Chapter 1: The Scent of Ash and Lavender (Part 1)
1415 Words
Chapter 1: The Scent of Ash and Lavender(Part 1)
****Elara’s POV****
The bell above the apothecary door chimed like a wind whisper—soft, familiar. Elara Vale didn’t look up right away. She was hunched over a cutting board worn smooth by years of herbal stems and root fibers, her fingers dusted with crushed chamomile and her apron stained with dried rosehip.
“One moment,” she called gently, slipping the dried herb bundle into a wax paper fold and binding it with twine. She labeled it in her neat, looping script—soothing blend, three times daily. Then she turned, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.
Old Marga stood in the doorway, cheeks pink from the cool morning wind and arms folded across her chest like she was holding back a lecture.
“You’ve been here since sunrise again,” Marga chided, voice rasping but warm. “Child, do you sleep?”
Elara smiled. “The herbs don’t wait.”
“And neither do your bones. You’re twenty, not immortal.”
“Twenty-one,” Elara corrected, reaching for the jar of lavender sprigs behind her. “And my bones are doing fine, thank you.”
The older woman grunted, muttering something about stubborn girls and cold mornings before shuffling to the front counter. “You’ll miss the harvest festival if you keep hiding in here with roots and rot.”
Elara chuckled softly. “It’s not rot. It’s foxglove and valerian. Very useful, very alive.”
Marga gave her a withering look but said nothing more. She paid for her tonic—a tincture for her knees—and left behind a small loaf of honeybread along with the coins.
It was always like that in Eldhollow, the quiet village nestled between the arms of two sleepy hills. Kindness was the only real currency. Elara had been six when she was left at the edge of the village, rain-soaked and silent, with nothing but a silver locket and a burn scar on her wrist. No one asked where she came from. No one dared. They took her in all the same.
Eldhollow had a way of closing around its own like a mother’s arms—soft, protective, and fiercely loyal.
The apothecary had once belonged to Master Thorne, a gentle old herbalist with trembling hands and the mind of a scholar. He had taught Elara everything he knew before his heart gave out one autumn evening beside the fire. That winter, she took over. No one objected.
She spent her days tending to the shop and her nights poring over Thorne’s books. If she was honest, she didn’t know why she studied them so obsessively. Maybe it was the thrill of knowing more. Maybe it was because learning gave her control in a world where everything about her origin had been erased.
She ran her fingers along the spine of a familiar volume now—Compendium of Woodland Remedies—when a sudden sharp knock broke the silence.
It wasn’t the soft jingle of the bell this time. Just a knuckle against wood, firm and deliberate.
Elara frowned.
Most people walked in. They didn’t knock. She wiped her hands on a cloth and moved to the door, pulling it open.
A stranger stood on the threshold.
Tall, cloaked in deep green with the hood pulled low over his face. Mud streaked his boots. His gloves were black leather, worn but expensive.
“Can I help you?” Elara asked, heart giving a quiet warning thud.
“I need a pain draught. Strong enough for a broken rib,” the man said.
His voice was calm but clipped, like someone used to commanding attention—and silence.
Elara stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Wait here.”
She moved behind the counter, hands steady. “Is it for you?”
The man gave a single nod.
She prepared it quickly—willowbark, dried poppy petals, a dash of fennel extract—and passed the vial across the counter.
“You’ll need to rest,” she said, eyes flicking to the slight but rigid set of his shoulders. “No sudden movements. Breathe deeply. Slowly. Otherwise the rib won’t heal.”
He took the bottle without a word. Slipped a few coins onto the counter. Far more than the tonic cost.
“That’s too much.”
“Keep it.”
She studied him for a second longer. His posture was too straight, even in pain. And his hands… not the hands of a farmer or traveler. There were calluses, yes, but controlled, deliberate. Like a man trained to kill, not to till the land.
“You’re not from around here.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” Elara said without hesitation. “You smell like ash.”
The man let out a short, amused exhale, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, without another word, he turned and left.
The bell rang faintly behind him.
Elara exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
---
The rest of the day passed in quiet routine—villagers coming and going, the scent of dried herbs and tea lingering in the air. Children darted by the windows, tossing leaves into the wind, laughing. Somewhere beyond the hills, the first drums of the harvest festival echoed faintly—soft rhythms that stirred memories Elara couldn’t name.
That evening, as the sun dipped low behind the hills, she locked up the shop and walked the narrow path behind the apothecary that led to her cottage. It was small—one room, wood-heated, with a crooked porch and a patch of wildflowers she refused to tame.
She poured water into the kettle, stoked the fire, and sat near the window with her locket in her hands.
It was the only thing she had from before.
Silver, etched with a tree she didn’t recognize. Inside, no picture. Just a strange symbol—an intricate crest, half-worn by time: a crown over twin blades, wrapped in ivy.
She’d shown it to Master Thorne once, years ago. He had gone very still. Then gently closed her fingers around it and said, Some doors stay locked for a reason, child.
But now, as the night deepened and the wind turned sharp, Elara couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. Like threads tugging tight in the loom of fate. The stranger’s visit. The scent of ash. The ache in her chest she couldn’t name.
A storm was coming.
She could feel it in her bones.
---
The next morning came with smoke.
Not the comforting scent of hearth fires or smoked meats—but acrid, heavy smoke that coated the back of the throat and made the birds fall silent.
Elara rose before the sun, tugging on her boots and cloak. She followed the smell, heart thudding harder with each step.
It wasn’t the village.
It was the ridge beyond the forest, where no one dared build. She climbed the slope, leaves crunching beneath her feet. When she reached the crest, her breath caught.
A small camp had been burned to the ground—ashes still smoking, tents collapsed, the ground churned like something had exploded. No bodies. Just blood. Tracks.
Something had happened here.
Something violent.
Elara crouched, fingers brushing the blackened soil. She didn’t know what she was looking for—until she found it.
A strip of dark green fabric caught on a branch, frayed and soaked in blood.
The same shade of green as the stranger’s cloak.
She stood slowly, the world spinning slightly around her.
She had lived in peace for fifteen years.
But peace, she now understood, was a fragile thing.
And fate had a way of finding even those who had hidden well.
---
That night, Elara couldn’t sleep.
She sat in her chair by the fire, the locket clutched in her palm, her thoughts tangled and restless.
Who was that man? What had happened on that ridge? Why did it feel like the world was shifting beneath her feet?
The air seemed thinner, colder.
The stars above Eldhollow flickered like a warning.
She didn’t know it yet, but in the capital miles away, a king bathed in shadow was preparing for war. Nobles whispered rebellion. A crown trembled on its golden perch.
And Elara Vale—the orphan girl with no past—had just taken her first step into a storm that would consume kingdoms.
- Writer
