The gossip didn't just start; it erupted like a f*****g plague before the sun even crested the horizon.
It crawled through the castle, slimy and inevitable, sticking to Elara's skin like grease she couldn't scrub off.
It followed her into the kitchens, a place that already smelled of burnt meat and desperation.
It trailed her through the laundry rooms, where the steam was thick enough to hide a multitude of sins, but not the ones people were accusing her of.
"There she goes," a voice whispered, sharp as a knife.
Elara froze, her grip tightening on the basket of vegetables.
She didn't turn.
She couldn't.
Two servant girls stood by the ovens, their eyes gleaming with malicious joy.
They didn't even bother lowering their voices.
"The Commander's little w***e," one spat, her voice
