Charlotte limped into the garden that evening, where Elias practiced sword forms in the fading light.
Mira followed, quiet as a shadow.
Elias completed his routine, sweat clinging to his brow, blade still humming in the air. Charlotte turned to the child who had saved her life.
"You haven't spoken much since the attack," she said gently.
Mira met her gaze. Those dark eyes—sharp, unreadable. Then she stepped forward and raised her hands.
Her fingers moved—not hesitantly, but with swift, practiced precision.
Charlotte stilled.
Mira was signing.
"I want to be your guard."
Charlotte blinked, startled.
"Mira…"
The girl stepped closer, fists clenched with resolve. Her hands moved again.
"You saved me from the ashes. You gave me a name. A home. A voice. Let me use it."
Elias approached, voice low and steady. "She means it. I've seen that fire before."
Charlotte dropped to one knee, so she was eye level with the girl.
"You're still a child."
Mira didn't flinch. "So were you. When you stood before the Council."
That struck deep.
Charlotte's smile came soft and bittersweet. "Then we start at dawn."
The Symbol Expands
Mira was the first of the Vigilants.
But not the last.
Others came—drawn by whispers of a princess who bled for the forgotten. A one-armed baker. A silent stable boy. A retired scout with a single eye. A tavern girl who could shoot a coin off a rooftop at fifty paces.
Charlotte trained with them herself—shoulder to shoulder. Sword to sword. Bruised knuckles, bloodied palms. No titles. No excuses.
She taught them what she remembered from her former life: formation drills, coded signals, pressure points. And most important of all—sign language, now known as Crownhand—the silent discipline that would become their bond in battle.
And Mira—Mira led from the front. No longer a symbol.
But a soldier.
A silent blade in the making.