Now the palace gates opened wide, and Queen Isolde ran to him, burying her face in his shoulder. Elders in white robes bowed low. Drums mourned softly. The funeral rites had already begun.
That same evening, in a cramped compound on the far edge of Briar Glen, a girl stepped outside with a cracked plastic bucket. Elara. Thin, barefoot, eyes permanently lowered. She lived with her uncle, Lord Baldwin—one of the twelve high councilors—his wife Margot, and their two spoiled daughters, Vivienne and Celeste. To them, Elara was not family. She was free labor.
“Elara! Water—now!” Margot’s voice cut across the yard.
Vivienne smirked from the doorway. “Born to fetch and carry, that one.”
Celeste laughed. “Don’t come back slow, or the dogs get your mat again.”
Elara only nodded, gripped the bucket tighter, and walked toward the village well. She had learned long ago to hide pain behind a small, polite smile.
She did not know that everything was about to change.