Years passed quietly, painfully.
The villagers watched Elara Moonveil grow into a woman of strength and silence. She healed their wounds, tended their sick, and carried the weight of a life interrupted by love that never returned. Yet every smile she gave was stitched together with memories she refused to forget.
Her hair grew long, silver streaks hidden only by her braids. Her eyes deepened with shadows of nights spent staring at the stars, imagining him somewhere out there—alive, or at least alive in her dreams.
She never married.
Not because no one tried. Not because she lacked beauty or grace.
But because the heart she had reserved for Sir Alaric Vayne would not share its loyalty with another.
Every proposal was met with polite refusal.
Every suitor, with a gentle bow or patient smile, left confused.
Elara's heart had already been claimed.
By a man who wore steel and carried war like a second skin.
By a man who never returned.
Still, life demanded that she live.
She walked through the forest every morning, collecting herbs, whispering to the wind as if it carried her words to him.
"I am here," she would say.
"Waiting… always."
And at night, she sat by the candle, reading the letters he had sent before the war swallowed him whole. Each word was sacred. Each sentence a whisper of his soul.
She never burned them.
Never destroyed them.
They were her only connection to a love that had no ending in the mortal world.
People asked her, after some years, why she never remarried.
"I promised," she said simply.
They shook their heads, thinking her foolish.
But foolishness, she knew, was the price of devotion.
Time moved on. Seasons changed. Children she had healed grew and left. The forest aged slowly. The cottage creaked more. And still, she waited.
Always hoping. Always believing.
That one day… the man who had promised would find his way back.
Or that, even if he did not, their souls might meet somewhere beyond this world.
At night, when the candle burned low and the wind whispered through the forest, Elara dreamed again.
Not of knights, or battles, or war—but of a man with black armor, scars, and eyes that finally looked at her like she was the only thing worth saving.
Her heart ached and soared at the same time.
Even without him, she loved.
Even without him, she lived.
And even without him, she waited.