Days bled into nights within the weaver's cottage, a monotonous cycle of unfamiliar sounds and persistent darkness. My internal clock, once attuned to the slow, relentless grind of the Underworld's eternal twilight, now struggled to comprehend the rhythms of this human existence. The loom was my tormentor, its rhythmic clack-clack-clack a constant reminder of my captivity. I learned to manage Lyra's hands, to guide the shuttle with a practiced ease that still felt profoundly unnatural. Each finished thread was a tiny victory for Lyra's ingrained muscle memory, and a fresh humiliation for Zalara's queenly pride.
Elara continued to fuss, her quiet presence a constant, low hum of human concern. She spoke of village gossip, of the price of wool at market, of the passing seasons. I absorbed it all, a silent sponge. Every insignificant detail of Noldor life, of its customs, its power structures, its weaknesses, was cataloged in my mind. Emperor Fëanor III remained a distant, benevolent shadow in their narratives, a figure of remote authority rather than immediate threat. My thoughts, however, were rarely on human politics. They were consumed by a singular, burning question: How do I break free?
My power, that dormant volcano, still thrummed faintly beneath the surface. It was a phantom limb, a constant ache of what I once commanded. I experimented, subtly, desperately. I tried to reach out, to manipulate the shadow, to whisper commands to the unseen currents of air. Nothing. The vessel was too weak, too thin, too human. It was like trying to funnel a river through a straw. The raw energy was there, but the conduit was flawed.
Then came the night the air thrummed with a different kind of energy. I felt it before I heard Elara's soft sigh of contentment. A swelling in the oppressive darkness behind my blindfold, a pressure in the atmosphere that was profoundly familiar. It was not the cold, ethereal magic of the Underworld, but a raw, potent energy from the living world – the energy of the Full Moon.
My heart, Lyra's heart, began to pound, a frantic drum against my ribs. A rush of sensation, overwhelming and almost painful, surged through every nerve ending in Lyra's body. It was as if the very air inside the cottage began to crackle. My dormant power, the essence of Zalara, responded to the lunar pull with an instantaneous, violent awakening.
For a terrifying, exhilarating moment, I was whole again. A wave of ancient, potent magic surged through me, a thousand forgotten spells and abilities rushing to the forefront of my mind. I could feel the shadows dancing beyond the walls, hear the blood coursing through Elara's veins, sense the very life force pulsing in the trees of the Emerald Forest. My sight, though still confined by the blindfold, seemed to expand, not to see light, but to perceive the world through a new, darker, more profound lens of pure magical energy. I tasted power, raw and intoxicating, a forgotten flavor on my tongue. I felt a fleeting, glorious sensation of invincibility, a glimpse of the queen I once was.
"What—what is this?" Elara's frail voice, laced with sudden, acute fear, cut through my momentary transcendence. "Lyra? What's happening?"
My body, Lyra's body, began to tremble uncontrollably, vibrating with the sheer force of the energy coursing through it. It was too much. This weak, pathetic shell was not built to contain such a vast and terrible power. The brief, glorious surge twisted into something agonizing, a violent rejection of the ancient magic. My head spun, a blinding kaleidoscope of pain and disorientation. Muscles spasmed, limbs jerked, unbidden. The control I had painstakingly imposed on Lyra's form snapped like a dry twig.
A guttural cry, choked and desperate, tore from my throat. It was not Zalara's commanding roar, nor Lyra's innocent whimper, but a raw, animal sound of overwhelming agony. I felt the surge of power drain from me as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only the cold, empty ache of profound exhaustion. The cottage began to spin, the sounds of Elara's frantic murmurs fading into a dull roar in my ears. The ground rushed up to meet me, a brutal, unforgiving impact.
Darkness, deeper and more complete than the blindfold, consumed me. The last thing I felt was the rough texture of the wooden floor against my cheek, and the distant, fading echo of a queen's power, temporarily unleashed, then violently suppressed.