Morning light passed through the windows of the old castle, brushing against stone walls that had seen better days. The halls were quiet, too quiet, and carried that damp smell that never really went away, no matter how often the servants scrubbed hard. The dust always somehow lingered, clinging stubbornly, as if the place itself had long stopped caring.
Somewhere outside, a bird sang, like usual, which slipped past the cracked glass and into the chamber where the princess sat, her hands resting lightly on the sill.
Elara traced the rough edge of the stone with her fingertips as usual—she knew it by heart now, every chip every uneven line. She'd walked this room too many times to count. Too many lonely mornings, too many evenings that ended the same way: in silence.
She tilted her face toward the warmth. She couldn't see it—of course not—but she liked to pretend. Maybe sunlight really was golden like the stories said. Maybe not. She'd never know. Still, the heat against her skin let her imagine, and that was something.
Behind her, the maids whispered again. Like they always did. They thought they were slick, but to her, they might as well have shouted.
"A blind heir is no heir at all. Such a shame," one maid said under her breath.
"Quiet," the other hissed. "She'll hear you—"
Elara's lips pressed together. I always hear. She always heard them but didn't answer. Words like that still hurt, even though she told herself she was used to them and try to pretend as if it doesn't.
She rose up, her dress brushing across the floor, and spoke calmly—too calmly, maybe. "I'll take breakfast in the garden today." She had been to the garden countless times but never really seen the garden, but that didn't matter. "Leave me."
The maids left in a rush, skirts rustling. The silence that followed felt heavy, but she was used to it by now.
Alone again, Elara folded her hands in her lap. She told herself she was fine with this life, with the loneliness, but some part of her still ached—quietly, stubbornly—for more. For someone who wouldn't look at her and see only blindness. For someone who wouldn't see a curse.
Then, as midday crept closer, something shifted.
It was faint at first: hooves on stone. She froze, her heart jumping. Visitors? No one ever came here. Then came the harder sounds—the scrape of armor and voices of men dismounting.
Her fingers clenched against the chair's arm.
Moments later, the head maid entered, her tone brisk but almost nervous. "Your Highness, new attendants have been assigned to you."
"New attendants?" Elara asked, brows lifting, slightly surprised, she never had anyone visit, not even her own father, the king, who rarely visits her, his own daughter. Why, now? She gave a nod. "Send them in."
The door opened. Footsteps followed—steady, deliberate. A man. Behind him came a quicker, lighter step, almost skipping to keep up.
"Your Highness," the man said, his voice low and steady. The sound of metal brushed against the floor—he was kneeling.
Unsure, Elara lifted her hand, searching. Instead of leaving her hand hanging in the air, the man guided it gently to the cold steel of his armor. Beneath it, she felt warmth. That simple kindness startled her more than his words, who would've thought?
"I am Sir Rowan," he said. "By the king's order, I will serve as your knight. And this is my sister, Mira, who will serve as your maid."
"It's an honor, Your Highness," the girl added quickly, almost tripping over her words.
Elara's throat tightened. She listened to them breathe, filling the silence of her room. It had been so long since anyone spoke to her this way—not with pity, not with disdain, but simply… with respect.
Finally, she let herself smile. "Rise, Sir Rowan. And you too, Mira. Welcome."
Hope stirred, small but insistent. Maybe, just maybe, the gods hadn't forgotten her after all.