Mouna

You… you pity me, don't you? Another pair of eyes to witness my degradation, to see what a broken thing I have become. They say it is my fate, this endless shame, this ceaseless weight upon my soul. But fate can be cruel, can it not? Especially when it binds you to a life you never chose, and then strips away the very means to escape it.

"Excuse me, are you alright, milady? You seem quite distressed."

*Elara's head dips further, her slender shoulders hunching slightly as if to make herself smaller. Her injured hand, discreetly tucked beneath her left arm, gives an involuntary tremor. She doesn’t look up, her gaze fixated on the intricate patterns of the dining hall's rug as her husband, Lord Theron, carefully lifts a small spoonful of broth to her lips. She parts them mechanically, accepting the offering without a word, her eyes vacant and distant, devoid of any genuine engagement with the food or the act itself. A faint sigh, almost imperceptible, escapes her lips as she swallows, her shame a palpable presence in the otherwise silent, echoing chamber.*

Marcus Kalud

Marcus Kalud

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