A few days later, as the camp settled beneath a leaden overcast sky, the wind howled through the shattered windows of the makeshift inn. The air was thick with the acrid scent of wet earth and the mournful bite of ash. Charlotte sat alone in the dimly lit corner of the room, her gaze fixed on Mira, who rested on a low cot. With slow, absent motions, the girl traced delicate, forgotten patterns in the dust, lost in some secret world of memory and silence.
The door creaked open, and a figure entered—a woman bent with age, yet her sharp eyes gleamed with the wisdom of years and the weariness of survival. She moved toward Charlotte with a careful, measured grace, as if the weight of the world bore down upon her frail shoulders. This was Anwen, one of the last elders of the village.
Charlotte stood instinctively, but Anwen raised a gnarled hand, signaling her to remain seated. "No need for formalities, child. I'm no queen."
Charlotte inclined her head slightly, the air heavy with the unspoken understanding of the burdens they both carried.
"I knew you with the child," Anwen murmured, her voice hoarse, laden with the weight of unspoken sorrows. "I knew her mother. A good woman. The healer of our village."
Charlotte's heart twisted at the words. Her instincts urged her to question, to demand the details, but the grief etched on Anwen's face silenced her. Instead, she gestured for the woman to sit.
Anwen lowered herself slowly into a nearby chair, as if the weight of her years and memories made even the simplest motion a struggle. Her eyes grew distant, clouded by the fog of recollection.
"They attacked at night," she whispered, her voice fragile, trembling like the last leaf of autumn. "Raiders. Not soldiers. Just those who thrive on chaos. They crept in like shadows, vultures feeding on the remnants of life." Her words faltered, a sharp breath caught in her throat. "Her mother… she hid Mira. Hid her in the well behind their home, praying she'd be safe. But… they—" Anwen's voice cracked, a sob caught between words. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "They burned the house down. Took everything. Took everyone."
The room grew colder as Charlotte felt the weight of Anwen's words sink into her chest. Her mind struggled to fully comprehend the scope, but the sorrow in the woman's eyes made it unnecessary to understand. It was clear from the silence, from the thick air, that the pain ran deep.
Anwen allowed the silence to stretch between them before she spoke again, her voice now little more than a whisper. "After that… she never spoke. Not a word. Some thought she'd never speak again, that silence became her armor. It's how she survived, I believe."
The elder reached into the folds of her tattered coat, her hands shaking as she retrieved something small and precious. She held it up—a thin, woven bracelet. Its threads were worn, colors faded by time and suffering, yet there was something inescapably sacred about it.
"Her mother gave this to her," Anwen said softly. "I kept it, hoping someone would come for the girl, someone who would understand. But no one did. Until now."
Charlotte's breath caught as she accepted the bracelet, her fingers trembling. The delicate strands of string felt heavy in her hands, laden with grief, history, and a burden that seemed impossible to bear. Slowly, she turned her gaze toward Mira, who still sat motionless across the room, her eyes cast down, never meeting Charlotte's.
She was a mystery—a quiet, fractured soul encased in the fragile body of a child.
Charlotte stood and approached her slowly, her every step measured, each movement deliberate. She knelt beside the cot, dust swirling around her as she gently took Mira's wrist. The frayed bracelet lay in her palm, a symbol of loss, of survival, of something lost and yet still clinging to the edge of hope.
Mira did not flinch, did not pull away. Her eyes slowly rose, meeting Charlotte's with a hesitant flicker of recognition—was it trust? Or merely the shared weight of unspoken grief?
With shaking hands, Charlotte fastened the bracelet around Mira's wrist. The simple gesture was a promise, a silent vow of care. Charlotte held the girl's gaze for a long moment, the weight of the world pressing on her chest. Without a word, she leaned forward and kissed Mira's forehead—a soft, unspoken vow.
"You're safe now," Charlotte whispered, her voice little more than a breath. "And I'll never leave you behind."
In that moment, the vow was not just for Mira. It was a promise to herself, to her kingdom, to the woman she was becoming. No matter what shadows lay ahead, no matter the burdens of the crown she was destined to bear, she would have Mira by her side—and she would never allow her to be left behind again.