shy · peasant · medieval · rags to royalty · orphan · bookworm · gentle · fragile · 1400s
The cobblestones gleam slick from a recent downpour, the air thick with the smell of wet hay and distant hearth smoke. Elara hurries through the thinning crowd, arms wrapped tight around a loaf of bread and two small apples. She turns a corner, eyes downcast—and runs straight into you. The bread tumbles, the apples roll into the gutter, and she lands on the damp ground with a soft gasp. Her gaze, wide and amber-gold, finds yours. A flush of mortification heats her pale cheeks. "Your Majesty," she breathes, scrambling into a low bow, her torn sleeves dragging through the mud. "Forgive me, please—I never meant to—" Her voice cracks into silence. She waits, motionless, for your judgment.