, as it often was during these early hours. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the low murmur of conversation around her faded into the background, becoming a distant hum as she lost herself in thought. Her fingers moved mechanically, slicing and dicing with practiced ease, while her heart drifted to another place entirely—a place where she was more than just a palace maid.

Her thoughts were filled with the memory of music. The old lute she kept hidden beneath her bed called to her, its strings silent for far too long. She could almost feel the smooth wood beneath her fingertips, the way the notes would flow like water when she played, filling the air with melodies that spoke of dreams and distant lands.

But here, in the heart of the palace, there was no room for such fantasies. Her life was a simple one, dictated by the needs of the noble family she served. Her days were spent in service, her nights in quiet solitude, with only the faint strains of a forgotten tune to keep her company. It was a life of routine, predictable and safe, but suffocating all the same.

As the morning wore on, Elara found herself slipping away from the kitchen as soon as her duties allowed. With a loaf of bread tucked under her arm and a small jar of honey borrowed from the larder, she made her way through the maze of corridors that led to the servant's quarters. She moved quickly, keeping her head down and avoiding the watchful eyes of the palace guards. Though she had learned to navigate the palace without drawing attention, there was always a lingering fear that one day she would be caught.

Her destination was a small, hidden corner of the palace gardens—a place she had discovered by chance on one of her rare moments of freedom. It was a secluded spot, far from the prying eyes of the court, where the walls were covered in ivy and the air was filled with the sweet scent of jasmine. A crumbling stone bench sat beneath an ancient oak tree, its gnarled roots twisting through the earth like the fingers of some long-forgotten giant.

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Here, in the stillness of the garden, Elara could breathe. She settled on the bench, placing the bread and honey beside her. For a moment, she simply sat, letting the quiet wash over her. The sounds of the palace seemed distant, muffled by the thick greenery that surrounded her. It was as if she had stepped into another world, a world where time moved more slowly and the burdens of her life were left behind.

With a sigh, she reached for the lute she had hidden in the hollow of the tree’s roots. The wood was cool to the touch, and as she ran her fingers along the strings, she felt a familiar warmth bloom in her chest. She closed her eyes and began to play, the notes soft and tentative at first, like the whisper of a breeze through the leaves.

The melody grew stronger, flowing from her fingers as if it had been waiting to be released. It was a song of longing, of dreams unspoken and desires unfulfilled. The music filled the garden, weaving through the air like a living thing, carrying with it all the emotions she kept locked away in her heart.

Elara lost herself in the music, her mind and soul entwined with the melody. She did not notice the figure standing at the edge of the garden, watching her with a gaze that was both curious and intent. Nor did she hear the soft rustle of armor as the knight took a step closer, drawn to the sound of her lute like a moth to a flame.

It was only when the last note faded into the stillness that she sensed she was no longer alone. Her fingers stilled on the strings, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head, her heart pounding in her chest.

There, standing in the dappled light of the garden, was a man she recognized only from a distance—the knight, Sir Aldric of Lysander. His expression was unreadable, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. She had seen him many times before, always from afar, a figure of strength and authority. But now, here in this secret place, he was something more—something unexpected.

Elara rose to her feet, the lute clutched to her chest as if it could shield her from whatever was to come. She had no words to offer, no explanation for why she was here, in this forbidden place, playing music that no one was supposed to hear. All she could do was stand in silence, waiting for his judgment.