Page 6 of A Kingdom's Heart
When she looked up again, our eyes met. There was something steady in her gaze, something that made it hard to look away. She looked serious.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked.
“My father taught me first,” I said. “Then others, after he passed. I’ve had many lessons since.” I hesitated before adding. “I am to be knighted tomorrow.”
She didn’t answer at once. Her eyes flickered toward the fire, and something unreadable passed across her face. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Congratulations.”
A smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. “Thank you.”
She smiled faintly in return, then brushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
“What about you?” I asked. “What is it you do?”
She hesitated, just for a moment, then said, “Oh, me,” She began, catching herself, then gave a quick nod. “I am a healer.”
“A healer,” I repeated, watching her closely. The word did not seem to fit. There was something too measured in her voice, too practiced. Her posture was straight, her hands still and careful in her lap. She looked nothing like the village medics I had known, worn and weary from their work.
But I said nothing.
Instead, I nodded and looked toward the fire. “Then we share a bit of the same trade. We both try to keep people alive.”
For a while, neither of us spoke. The fire continued to crackle, filling the quiet. The warmth had begun to chase the chill from the room, and the air between us felt easier now, though I still could not quite read her.
She looked peaceful in the firelight. Her expression was calm and her eyes were half-lidded, yet something in her seemed guard. The way she sat: straight-backed, graceful and deliberate. It belonged to someone accustomed to courts and cloisters, not forest paths. It was as if she had spent her whole life learning how to hide in plain sight.
After a time I said, “I did not catch your name.”
Her eyes flicked toward me, the faintest pause before she answered. “Elara.”
The name lingered in the air. It was the same name as the queen from the theatre. It suited her, though it sounded like one chosencarefully, not given.
“Elara,” I repeated, nodding. “That’s a good name.”
She looked up from the fire, her expression softer now. “And what about you?”
“William,” I said. “William Alaricson.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Alaricson,” she echoed. “That means son of Alaric, does it not?”
“It does,” I said. “My father’s name was Alaric. He built this house long ago.”
She nodded slowly, her gaze moving around the room again. “It’s strong,” she said. “You can tell it was built with care.”
A small smile touched my lips. “He believed things should last. He taught me the same.”
Elara smiled faintly in return, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. I noticed, but said nothing.
Instead, I turned my gaze toward the window. The rain had not stopped. It drummed against the roof, heavy and constant, a rhythm that filled the quiet between us. Now and then, a low rumble of thunder rolled through the fields, soft at first, then growing until the walls seemed to hum with it.
She turned her gaze from the fire, her gaze finding me again. “William suits you,” she said softly.
I looked up from the window, surprised. “Does it?”
She nodded, the faintest smile curving her lips. “It does.”
For a while we said nothing. The fire crackled. The rain kept its steady song, and the wind pressed against the windows like a restless spirit. The quiet felt almost peaceful, suspended between us.
Then a flash of lightning split the sky, flooding the room with white for a heartbeat. The thunder came close behind, deep enough to make the floor tremble.
