The first sign that Elara was meddling came three days after the battle, in the form of a note delivered to my chambers by a page who could not have been more than ten. His eyes were wide, his voice high with the importance of his task.
"The Lady Elara requests your presence at the evening meal, my lady. In the small dining room, not the great hall."
I raised an eyebrow. The small dining room was reserved for private family meals—intimate affairs that I had never been invited to attend. Elara was up to something.
"Thank you. Tell her I will be there."
The page nodded and fled.
That evening, I dressed carefully, choosing a gown of deep blue wool that Elara had helped me make. Runa's braid was still in my hair, the gold threads catching the firelight. I touched it, remembering her words. For the village. For the fight. For everything.
