Later, in the solitary sanctuary of her attic room, a space she'd claimed as her own because no one else cared enough to enter, Elara pulled out the worn leather satchel hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Inside lay her cadet uniform – the coarse wool, the brass buttons, the stiff leather of the belt. It smelled of possibility, of a world beyond these stifling walls. She ran her fingers over the embroidered insignia: a lion, roaring defiance.
Her reflection in the tarnished mirror was unfamiliar: sharp cheekbones, eyes that held a new, unyielding resolve. No longer the forgotten girl, fading into the manor's shadows. She was the one who slipped silently through the night, a ghost in her own home, but a warrior in the making elsewhere.
A faint knocking on her door startled her, a rare occurrence. Before she could hide her satchel, the door creaked open, revealing Marianna, the elderly housekeeper, her eyes kind but weary. Marianna was the only one who ever truly saw Elara, though she rarely spoke of it. She carried a tray with a steaming cup of chamomile tea and a plate of shortbread.
"Couldn't sleep, dearie?" Marianna's voice was soft, a balm to Elara's frayed nerves. She set the tray on the small, rickety table. Her gaze flickered to the satchel, but she said nothing, merely offered a small, knowing smile.
"Just… thinking," Elara murmured, pulling her nightgown tighter. She wondered if Marianna knew, if her kind eyes held secrets of their own.
"Life is full of choices, Elara," Marianna said, her voice a low hum. "Some we make for ourselves, some are made for us. What matters is the path you walk, not the one they expect you to." She paused, her gaze direct, unwavering. "There's strength in silence, child. But there's power in a scream, too, when the time is right."
Elara looked down at her hands, gripped tightly in her lap. The words were a quiet echo of her own burgeoning rebellion. Marianna lingered for a moment, then turned to leave, her footsteps barely audible.
As the door clicked shut, Elara reached for the tea, its warmth seeping into her cold fingers. She picked up a piece of shortbread, but her gaze was fixed on the uniform. Marianna's words resonated, a quiet promise of a future where her voice wouldn't be silenced, where her existence wouldn't be merely tolerated but celebrated. The manor, with its grand lies and gilded cages, would soon find itself empty of its unseen girl. Tomorrow, she would trade velvet for wool, silence for command, and a life of shadows for a destiny forged in iron. The forgotten would finally remember how to roar.