The wind whipped Elara's hair across her face as she surveyed the battlefield. At sixteen, she was already a legend whispered on Eldorian battlefields - Elara, the Sword Princess, a whirlwind of steel and fury. The Norrean army, once a formidable force, now lay scattered like broken toys across the blood-soaked earth. Eigth years earlier, at the tender age of eight, her skill with a blade had been so exceptional she'd been snatched from her village and thrust into the Eldorian army. Now, at sixteen, she'd led the final, devastating charge that shattered the Norrean Kingdom, a kingdom that once held dominion over the western lands, now a conquered territory under Eldorian rule.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and victory, a heady mix that usually exhilarated her. But today, a strange hollowness settled in her chest. The cheers of the soldiers, the triumphant cries, felt distant, muffled. She'd done it. She'd conquered Norrea. And yet...
A grizzled veteran, his face etched with the map of a thousand battles, approached. "Princess Elara," he said, his voice gruff but laced with respect, "you've done what no one thought possible. You've brought Norrea to its knees."
Elara nodded, her gaze fixed on the carnage before her. "At what cost?" she murmured, her voice barely audible above the din of the battlefield.
The veteran looked at her, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "War is a cruel mistress, Princess," he said softly. "It demands a heavy price."
The victory celebrations were lavish, a spectacle of feasting and revelry. But Elara found little joy in them. The accolades, the praise, felt hollow. She was lauded as a hero, a legend, yet she felt utterly alone. The men around her, their faces flushed with wine and triumph, spoke of their bravery, their skill. No one spoke of the fear, the loss, the weight of command that had rested on her young shoulders. No one understood the burden she carried.
Over the following months, the whispers of her heroism began to fade. The official histories, penned by men, focused on the strategies, the tactics, the triumphs of the Eldorian army. Elara's name, once synonymous with victory, was gradually relegated to a footnote, a mere detail in a larger narrative. A woman's contribution, it seemed, was easily forgotten.
Five years passed. The memory of the Sword Princess faded from the public consciousness. A woman's triumphs, it seemed, were fleeting. Her name, once a battle cry, became a forgotten whisper. Disillusioned, Elara quietly relinquished her command. She shed her armor, traded her sword for a simple gardening trowel, and retreated to a small cottage in the countryside, seeking solace in the quiet rhythm of nature. She found a measure of peace tending her small garden, far from the clamor of court and the brutality of war. It was there, in the quiet solitude of the countryside, five years after the fall of Norrea, that she met Jack.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fiery orange and soft purple, she saw him, a young man lost and bewildered, stumbling through her garden. He was a stranger, yet there was something in his eyes, a vulnerability, that touched her heart. He spoke in a language she didn't understand, yet his distress was universal. She offered him shelter, a bowl of her simple stew, and a listening ear. In his eyes, she saw a reflection of her own past, a shared experience of loss and displacement. And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet beauty of her garden, she found a connection she hadn't expected, a sense of belonging she thought she'd lost forever. The Sword Princess, once celebrated and then forgotten, found a new purpose, a new life, in the unexpected kindness she showed a stranger.
The wind whispered secrets through the tall grass as Elara knelt, weeding her small vegetable patch. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the countryside in hues of orange and purple. A sound, a rustling in the undergrowth, broke the quiet solitude. She looked up, her trowel pausing mid-stroke.
A young man, his clothes torn and dusty, stumbled into the clearing. He was dishevelled, his hair a mess, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. He looked utterly lost.
Elara rose slowly, her hand instinctively going to the small, worn knife she kept tucked into her apron. It wasn't the sword she'd wielded on the battlefields of Norrea, but it was familiar, comforting.
"Good evening," Elara said, her voice calm and measured, attempting to project an air of reassurance. "Are you alright?" She spoke in Eldorian, the common tongue of the land.
The young man stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. He clearly didn't understand her. He gestured wildly, pointing at himself, then at the surrounding woods, his face etched with panic.
Elara lowered her knife slightly. "You're lost," she stated, more as an observation than a question. She switched to simpler words, hoping he might understand some of them. "Lost... in woods... need help?"
He nodded frantically, relief flooding his features. He tried to speak again, a jumble of sounds that were clearly not Eldorian. He pointed at his mouth, then at her, then back at the woods, his expression pleading.
Elara smiled gently. "You don't speak Eldorian," she said, her voice soft. "It's alright. Come. I have food." She gestured towards her cottage, a small, humble dwelling nestled amongst the trees.
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting nervously around before following her. As they walked, he attempted to communicate again, drawing crude pictures in the dirt with a stick. He drew a picture of tall buildings, strange metal beasts with wheels, and small, rectangular objects.
Elara watched him, her curiosity piqued. These were not images of Eldoria. "Where... are you from?" she asked, choosing her words carefully.
He pointed at one of his drawings - the picture of the strange metal beasts - and made a rumbling sound that might have been an attempt to mimic their engine. Then, he pointed at himself and made a confused face.
Elara understood. He was a stranger, a traveler from a land beyond her comprehension. A land that seemed to possess technology far beyond anything she knew. She felt a strange kinship with him, a shared experience of displacement, of being an outsider. As they reached her cottage, she felt a warmth spread through her, a feeling she hadn't experienced in years. She had found a connection, a purpose, in this unexpected encounter. The Sword Princess, once a celebrated hero and then a forgotten woman, was no longer alone.
The first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of bruised plum and angry orange. Before Elara could even fully wake, a furious pounding on her cottage door shattered the fragile peace. She knew, with a chilling certainty, what it meant. They were here for Jack.
She moved with the practiced grace of a seasoned warrior, her senses sharp despite the sleep still clinging to her. Five men, their faces grim, their weapons drawn, burst through the door. They were villagers, armed with crude clubs and rusty swords, their eyes burning with a mixture of fear and righteous anger.
"He's in there!" one of them shouted, his voice thick with barely-controlled rage. "The Mythian spy!"
Elara didn't hesitate. She moved like a wraith, a blur of motion. Her fists, honed by years of training, connected with bone and muscle with sickening thuds. Five men went down, groaning in pain, their weapons scattered across the floor. One, however, managed to scramble away, his eyes wide with terror, before disappearing into the woods.
Elara knew this was only a temporary reprieve. She could hear the distant sounds of approaching footsteps - the heavy tread of trained soldiers. She raced towards the village square, a dreadful certainty gripping her heart.
In the center of the village square, a makeshift gallows stood stark against the morning sky. Bound to it, his face pale but resolute, was Jack. A hushed silence hung over the crowd, broken only by the occasional sob or whispered prayer. Dracirr McMahon, his expression cold and impassive, stood before Jack, his words a torrent of Eldorian.
Elara burst through the crowd, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She reached Jack, her eyes locking with his, a silent exchange of fear and determination passing between them.
Dracirr, noticing her arrival, gestured impatiently. "Woman, interpret!" he commanded, his voice sharp and devoid of warmth.
Elara tried. She attempted to translate Dracirr's words, but the language barrier proved insurmountable. Jack's desperate attempts to explain his innocence were met with stony silence and suspicion. The crowd's murmurs turned to frustrated shouts. No one understood. The elders, seeing Jack's silence as confirmation of his guilt, reached a grim decision. He would die.
The executioner raised his sword. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. In that moment, time seemed to slow. Elara's mind raced, searching for a solution, a miracle. There was none. She threw herself into Jack's arms, her body shielding his.
"I'm going to sa-" she began, her voice choked with emotion, a desperate plea lost in the growing silence.
The sword fell. The blade sliced through the air, tearing into Elara's back with a sickening thud. Her unfinished sentence, a fragment of a promise, hung in the air, a poignant testament to her selfless act. Elara's blood, warm and thick, erupted, painting a gruesome tapestry across Jack's clothes, a macabre symbol of her sacrifice. She collapsed, her body limp and still, her eyes closed, her final breath a silent whisper lost in the horrified gasps of the crowd. The Sword Princess, once celebrated and then forgotten