The air of the capital always smelled of fresh bread, cat piss, and lies.
Elara walked fast, clutching the basket of herbs against her chest, eyes fixed ahead. It wasn't arrogance—it was survival. Each step was a silent battle.
She remembered Sister Veridiana's words from the orphanage: "People need scapegoats, child. Blaming others lightens the weight of a miserable life."The nun always said that the pendant Elara wore was a curse, a link to a sinful past she should forget.
But Elara never agreed. Her fingers found the silver shape beneath her clothes. To her, it wasn't a mark of shame, but proof that love had once existed in a cruel world.While others saw only betrayal and her mother's death, Elara clung to the only fragment of truth she had: her mother had died protecting this pendant—and her.
Master Alaric's clinic appeared ahead like a sanctuary. The scent of rosemary and alcohol swept the filth of the streets from her lungs.
"Pass me the hyssop, girl," his deep voice echoed among piles of books and glass jars. Master Alaric was a man well into his sixties.
"Here, sir," she said proudly.
"Don't tell me you've already read the compendium on humors I lent you."
"I have, sir," she answered, steady-handed. "And I partly disagree. Galen ignores the influence of diet on black bile in women."
Alaric stopped, eyebrow raised. His face—creased and skeptical—softened for a moment."God spare me from raising a scholar," he muttered.
"You believe women can heal the sick, don't you? You wouldn't have kept me otherwise."
"Pride doesn't suit anyone, least of all women," he replied, though his eyes warmed. "But… you do make me proud."
Elara smiled faintly. He'd never say it outright, but she knew.
Hours passed. Her fingers danced between bottles and powders as she ground valerian root. The sun crossed the window, painting golden stripes on the floor.
For the first time since leaving the orphanage, she felt she had found her place.
Then, abruptly: "Enough for today. I have a family, and you'll be back at dawn."
"I wish I could stay a little longer…"
"Go home—or better yet, have you found a decent place to sleep?"
"Who would shelter a prostitute's daughter? Sometimes even the rats won't share a roof with me."
"No excuses. I won't have a woman in my clinic who sleeps in a brothel."
"Please don't take this from me. You know how much I love this work."
The old man said nothing. He simply put on his cloak and left. Admiration and anger fought silently inside him.
The door clicked shut behind her. The streets glowed with the dying sun. The fastest way home was through the main square, but each step that way felt like walking toward shame.
At the fountain, she paused to breathe.
"Well, well, the witch," a man sneered, pointing to the pendant that had slipped from her dress. "Still wearing the trinket your mama got from her lover—before she died like a bitch."
The words sliced through her. When rough hands grabbed her arm, panic flared.
"Kareth veren mor…" she whispered—nonsense words spoken like an ancient curse.
"The hell—she's crazy!"
"You all thought I was a witch?" she cried, her voice breaking between fury and disbelief.
"Let's get out of here!" The men fled like rats.
Elara exhaled shakily. The name "witch" followed every woman who dared to heal.
She turned toward Madame Eleonor's house—the only one who had ever given her a roof.
The noise of Augusta Street grew louder. Shameful, they called it—but the city's finest men frequented it.
She climbed the stairs, ignoring the gazes, and locked herself in her room.
Hours passed before Madame Eleonor knocked softly."Are you all right, my dear?"
"Yes, madame. Just… a hard day."
"That grumpy Alaric again?"
"He wants me to find a decent place to live."
"That's the price we pay. The question is—what will you do about it?"
"I can't find anywhere. Everyone knows about my mother."
"Your mother's story is legend, darling. You could use it. You're as beautiful as she was. Men would line up to see if Elara shares her mother's talents."
Elara's voice sharpened. "So for girls like me, that's all that's left? To spread our legs?"
Her thoughts drifted to the river that winter morning—the birth she had helped, the new life she'd saved. She was good at healing. She wouldn't end like they expected.
"Don't blame me. The world is cruel to women who think."
Elara said nothing. She turned away and promised herself: she would never sell her honor for gold.
As Madame Eleonor walked toward the stairs, she paused at the door."Hurry up, dear. The King's Contractor is coming tonight—and I want the best on display."
"I'd rather stay in my room."
"The house is full. You'll serve drinks, not men."
A chill ran through Elara's spine. Powerful men never meant safety.
Half an hour later, she was in the main hall, wearing a modest black dress, tray in hand.
Outside, hooves echoed. Then silence. The music stopped.
A man stood at the entrance, flanked by guards in black armor.
"Bow before the King's Contractor—Lord Valerius!" cried a herald.
Madame Eleonor glided to him, her smile sweet and false. "My lord, welcome. I am Madame Eleonor."
He allowed her touch, but his eyes—ice-green and sharp—scanned the room, judging, consuming.They passed over nobles, courtesans… and stopped.
The world slowed for Elara. She felt his gaze before she even looked up.When she did, their eyes met—and the air itself seemed to tremble.
There was no lust. No disgust. Only recognition.As if he could see through her dress and façade, straight into the girl by the river who had brought life into the world.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. And those eyes—green as the forest she once dreamed of—were too familiar. She had seen them once before... in a newborn's face.
"Did you see his hands?" whispered Olivia beside her.
"What about them?" Elara murmured.
"They're strong. The kind that make a woman obey."
"They're hands that take lives."
"On the contrary," Olivia smirked. "That's exactly the kind I like."
Valerius looked away, following Madame Eleonor upstairs.But the connection lingered—electric, dangerous.
What was that?