CURSED

CHAPTER THREE - ELARA

Elara awoke just as the first light of dawn crept through the small window of her room. The early morning chill nipped at her skin as she swung her legs out of bed and reached for her training clothes—a well-worn set of black trousers and a sturdy short-sleeved tunic. The fabric was thick, durable, and familiar, offering a sense of comfort as she pulled it on. Her leather boots, scuffed from years of use, were the last piece, laced tightly for the day ahead.

Her dagger, its sheath strapped around her thigh, was a weight she had long grown used to, though its presence always reminded her to be ready for whatever the day might bring. She brushed her fingers over the sheath, ensuring the blade was secure before walking over to the small mirror hanging on the back of her door.

She rarely lingered before the mirror—there was seldom any need—but today, her fingers moved through her hair, gathering the thick, loose curls into a simple braid. The glass reflected her dull blue eyes, their shape gently slanted and high, a stark contrast to her father's. Though she had never known her mother, she assumed these eyes belonged to her, a silent inheritance from the woman who had passed in childbirth.

She tied the braid off quickly and stepped out the door, pausing for a moment to glance back inside. Her father was slumped over in the dining chair, passed out with his arm coated in the remnants of the dinner she had prepared for him the previous night. The half-eaten bread and cold stew had spilled across the table and onto his sleeve, a familiar scene she had long grown used to. With a sigh, she stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her, leaving the mess and her father's drunken stupor behind.

The cool morning air greeted her as she began her daily run, her boots thudding softly on the dirt path that wound through the outskirts of Willowick. The village was still, save for the occasional bird call or distant rustle of leaves. She liked the quiet—the solitude gave her time to clear her mind before the demands of the day began. For an hour, she ran the same path she always did, her breath steady, her muscles warming as she moved through the familiar rhythm. The forest surrounding Willowick provided a peaceful backdrop, its towering trees a silent audience to her early-morning ritual. The sun began to rise as she finished her run, its soft glow casting a warm light over the village.

When she reached the blacksmith's shop, the stone building was already alive with the heat of the forge. The scent of burning coals and the clang of metal on metal filled the air. Orin, the village blacksmith, stood at his anvil, his broad shoulders bent over his work. His hair, thick and streaked with gray, was tied back, and the light from the forge cast shadows over his strong, weathered features.

Orin had been like a second father to her, a steady presence in her life, especially in the years when Marcus had drifted further from who he used to be.

As she entered, Orin looked up, his face creasing into a small smile. He raised his hands, the familiar signs fluid and easy. Early, as always.

She returned the smile. "You know me."

Orin nodded, stepping closer and placing a hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding her as his Nexis ability hummed faintly through the contact. Calm yourself, Elara. Strength is found here. His fingers tapped her head gently. And here. His hand moved to her chest, just above her heart.

She nodded, her lips pulling into a soft smile.

He patted her shoulder before returning to his work, the rhythm of the hammer resuming its steady beat. She moved to her station, picking up a pair of tongs and joining him at the forge. The heat from the flames enveloped her as she set to work, the familiar routine a welcome distraction.

Orin didn't speak much—not like he could—but he didn't need to. His steady presence was enough, and the advice he gave, whether through touch or the occasional word in sign, was always exactly what she needed to hear.