Elara
The sun was high when we left the last stall, my basket heavy with cloth, herbs, and bread. The square was alive with noise—laughter, bartering, the clatter of hooves—but all of it felt far away.
I couldn’t stop glancing over my shoulder.
That pull I’d felt earlier hadn’t left me. It was like a string tied to my chest, tugging me in a direction I didn’t want to look.
My mother’s hand rested lightly on my arm. “You should head home, Elara,” she said suddenly, her voice calm but firm. “I’ll be back shortly. There’s one more thing I must get.”
I frowned. “By yourself?”
“Yes.” Her eyes softened, but they didn’t meet mine fully. “Go home. Don’t linger.”
Something about the way she said it made my stomach twist, but I nodded. “Alright.”
She kissed my forehead, quick, almost hurried
