Member
canaryrose
Expendable
Nani
PrinceAlexus
IAmTheIsland
Carlyle
The Savant
PURRfect93
Festive
Nallore
Fractured Reflections
Part 1
Part 1
Location: Elara's Home---> Seluna Temple
Collab With: (@Dark Light)
Collab With: (@Dark Light)
The snowfall persisted without reprieve.
Dawnhaven languished silently beneath winter's relentless embrace, streets carpeted in immaculate drifts that muffled sound as effortlessly as they concealed traces of passage. The town itself seemed suspended in a delicate slumber, shrouded in an indifferent silence that neither invited nor repelled. Aside from the occasional guard, shivering at their posts, the thoroughfares remained untouched, an undisturbed canvas awaiting footsteps that rarely came.
And who could blame anyone for that, really? Someone had been killed, and Elara had been unlucky enough to witness the whole thing.
The handmaiden moved through the quiet, basket in hand, her path dictated by necessity rather than desire. The Seluna temple was not far now, and the linen bandages she carried were neatly arranged atop salves meant for frostbite and deep bruises.
There was nothing unusual about this errand.
And yet, everything about her felt misplaced.
Sleep had eluded her, leaving exhaustion etched in the contours of her face, a tension coiling around her shoulders like a serpent. Nonetheless, she appeared composed as was her custom, but the façade was fragile—like a porcelain doll hastily reassembled, its seams yet unsealed.
Snowflakes drifted down, alighting on the pale silver strands of hair escaping the edge of her hood. They dissolved into droplets almost immediately, denied the chance to linger, crystallize, and weave themselves into her presence. Oddly, she felt no sting of cold against her skin because of them; the usual bite of winter seemed dulled this morning. Perhaps she had simply withdrawn from sensation altogether, lost to the numbness that reached beyond the physical.
Or perhaps it was simply that the frost had already reached her heart and done its part.
Elara wondered briefly if it would ever thaw and beat as it used to.
It was an idle curiosity, one she would not afford the luxury of answering. Not now. Not when there were things to be done, duties to be fulfilled. And so, she pushed it aside—buried it beneath the weight of practicality, as she always had.
Turning onto a secluded road—a modest route winding gently toward the temple precinct—Elara’s stride faltered into an uncertain shuffle before halting altogether, her feet suddenly as heavy as stone. Her breath caught in her throat, a tremulous note breaking the rhythm of her breathing. Her pulse began to ascend, not like the rapid gallop of sudden panic, but the slow, sinister crescendo of anxiety stealthily tightening its hold.
Her chest constricted, the invisible fingers of fear wrapping firmly around her heart, squeezing relentlessly. The frigid air she had barely noticed moments prior seemed to thicken and sour, transforming into a smothering shroud. It was as though winter itself conspired against her, snow pressing insistently upon her lungs, suffocating as surely as a merciless hand.
A memory clawed its way to the surface, unwanted. The rush of movement through the snow, her pulse hammering against her ribs, Amaya’s hand in hers, their breaths coming fast and shallow. The feeling of being hunted. Of knowing that if they faltered, even for a moment, they wouldn’t make it.
And somewhere—near or far, real or imagined—she swore she heard footsteps.
Step by step, the world moved past him, his mind singularly focused as he paid little heed to the blanket of snow beneath his feet, the wooden structures gliding by or the shadows that danced about flickering under the watchful gaze of hanging lanterns.
Beneath the endless, starless night, the world appeared pale, with soft snow gently consuming all of Dawnhaven. Every flake and every snowy surface seemed to draw the very sound from the air, creating a rare, complete silence. There was no malice in the crystalline drops, yet they carried the promise that should he ever stop, they would smother him whole, bury him alive, and remove him from existence without remorse.
This of course was not true, but it sure felt that way. 'Would that really be so bad?'
With a sharp exhale, the single-minded man brushed the snow from his shoulders and pressed onward, his silent steps carrying him forward. His breath coiled in the frigid air as the icy wind bit at his flesh. Always moving, always stalking, his cloak swept over the footprints he left behind, erasing any trace of his passage. In this desolate landscape, he was nothing more than a ghost. The world drifted around him, drawing a solitary figure ever closer. The one he had been tracking had finally paused, and the distance between them was quickly vanishing.
He could feel it, like a sixth sense, a taste on the breeze, a tingle along the back of his neck, a palpable tension in the air. Panic. Fear. His quarry had sensed something amiss, perhaps stirred by its own survival instinct or an untapped sense of self-preservation. Whatever the cause, on a subconscious level, it knew of his presence, it knew of its own impending doom.
A satisfied grin cracked across the predator's lips as his fingers closed around his dagger, and in a flash, the remaining distance between them disappeared.
………
In an instant, Vellion drove his dagger between two ribs and straight into the heart of his prey. Death was swift for his victim. A consequence of its wandering around town where it didn't belong. Now, at the end of its life, the frail old fox would serve as nothing more than a meal and a source of valuable fur.
…….
Elsewhere, a firm, gentle hand rested on Elara's shoulder as a second cloak was drawn around her body, adding another layer of protection and warmth. "You're ok," a reassuring voice whispered confidently by her ear.
Initially, Elara scarcely perceived the burgeoning warmth.
Her body had long resigned itself to the insidious numbness seeping deep into her marrow, blurring the boundary between the piercing cold and the sudden mantle of warmth enveloping her. Her muscles, however, responded instinctively—imperceptibly leaning into the offered heat like a flower subtly yearning toward sunlight after prolonged darkness.
Still supporting her with a steady hand on her shoulders, Aliseth repeated his quiet reassurance as he moved to stand before her. His dark eyes took her in, and a flicker of concerned curiosity was quickly replaced by surprise as he realized whom he was aiding.
“It, it's you?” he stammered, struggling to capture her attention as their eyes locked.
"You're ok," he repeated, his tone now laced with a subtle hint of relief, his hands giving her a gentle squeeze—the only acceptable display of affection for one of his status in this abstract situation.
"Elara, was it?"
Aliseth wasn’t clad in his Lunarian guard’s armor, although a sword still rested at his hip. Without his cloak, he wore a simple yet slightly elegant teal tunic paired with dark trousers tucked into tall leather boots. His well-honed torso and arms—sculpted by countless hours of swordplay and shield work—had already begun to gather snow, which settled on his exposed skin without hindrance.
Dark eyes, firm and watchful, studied her with an almost startling intensity. For an instant, Elara did not recognize him. Not truly. Her thoughts were sluggish, tangled in the remnants of panic and the weariness that clung to her like frost.
The attack. Steel flashing. Blood on the snow. And him, standing among them.
A trace of raw honesty colored his voice—perhaps relief, perhaps something deeper. His gaze mirrored her fleeting recognition, though contemplation escaped her in the moment. She felt his hands tighten marginally on her shoulders—a subtle affirmation.
And it steadied her.
Not completely. But enough to diminish the tremor in her breath, enough to remind her that she was not where her mind had tried to take her.
Elara hesitated briefly, words snagged within her throat. It was uncharacteristic for vulnerability to manifest so transparently, yet exhaustion dulled her reflexive concealment. The thoughtful resonance of her name in his voice held her rooted, preventing immediate retreat.
“Yes,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she intended.
Her fingers, still clenched at her sides, flexed tentatively, reacquainting themselves with sensation. There was a wariness in the way she regarded him now, but not distrust. Just… uncertainty.
Only then did she fully register the heavy drape of the cloak upon her shoulders, the generous warmth permeating its fibers. He had relinquished it freely, exposing himself to the cold. The revelation stirred an unnamed emotion within her chest.
Elara’s gaze dropped to the snow-dusted folds of the cloak, then back up to him, searching for—what, exactly? An explanation?
But she did not ask. Instead, she exhaled again.
“I—” Her voice faltered, not in hesitation, but in unfamiliarity. In the weight of whatever had just passed between them.
She swallowed, then tried again.
“You shouldn’t have surrendered your cloak,” she managed to say at last, her tone bereft of reproach, merely pragmatic acknowledgment.
Yet, despite her words, she made no effort to relinquish the loaned garment.
A quiet moment hovered delicately between them, snowflakes drifting languidly, suspended in silent witness. Then, softly, she added—almost inaudibly—
“…But thank you.”
Aliseth's breath hung in the air between them as time appeared to freeze around them. The falling of snow seemingly slowed, the silent moment stretching out, his intense gaze ever stripping back her words or lack thereof as his eyes remained locked on hers.
"You're ok." He offered once again, a reassuring finality to his words this time. A promise that he would not say it again, that he need not say it again. He said it like the gentle closure of a completed book. It was all-encompassing, speaking on every level.
He spoke for the panic attack, for his cloak that she wore, the current interaction they shared, and the incident from before. It was reassurance, compassion, forgiveness, trust and truth all rolled into one. And, of course, within the vibrations of those simple, strong words, a hint of soothing psychic magic reverberated through the still air.
Hands slowly releasing her shoulders and sliding down to her elbows. Twisting to stand by her side, he offers out his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.
"Where are you heading?" He enquired, boldly insistent she take it and accept his escort. It left clear on his face his intention and desire to speak with her.
She drew in a breath.
This inhalation unfurled within her more freely than its predecessor. Gradually, subtly, the iron band constricting her chest loosened its merciless grip, the serpentine tension coiled tightly at the base of her spine unravelling thread by delicate thread. It wasn't a dramatic release, merely the faintest lifting of oppressive weight, yet sufficient to keep her anchored, preventing an inward retreat. Just enough resilience seeped back into her bones to sustain her upright stance.
Aliseth had positioned himself at her side now, one arm extended in a gentleman’s gesture, his intent unmistakable.
Elara knew instinctively she ought to decline.
It wasn't pride or protocol urging restraint, but the sheer unfamiliarity of dependency. Of leaning. It was a foreign concept, uncomfortable like an ill-fitting garment. Nevertheless, she found herself inexplicably rooted in place, her resolve wavering slightly beneath the allure of support. Her gaze slipped downward, absorbing the solidity of his outstretched arm. The cloak upon her shoulders retained the subtle imprint of his warmth, a quiet contradiction to her determination of solitary strength.
Her fingers twitched, hovering between refusal and acceptance.
Slowly, cautiously, Elara lifted her hand and rested it with the gentlest touch upon his proffered arm—hesitation still apparent, a subtle tremor betraying her tentative acceptance.
She swallowed.
“I am headed to the temple,” she murmured at last, her voice softer than intended, like a confession spoken into the cold.
Then, a quiet inhale. A decision.
“Shall we?”
He gave a slight nod, waiting patiently until she was ready before beginning to walk. His gaze lingered on her, just beyond the border of what was necessary, his stoic demeanor betraying nothing of the thoughts that stirred behind his eyes. But there seemed to be a thread of relief that she accepted his company.
He moved beside her with practiced grace, close enough to support her if needed, yet careful never to brush against her. He glided through the snow like a dancer, reading her movements and intentions through their touch.
The first few paces were surrendered to the silence of the snow and the bitter chill of the air. Then, at last, he spoke. Aliseth was not a man known for doubt or hesitation, yet now there was a quiet uncertainty in his voice as he searched for the right words.
"You care for her... don't you?" he said, flicking a glance toward Elara. "I mean, it's more than just duty to you. I saw it on your face that night."
He hesitated for a second.
"You... you were very brave. Are very brave." He added softly.
His words drifted into the cold night, carried away by the wind as he tilted his head back, eyes closing for a moment. A faint tension flickered through his body, and a subtle twitch crossed his eyelids.
Then, with a heavy exhale, he opened his eyes and pressed forward, shaking off the weight of a memory that threatened to pull him under.
Once more, he surrendered to the quiet of the barren street. Step by near-silent step, Dawnhaven passed him by — snow, shadows, and forgotten dreams buried beneath the endless white.
Elara had envisioned many inquiries following the onslaught—some blunt and others cloaked in sympathetic kindness. Yet, this particular query had escaped her foresight entirely.
It was a simple question. It was a dangerous question.
Her fingers curled slightly where they rested against his arm. There were a thousand ways to answer—she could dismiss it, evade it, offer a polite deflection and retreat behind duty’s impenetrable walls. It would be the expected course. The safest.
And yet…
Elara’s gaze remained forward, fixed on the path ahead, but her grip betrayed her wavering.
“She is my charge,” she said first. The response of a handmaiden. Of someone who had rehearsed this answer a thousand times over. But the truth, unbidden, rose just behind it.
“She is also—” Elara hesitated, caught in the space between what could be spoken and what must be left unsaid. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before, as if to name it too clearly would strip it of its sanctuary. “Someone for whom I would willingly surrender my life—not from obligation, but of my own volition.”
A confession in the cold. Nothing grand, nothing embellished.
Elara exhaled slowly as if the admission itself required release.
The second question lingered still. Bravery. She did not feel brave. She felt weary as if she had been holding something together with hands that had long since begun to tremble.
“I don’t know if bravery is the word,” she murmured at last. “I only know that fear does not change what must be done.”
Her lashes lowered before she turned slightly toward him.
“And you?” Her voice bore no harshness, merely quiet contemplation. “You were there as well. You stood and fought when others fell. Would you name yourself brave?”
As Aliseth continued to walk, he listened intently but did not push or pry. He gave space for Elara, for her words, for her emotions and her thoughts, glancing sporadically towards her with soft nods and gentle eyes.
It was only after she returned a question his way that the faintest curl formed in the corner of his lips, admiring her wit to turn his compliment around back at him. It was at least five long steps later before he eventually replied, looking out into the endless white as he spoke.
"Someone once told me, bravery is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act despite of."
He let that settle in the air around them, inviting a moment's silence as he took a few more steps.
"I could not be brave, because there is nothing I fear."
He replied matter-of-factly, with a sudden deadpan, pompous, arrogance. But it was the playful smirk he threw Elara’s way that gave his ruse away. A lighthearted attempt to lighten the mood. If only a little.
"No." He said more solemnly with a sigh, looking down at his feet buried in the snow.
"I was not brave, nor was I fast enough to act.
My lady...."
Dawnhaven languished silently beneath winter's relentless embrace, streets carpeted in immaculate drifts that muffled sound as effortlessly as they concealed traces of passage. The town itself seemed suspended in a delicate slumber, shrouded in an indifferent silence that neither invited nor repelled. Aside from the occasional guard, shivering at their posts, the thoroughfares remained untouched, an undisturbed canvas awaiting footsteps that rarely came.
And who could blame anyone for that, really? Someone had been killed, and Elara had been unlucky enough to witness the whole thing.
The handmaiden moved through the quiet, basket in hand, her path dictated by necessity rather than desire. The Seluna temple was not far now, and the linen bandages she carried were neatly arranged atop salves meant for frostbite and deep bruises.
There was nothing unusual about this errand.
And yet, everything about her felt misplaced.
Sleep had eluded her, leaving exhaustion etched in the contours of her face, a tension coiling around her shoulders like a serpent. Nonetheless, she appeared composed as was her custom, but the façade was fragile—like a porcelain doll hastily reassembled, its seams yet unsealed.
Snowflakes drifted down, alighting on the pale silver strands of hair escaping the edge of her hood. They dissolved into droplets almost immediately, denied the chance to linger, crystallize, and weave themselves into her presence. Oddly, she felt no sting of cold against her skin because of them; the usual bite of winter seemed dulled this morning. Perhaps she had simply withdrawn from sensation altogether, lost to the numbness that reached beyond the physical.
Or perhaps it was simply that the frost had already reached her heart and done its part.
Elara wondered briefly if it would ever thaw and beat as it used to.
It was an idle curiosity, one she would not afford the luxury of answering. Not now. Not when there were things to be done, duties to be fulfilled. And so, she pushed it aside—buried it beneath the weight of practicality, as she always had.
But practicality could not ease the heaviness in her limbs.
Nor could it explain the way her body hesitated before her mind had reason to.
Nor could it explain the way her body hesitated before her mind had reason to.
Turning onto a secluded road—a modest route winding gently toward the temple precinct—Elara’s stride faltered into an uncertain shuffle before halting altogether, her feet suddenly as heavy as stone. Her breath caught in her throat, a tremulous note breaking the rhythm of her breathing. Her pulse began to ascend, not like the rapid gallop of sudden panic, but the slow, sinister crescendo of anxiety stealthily tightening its hold.
Her chest constricted, the invisible fingers of fear wrapping firmly around her heart, squeezing relentlessly. The frigid air she had barely noticed moments prior seemed to thicken and sour, transforming into a smothering shroud. It was as though winter itself conspired against her, snow pressing insistently upon her lungs, suffocating as surely as a merciless hand.
A memory clawed its way to the surface, unwanted. The rush of movement through the snow, her pulse hammering against her ribs, Amaya’s hand in hers, their breaths coming fast and shallow. The feeling of being hunted. Of knowing that if they faltered, even for a moment, they wouldn’t make it.
And somewhere—near or far, real or imagined—she swore she heard footsteps.
Step by step, the world moved past him, his mind singularly focused as he paid little heed to the blanket of snow beneath his feet, the wooden structures gliding by or the shadows that danced about flickering under the watchful gaze of hanging lanterns.
Beneath the endless, starless night, the world appeared pale, with soft snow gently consuming all of Dawnhaven. Every flake and every snowy surface seemed to draw the very sound from the air, creating a rare, complete silence. There was no malice in the crystalline drops, yet they carried the promise that should he ever stop, they would smother him whole, bury him alive, and remove him from existence without remorse.
This of course was not true, but it sure felt that way. 'Would that really be so bad?'
With a sharp exhale, the single-minded man brushed the snow from his shoulders and pressed onward, his silent steps carrying him forward. His breath coiled in the frigid air as the icy wind bit at his flesh. Always moving, always stalking, his cloak swept over the footprints he left behind, erasing any trace of his passage. In this desolate landscape, he was nothing more than a ghost. The world drifted around him, drawing a solitary figure ever closer. The one he had been tracking had finally paused, and the distance between them was quickly vanishing.
He could feel it, like a sixth sense, a taste on the breeze, a tingle along the back of his neck, a palpable tension in the air. Panic. Fear. His quarry had sensed something amiss, perhaps stirred by its own survival instinct or an untapped sense of self-preservation. Whatever the cause, on a subconscious level, it knew of his presence, it knew of its own impending doom.
A satisfied grin cracked across the predator's lips as his fingers closed around his dagger, and in a flash, the remaining distance between them disappeared.
………
In an instant, Vellion drove his dagger between two ribs and straight into the heart of his prey. Death was swift for his victim. A consequence of its wandering around town where it didn't belong. Now, at the end of its life, the frail old fox would serve as nothing more than a meal and a source of valuable fur.
…….
Elsewhere, a firm, gentle hand rested on Elara's shoulder as a second cloak was drawn around her body, adding another layer of protection and warmth. "You're ok," a reassuring voice whispered confidently by her ear.
Initially, Elara scarcely perceived the burgeoning warmth.
Her body had long resigned itself to the insidious numbness seeping deep into her marrow, blurring the boundary between the piercing cold and the sudden mantle of warmth enveloping her. Her muscles, however, responded instinctively—imperceptibly leaning into the offered heat like a flower subtly yearning toward sunlight after prolonged darkness.
Still supporting her with a steady hand on her shoulders, Aliseth repeated his quiet reassurance as he moved to stand before her. His dark eyes took her in, and a flicker of concerned curiosity was quickly replaced by surprise as he realized whom he was aiding.
“It, it's you?” he stammered, struggling to capture her attention as their eyes locked.
"You're ok," he repeated, his tone now laced with a subtle hint of relief, his hands giving her a gentle squeeze—the only acceptable display of affection for one of his status in this abstract situation.
"Elara, was it?"
Aliseth wasn’t clad in his Lunarian guard’s armor, although a sword still rested at his hip. Without his cloak, he wore a simple yet slightly elegant teal tunic paired with dark trousers tucked into tall leather boots. His well-honed torso and arms—sculpted by countless hours of swordplay and shield work—had already begun to gather snow, which settled on his exposed skin without hindrance.
Dark eyes, firm and watchful, studied her with an almost startling intensity. For an instant, Elara did not recognize him. Not truly. Her thoughts were sluggish, tangled in the remnants of panic and the weariness that clung to her like frost.
The attack. Steel flashing. Blood on the snow. And him, standing among them.
A trace of raw honesty colored his voice—perhaps relief, perhaps something deeper. His gaze mirrored her fleeting recognition, though contemplation escaped her in the moment. She felt his hands tighten marginally on her shoulders—a subtle affirmation.
And it steadied her.
Not completely. But enough to diminish the tremor in her breath, enough to remind her that she was not where her mind had tried to take her.
Elara hesitated briefly, words snagged within her throat. It was uncharacteristic for vulnerability to manifest so transparently, yet exhaustion dulled her reflexive concealment. The thoughtful resonance of her name in his voice held her rooted, preventing immediate retreat.
“Yes,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she intended.
Her fingers, still clenched at her sides, flexed tentatively, reacquainting themselves with sensation. There was a wariness in the way she regarded him now, but not distrust. Just… uncertainty.
Only then did she fully register the heavy drape of the cloak upon her shoulders, the generous warmth permeating its fibers. He had relinquished it freely, exposing himself to the cold. The revelation stirred an unnamed emotion within her chest.
Elara’s gaze dropped to the snow-dusted folds of the cloak, then back up to him, searching for—what, exactly? An explanation?
But she did not ask. Instead, she exhaled again.
“I—” Her voice faltered, not in hesitation, but in unfamiliarity. In the weight of whatever had just passed between them.
She swallowed, then tried again.
“You shouldn’t have surrendered your cloak,” she managed to say at last, her tone bereft of reproach, merely pragmatic acknowledgment.
Yet, despite her words, she made no effort to relinquish the loaned garment.
A quiet moment hovered delicately between them, snowflakes drifting languidly, suspended in silent witness. Then, softly, she added—almost inaudibly—
“…But thank you.”
Aliseth's breath hung in the air between them as time appeared to freeze around them. The falling of snow seemingly slowed, the silent moment stretching out, his intense gaze ever stripping back her words or lack thereof as his eyes remained locked on hers.
"You're ok." He offered once again, a reassuring finality to his words this time. A promise that he would not say it again, that he need not say it again. He said it like the gentle closure of a completed book. It was all-encompassing, speaking on every level.
He spoke for the panic attack, for his cloak that she wore, the current interaction they shared, and the incident from before. It was reassurance, compassion, forgiveness, trust and truth all rolled into one. And, of course, within the vibrations of those simple, strong words, a hint of soothing psychic magic reverberated through the still air.
Hands slowly releasing her shoulders and sliding down to her elbows. Twisting to stand by her side, he offers out his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.
"Where are you heading?" He enquired, boldly insistent she take it and accept his escort. It left clear on his face his intention and desire to speak with her.
She drew in a breath.
This inhalation unfurled within her more freely than its predecessor. Gradually, subtly, the iron band constricting her chest loosened its merciless grip, the serpentine tension coiled tightly at the base of her spine unravelling thread by delicate thread. It wasn't a dramatic release, merely the faintest lifting of oppressive weight, yet sufficient to keep her anchored, preventing an inward retreat. Just enough resilience seeped back into her bones to sustain her upright stance.
Aliseth had positioned himself at her side now, one arm extended in a gentleman’s gesture, his intent unmistakable.
Elara knew instinctively she ought to decline.
It wasn't pride or protocol urging restraint, but the sheer unfamiliarity of dependency. Of leaning. It was a foreign concept, uncomfortable like an ill-fitting garment. Nevertheless, she found herself inexplicably rooted in place, her resolve wavering slightly beneath the allure of support. Her gaze slipped downward, absorbing the solidity of his outstretched arm. The cloak upon her shoulders retained the subtle imprint of his warmth, a quiet contradiction to her determination of solitary strength.
Her fingers twitched, hovering between refusal and acceptance.
Slowly, cautiously, Elara lifted her hand and rested it with the gentlest touch upon his proffered arm—hesitation still apparent, a subtle tremor betraying her tentative acceptance.
She swallowed.
“I am headed to the temple,” she murmured at last, her voice softer than intended, like a confession spoken into the cold.
Then, a quiet inhale. A decision.
“Shall we?”
He gave a slight nod, waiting patiently until she was ready before beginning to walk. His gaze lingered on her, just beyond the border of what was necessary, his stoic demeanor betraying nothing of the thoughts that stirred behind his eyes. But there seemed to be a thread of relief that she accepted his company.
He moved beside her with practiced grace, close enough to support her if needed, yet careful never to brush against her. He glided through the snow like a dancer, reading her movements and intentions through their touch.
The first few paces were surrendered to the silence of the snow and the bitter chill of the air. Then, at last, he spoke. Aliseth was not a man known for doubt or hesitation, yet now there was a quiet uncertainty in his voice as he searched for the right words.
"You care for her... don't you?" he said, flicking a glance toward Elara. "I mean, it's more than just duty to you. I saw it on your face that night."
He hesitated for a second.
"You... you were very brave. Are very brave." He added softly.
His words drifted into the cold night, carried away by the wind as he tilted his head back, eyes closing for a moment. A faint tension flickered through his body, and a subtle twitch crossed his eyelids.
Then, with a heavy exhale, he opened his eyes and pressed forward, shaking off the weight of a memory that threatened to pull him under.
Once more, he surrendered to the quiet of the barren street. Step by near-silent step, Dawnhaven passed him by — snow, shadows, and forgotten dreams buried beneath the endless white.
Elara had envisioned many inquiries following the onslaught—some blunt and others cloaked in sympathetic kindness. Yet, this particular query had escaped her foresight entirely.
It was a simple question. It was a dangerous question.
Her fingers curled slightly where they rested against his arm. There were a thousand ways to answer—she could dismiss it, evade it, offer a polite deflection and retreat behind duty’s impenetrable walls. It would be the expected course. The safest.
And yet…
Elara’s gaze remained forward, fixed on the path ahead, but her grip betrayed her wavering.
“She is my charge,” she said first. The response of a handmaiden. Of someone who had rehearsed this answer a thousand times over. But the truth, unbidden, rose just behind it.
“She is also—” Elara hesitated, caught in the space between what could be spoken and what must be left unsaid. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before, as if to name it too clearly would strip it of its sanctuary. “Someone for whom I would willingly surrender my life—not from obligation, but of my own volition.”
A confession in the cold. Nothing grand, nothing embellished.
Elara exhaled slowly as if the admission itself required release.
The second question lingered still. Bravery. She did not feel brave. She felt weary as if she had been holding something together with hands that had long since begun to tremble.
“I don’t know if bravery is the word,” she murmured at last. “I only know that fear does not change what must be done.”
Her lashes lowered before she turned slightly toward him.
“And you?” Her voice bore no harshness, merely quiet contemplation. “You were there as well. You stood and fought when others fell. Would you name yourself brave?”
As Aliseth continued to walk, he listened intently but did not push or pry. He gave space for Elara, for her words, for her emotions and her thoughts, glancing sporadically towards her with soft nods and gentle eyes.
It was only after she returned a question his way that the faintest curl formed in the corner of his lips, admiring her wit to turn his compliment around back at him. It was at least five long steps later before he eventually replied, looking out into the endless white as he spoke.
"Someone once told me, bravery is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act despite of."
He let that settle in the air around them, inviting a moment's silence as he took a few more steps.
"I could not be brave, because there is nothing I fear."
He replied matter-of-factly, with a sudden deadpan, pompous, arrogance. But it was the playful smirk he threw Elara’s way that gave his ruse away. A lighthearted attempt to lighten the mood. If only a little.
"No." He said more solemnly with a sigh, looking down at his feet buried in the snow.
"I was not brave, nor was I fast enough to act.
My lady...."
