Elias watched her transformation unfold, each step more profound than the last.
He saw her rise with the sun, hair tangled and eyes swollen from sleepless nights, yet still, she mounted her horse and rode into the next village, chin held high. He watched as she knelt in the dirt beside an old man rebuilding his barn, quietly offering nails from her skirt pocket. He saw her gather a fevered child to her breast when others recoiled, her warmth the only comfort the child knew.
Elias followed her at a distance as she visited grieving mothers, bowed before crippled war veterans, and listened to the most harrowing accounts of brutality, never flinching, never turning away. Every time she collapsed in exhaustion, she remade herself, stronger, more resolute.
Once, in a village gripped by fury, a mob surrounded their envoy, hurling curses at the crown. Charlotte stepped forward alone—no guards, no armor—just a girl, her dress soiled with dust, tears glistening on her cheeks. She named them. She remembered their losses. And then, she wept with them. By nightfall, the village had offered them bread and stew.
In another town, the local lord refused to grant them entry. Elias moved to unsheath his sword, but Charlotte stayed him. Instead, she asked that the children gather around. She told them stories—tales from their childhood, embellished with playful flourishes and theatrical pauses. Eventually, the lord, brow furrowed, appeared and invited them in.
And then there was the girl.
It was a bitter morning, fog clinging to the remnants of a village nearly consumed by ash. Elias noticed her first—a small, shivering form huddled beside a blackened well. She was no more than six, her hair matted with soot, her face streaked with dirt. Her eyes—wide, unblinking—followed them in silence, as if trapped between worlds.
She did not speak. Not when Charlotte knelt and held out her hand. Not when bread was placed in her lap. She simply stared, as if bound by the ghosts of her home.
That night, Charlotte wrapped the girl in her own cloak, gently brushing her hair away from her face. She hummed forgotten lullabies, her voice soft and fragile. The girl did not stir—not a sound, not a tear—but she did not fight when Charlotte cradled her into the warmth of their tent.
"She has no one," Charlotte whispered to Elias as they sat by the fire, watching the girl sleep. "No family. No voice. But perhaps… she doesn't have to be alone."
Elias said nothing, but his presence at the entrance of the tent, knife in hand and eyes vigilant, spoke volumes.
Charlotte named her Mira, and from that moment on, the quiet child never strayed far from Charlotte's side—always within arm's reach, always a silent companion.
Mira became a quiet testament to Charlotte's strength—not in speeches or grand gestures, but in the simple act of offering a soul the protection it so desperately needed.
Elias watched them both.
And slowly, imperceptibly, his heart began to thaw.