The world had always been a cold place to Elara. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, that lingers long after the rain has stopped and the sun has risen. It was a hollow cold, the kind that isn't just about temperature but something deeper, something that fills the spaces where warmth should be. As a child, she had never known what it was like to feel the heat of a family's love or the comforting embrace of a home. And as the years had passed, Elara had come to believe that the coldness inside her heart was something she would carry forever.
It was a harsh truth, but truth nonetheless. The village treated her as nothing more than a shadow—an orphan without a name or a purpose, living on the fringes of a world that didn't care for the likes of her. No one had ever bothered to ask her where she came from, or why she was left at the gates of the orphanage. They didn't know, and neither did she. The answers were locked away, buried deep within her forgotten past.
The nights were the worst.
When the sun dipped below the horizon, and the sounds of the village faded into the distance, Elara would lie in her small cot, staring at the ceiling of the attic, her mind adrift in a sea of thoughts that never seemed to reach any shore. She thought of her parents, of the life she might have had if things were different. But mostly, she thought of the weight in her chest—the heavy, gnawing feeling that something was missing. That she was missing.
Yet, there were whispers in the wind, whispers that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. They were faint at first, like a memory just out of reach, but as time went on, they grew clearer. Stronger. They spoke of her—of who she could become. They spoke of a crown, of a destiny she could not escape, no matter how hard she tried to push it away.
But those were just dreams. Or nightmares.
At least, that's what she thought. Until now.
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It was a morning like any other when it happened.
The gray sky hung low above the village, pregnant with the threat of more rain, but for Elara, the weather barely registered. She moved through the motions, feeding the chickens in the yard, sweeping the worn floors of the orphanage's kitchen, and trying to keep her thoughts as blank as the walls around her. She didn't want to feel the loneliness, didn't want to acknowledge the emptiness that clung to her soul like a shadow.
"Elara."
She froze at the sound of her name, a voice as familiar as it was distant. It was Mira, the orphanage's caretaker, standing in the doorway. Her face was older than Elara's memory could place, but the softness of her features remained unchanged. There was always a quiet sadness about Mira, a motherly gentleness that Elara both resented and longed for.
"Yes, Mira?" Elara replied, her voice small, barely louder than the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
"There's someone here to see you." Mira's eyes flickered with an emotion Elara couldn't place—something between pity and concern, as though she didn't quite understand why Elara felt the way she did. But she did not press further. Instead, she stepped aside, and there, in the doorway, stood a man she had never seen before.
Tall and regal, his cloak of deep violet seemed to shimmer in the dim light, as if woven from the very fabric of night itself. His face was stern, his features sharp, and his eyes—Elara couldn't quite place them, but they were intense, the kind of eyes that could see straight into you, past your facade and into your soul.
He looked at her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
"You are Elara of the Moonborn, are you not?"
The words hung in the air, heavy with a weight Elara couldn't quite understand. She blinked, her heart pounding in her chest. "Moonborn?" she repeated, as if the word itself were foreign to her.
The man nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "You are the one the prophecy speaks of."
Elara's mind raced. Prophecy? She had heard of such things, of course—tales whispered in dark corners about chosen ones and saviors. But she had never imagined that any of those stories could have anything to do with her. She was just Elara, the orphan, the forgotten. No one cared for prophecies. No one cared for her.
"What prophecy?" she asked, the words trembling on her lips, as though she were speaking something forbidden.
The man stepped forward, his cloak sweeping the floor with a sound like a sigh. "The Crowned Heart. You are destined to wear it, Elara. You are the heir to the kingdom of Vera'lis."
Elara's chest tightened, her breath catching in her throat. The Crowned Heart. The crown that was said to choose its ruler by the purity of their heart. A crown that could unite or destroy the world.
For a moment, all Elara could do was stare at him. Her knees felt weak, and her vision blurred. She wanted to say something, to deny it all, but the words refused to form. The man seemed to understand, his expression softening just slightly.
"I know this is a lot to take in," he said. "But I must take you to the Moonspire. The crown is waiting for you there."
Elara's heart raced as the weight of the words pressed down upon her. It was too much. Too sudden. She had lived her whole life without knowing who she was, without understanding the power or the responsibility that lay in the blood she never knew she had. And now, someone was standing before her, telling her that she was destined to wear a crown, to rule a kingdom.
But she had spent her life running from fate. Could she really accept it now?
"Why me?" she whispered, her voice thick with confusion. "Why am I the one?"
The man's eyes softened further, and he took a step closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Because, Elara, you are not just a child of fate. You are a child of the heart. And the world is about to need a ruler who understands the power of both."
The words felt like a promise. A weighty promise. A promise she wasn't sure she could keep.
But as she looked into the stranger's eyes, she felt something shift deep within her—a stirring, a recognition, as if the winds of fate were calling her to something far greater than she could ever have imagined.
And for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to believe in something greater than the cold emptiness inside her.
For the first time, she allowed herself to hope.
"Come with me," the man said, extending a hand. "The crown awaits."
Elara hesitated, her mind a swirling storm of doubt and fear, but deep down, in the hollow of her heart, something stirred. Something whispered that this was the moment that would change everything.
And with a single, trembling step, she reached for his hand.
Her destiny had begun.