Elara no.1

Three months slipped quietly through the seasons, and life had found its rhythm again.

Elara’s days were now filled with lessons — not just of the mind, but of the body.

Maria had been teaching her the art of strategy — the calm before the strike, the patience of a thinker, the precision of a fighter.

Now, the two stand by the lake near their home — a mirror of sky and water, framed by whispering trees.

The air hums with tension.

Wood meets wood.

A sharp crack echoes across the still surface, shattering the lake’s calm.

Maria moves like flowing water, each swing of her wooden sword rippling through the reflection beneath her feet — the water responds, trembling in perfect rhythm with her strikes.

Elara answers with wind. Every time she swings, a gust bursts forth, scattering the surface mist and bending the reeds along the shore.

She’s fast — her movements wild but alive, unrefined yet powerful.

The lake becomes their silent witness: water and wind, master and student, their rhythm merging into something wordless — something close to harmony.

“Alright… maybe that’s enough for today.”

Maria’s voice broke the steady rhythm of their spar. With a firm twist of her wrist, she parried Elara’s final strike — the impact echoing through the lake before sending the girl stumbling back, her body hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Maria exhaled softly, her wooden sword lowering as she looked toward the horizon. The sun was dipping, halfway into the afternoon — a slow, golden descent that painted the rippling water in fire.

“I’ll head back home and make us some dinner,” she said, her tone gentle, almost tired. Without waiting for a response, she turned and began her quiet walk toward the house — her figure growing smaller beneath the amber light.

Elara didn’t move.

She just lay there, arms spread, feeling the soft earth beneath her back. The wind was still, the lake calm, the world around her wrapped in a silence too peaceful to break. A single branch above shaded her from the sun, its leaves trembling faintly — almost as if trying to comfort her.

Her lips moved before she could stop them.

“Who… am I really?” she whispered to no one, her voice barely carried by the air.

The thought lingered, echoing inside her like a slow ripple in water. She frowned, her expression tightening as frustration began to boil beneath the surface.

“No matter,” she muttered, eyes narrowing at the sky. “If I had parents… they would’ve found me by now.”

Her voice grew louder, cracking slightly. “But nooo! It’s been three months—three friggin’ months!”

She sat up abruptly, tossing her wooden sword aside. “Do they even plan on finding me?!” she yelled, her voice bouncing across the empty lake — but only the echo answered her.

And then, silence again.

Only her heartbeat and the faint rustle of the wind — as if the world had gone still to let her loneliness breathe

“But… it’s not like I know them anyway.”

Elara’s voice was soft, almost swallowed by the breeze. She sat curled like a ball, knees to her chest, facing the lake. The sun glazed its surface in gold, rippling like melted glass.

A gentle splash broke the stillness — a duck emerged from the water, followed by a line of tiny ducklings, each wobbling with clumsy grace. They passed by Elara, heading toward the forest’s edge. She smiled faintly and reached out, petting each baby duck as it toddled past her feet.

“At this point,” she murmured, half-smiling, “Ms. Maria should just adopt me already.”

A sigh escaped her lips, light but heavy in meaning. Then, as if shaking off the thought, she stood up and stretched, her shadow dancing on the shimmering ground.

“No matter,” she said, clenching her fists, a flicker of determination lighting her eyes. “I should just focus on my strength… and learn some magic!”

Her voice carried across the lake, bright and unyielding. She punched the air with childish enthusiasm — her spirit briefly cutting through the melancholy.

Then she froze, her gaze caught by the beauty before her — the sunlight weaving through trees, the lake glittering like scattered stars.

“Then again…” she whispered, a small smile curling on her lips, “a little bit of enjoyment wouldn’t hurt.”

The camera would linger on her there — standing against the golden light, a single breeze brushing through her hair — caught between loneliness and hope, childhood and something greater waiting ahead.

Elara sat down once more. Her eyes caught the food pack Maria had prepared for her — untouched, despite the long hours she spent training.

“That should’ve been empty by now,” she muttered, smiling to herself. “Guess I got too excited again.”

Beside it lay a sketching pad she had brought specifically for this moment. She stared at the blank page for a while, humming softly.

“Hmm… let me think…” she said, tapping the pencil against her lips. Then, with a sudden spark of thought — “Oh, I know!”

She began to draw, her strokes light but sure. Between each line, she reached for a piece of food, nibbling absentmindedly from the pack. The sunlight shimmered across her face, and the gentle breeze tousled her hair.

Looking at her — she seemed like someone who belonged to no one, yet entirely to the world itself.

There was a quiet, natural grace in how she moved — lost in the simple joy of the moment: the wind, the view, the food, and the art in her hands.

Whatever she was doing now, it wasn’t just passing time.

It was rest — the kind that would favor her later,

the kind that only someone who truly loves what she’s doing could ever understand.