Chapter 2: The Woman with the Silver Eyes(Part 1)
1147 Words
Chapter 2: The Woman with the Silver Eyes(Part 1)
****Elara’s POV****
The wind carried the scent of apples and river dust as Elara made her way through Eldhollow’s narrow paths. Morning had not yet fully settled into day—the sky was still painted in pale blue streaks, and golden light spilled slowly over the rooftops. The village market was just beginning to stir, stalls half-assembled and vendors still yawning into their palms.
She walked briskly, her satchel slung across one shoulder, the straps worn from years of use. Inside were vials, herbs, wraps, and tinctures—everything she might need. It was a healer’s instinct: never arrive unprepared. Not when a child was sick.
Elara’s feet skidded slightly as she rounded the bend near the baker’s shop and spotted the house in question—a small stone cottage with a crooked chimney and a pale blue door that had long since lost its paint.
She knocked once and entered without waiting. The inside smelled of damp wool and illness.
“Lysa?” she called gently.
A tired woman stepped out from the back room, apron stained and eyes wide with relief. “Thank the gods. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
Elara moved without hesitation, slipping into the dim back room where the child lay curled on a thin mattress. Milo. Only seven, with curls the color of corn silk and skin that looked too pale even for morning light. He was sweating through his nightshirt, breaths shallow and quick.
Elara knelt beside him and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “High fever,” she murmured. “When did it start?”
Lysa hovered behind her, wringing her hands. “Two nights ago. I thought it was just a cold, but he started coughing... and then the heat wouldn’t break.”
Elara opened her satchel, withdrawing a pouch of crushed bark and a vial of blue-tinted liquid. “It’s not just a cold,” she said softly. “His lungs are fighting something. But we’ll help him.”
She moved quickly, mixing a draught in a cup of warm water and carefully tilting it to Milo’s lips. He coughed as he swallowed, but his breathing slowed slightly after a few moments. The tincture would ease the swelling in his chest and lower the fever. Not a cure, but a beginning.
“I’ll stay for an hour,” Elara said. “Monitor him. Then I’ll return this evening with a stronger infusion if needed.”
Lysa nodded, tears glimmering in her eyes. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Elara smiled gently. “You’d manage. Mothers always do.”
She stayed beside Milo as the room warmed with daylight, whispering stories under her breath about fox spirits and moon-brewed magic, the kind Master Thorne had told her when she was small. Milo stirred once and squeezed her fingers weakly. That alone was enough hope to carry.
---
Afterward, Elara stepped back into the bustle of the growing market. The sun was now fully risen, spilling warmth onto the cobblestones as vendors shouted and children darted between stalls.
She moved from booth to booth collecting ingredients she needed for the boy’s continued care—licorice root, red elderflower, and dried sage. Her basket was nearly full when she paused at the weaver’s corner to inspect a roll of linen.
That’s when she saw her.
An old woman stood beside the spice merchant’s cart, unmoving despite the crowd pressing past. She wore a dark violet cloak embroidered with silver thread, the hood pulled low but not enough to hide her face entirely. Her skin was olive-brown, weathered by years, and her eyes—
Elara froze.
Her eyes were silver. Not gray. Not blue. Silver—like moonlight poured into glass. Impossible.
And they were staring directly at her.
Elara shifted uncomfortably. She tried to look away. She turned toward the bread stall, heart thumping harder, but when she glanced back—
The woman was gone.
As if she had vanished into thin air.
---
The rest of the market passed in a blur. Elara kept turning corners, eyes scanning every face, every cloak. No sign of the woman. No silver eyes. No violet cloak.
She returned to the apothecary in silence, thoughts unraveling. The moment she stepped inside, she locked the door behind her and slid to the floor behind the counter, her pulse racing.
It wasn’t just that the woman had looked at her. It was the look itself—recognition, sharp and sure, as if Elara were a page in a book she’d already read.
But how?
No one from before her sixth year had ever come forward. No traveling relatives. No seekers. Her past was a blank slate—until now.
And the silver-eyed woman… there was something about her that tugged at Elara’s memory, something just out of reach. Like the echo of a dream forgotten the moment you opened your eyes.
---
By afternoon, she’d forced herself back into rhythm—grinding herbs, bottling extracts, labeling with the same careful hand. She found comfort in routine. Routine meant control.
But her mind was not at peace.
She couldn’t stop thinking of the stranger.
And of Milo.
Just past sunset, she returned to his cottage with the new infusion in hand. His fever had lessened slightly, but he was still weak. She gave him the dose, wrapped him in warmed linens, and stayed until he drifted into a deeper sleep.
Lysa offered to pay. Elara refused.
“You already did,” she said, smiling. “That apple pie last harvest was worth more than all the coin in Aurelion.”
But as she walked home beneath the darkening sky, the weight in her chest returned.
The market had never felt threatening before.
Now, the shadows seemed to reach for her.
---
That night, Elara stood before her hearth with the silver locket clutched in her palm again. The tree symbol still stared back at her, etched into the front.
She’d always assumed it was just decoration. But now...
She opened the locket, staring once more at the strange crest inside. The crown above the twin blades. The ivy.
Her fingers brushed it slowly.
“What am I missing?” she whispered to no one.
The candlelight flickered. A cold wind slipped beneath the door.
Elara turned toward the window.
Outside, in the trees, something moved.
Not animal. Not wind.
A figure.
She snatched her cloak, shoved the locket into her satchel, and stepped outside barefoot.
But by the time she reached the edge of the path, the figure was gone.
Only silence remained.
And the sound of something old stirring beneath her feet.
---
Back inside, she bolted the door, her breath tight in her chest.
Peace was a fragile lie.
And something—someone—was watching.
- Writer
