The days in the attic didn't become any easier just because Elara had ignited a spark of survival. Hunger and cold remained ever-present tortures, but her mindset was entirely different.
She no longer passively endured; instead, she used every conscious moment to "listen" and "watch."
This dilapidated attic, though a prison, was surprisingly positioned to catch snippets of information. It seemed to be near a corner of the manor grounds, perhaps not far above a place where servants occasionally gathered or passed by.
Like the most cautious cat, Elara curled in the shadows near the door or a corner, straining her ears to capture the fragmented words drifting up from below or afar.
"...The tithe is due again this year. Father John was just here yesterday pushing for it. If this keeps up, how will we survive the winter..." This was the hushed complaint of serfs, filled with a dual fear of the Church and the lord.
"Did you hear? The Lord Baron went to the county town a few days ago. Seems there was some unpleasantness with the Earl's people..." Two slightly higher-ranking servants gossiped stealthily, their voices laced with speculation and a touch of malice.
"...Steward Gregor lost his temper again, gave the stable boy a thrashing just because there was a bit of sand mixed in the horse feed..." This was everyday violence and oppression, as natural as breathing.
"...Things are unstable on the border again. Seems like... like Duke Reinhardt's army is mobilizing... Tsk, whenever that lord makes a move, it's never good news..."
"Duke Reinhardt"—the name struck like thunder. Even whispered lowly in idle chat, it carried a chilling weight. Elara instantly connected this name with the vague sense of dread from her fragmented memories, marking it in her mind as a top-tier danger signal.
Besides listening, she also observed diligently. Through cracks in the window, she could see activity in a corner of the courtyard below. She noticed that whenever knights in simple armor walked past, all servants and serfs would immediately lower their heads, respectfully moving aside. When the priest in his black robe and cross occasionally made his rounds, people's attitudes shifted to an almost subservient piety. When the Baron's family passed, it was yet another complex mix of sycophancy and fear.
Hierarchy, like the air itself, was omnipresent, suffocating.
Elara worked hard to integrate this observed information with the chaotic, child's-perspective memory fragments of the original 'Elara'. The original memories were mostly of hunger, cold, and fear, but interspersed were notions of the "Lord Baron's" absolute authority, a direct fear of "Steward Gregor," and a certain habitual reverence associated with the church bells.
Gradually, a blurry yet brutal power pyramid took shape in her mind:
At the apex was the distant King of Ostern, rarely discussed directly, but the source of all legitimate authority.
Below him were the true power holders—the great nobles: Dukes, Marquises, Earls, alongside the formidable Church. That "Duke Reinhardt" was clearly a heavyweight among them, his name seemingly tied to war, iron fists, and fear. The Church's power was equally significant; a Bishop's will could influence a local lord's decisions, while the local priest held sway over people's spiritual lives and some secular power (like the tithe).
Further down was the level she could directly interact with: the Lord Baron, the immediate ruler of this land; the knights under his command, enforcers of violence; Steward Gregor, her most direct source of oppression currently; and at the very bottom, serfs like herself, along with a few slightly higher-status freemen or servants.
Elara applied her past life's knowledge framework to this structure, feeling waves of cold dread. This was an era with virtually no legal protection for the lower classes. Power was truth; might determined order. An individual's fate depended entirely on the whims of those above.
And she herself was at the very bottom of this pyramid, perhaps even worse off than an ordinary serf—parentless, dependent, locked away in this place to fend for herself.
The difficulty level for survival was hellish.
She needed to learn more, specific information, quickly. What were the particular circumstances of this barony? What were Steward Gregor's weaknesses? Was it possible… to escape from here?
Elara took a deep breath of the cold, foul air, suppressing the anxiety in her heart. She knew that before she could take any effective action, she needed more patience and keener observation.
But at least, she was no longer the soul lying on the straw heap, knowing only despair and tears. Her mind had begun to work, like a hunter's net silently unfurling in the darkness.