Elara lived in the hushed periphery of Oakhaven, a village nestled beside the Whisperwood. It was a place where sunlight dappled through ancient leaves and the air hummed with a subtle, untamed energy – a magic most villagers chose to ignore. Elara couldn't. It clung to her like the damp morning mist, a constant reminder of the silence that had swallowed her voice five years ago. A curse, they whispered, though no one remembered its origin, only its cruel permanence. She communicated through a worn leather-bound journal, its pages filled with elegant script that spoke volumes her tongue could not.
Her days were spent tending her small garden, the vibrant blooms a stark contrast to the muted colours of her life. She found solace in the earth, in the silent understanding of growing things. But even here, the weight of her unspoken words pressed down on her.
One crisp autumn evening, a stranger arrived in Oakhaven. He rode a midnight-black horse, his cloak the colour of storm clouds, and his eyes, when they flickered towards Elara across the dusty village square, held an unsettling intensity. He asked no questions, offered no name, simply took lodgings at the Crooked Tankard, his presence a ripple in the familiar stillness of Oakhaven.