Elira was born to silence. Not the peaceful hush of twilight, but the kind of silence that fills spaces left by things lost—home, family, name. When the fire tore through her village, it didn't just steal people; it erased them. At five, she was found beneath the scorched remnants of a cottage, clutching a blackened wooden doll whose painted eyes had melted away.
The men who found her debated leaving her. Too many mouths to feed, too few hands willing to care. But one of them, a castle steward named Gereth, took pity. Or perhaps he simply saw an opportunity. "We'll make her useful," he'd said. And useful she became.
At seven, she scrubbed stone floors until her fingers cracked. By ten, she could balance trays of roast duck and polished silver goblets with the ease of a dancer. She knew when to vanish, when to appear, and never to speak unless spoken to. Servants whispered she had no tongue. The truth? She just knew better than to speak where no one listened.
