Stars over Silver Pines

Elara sat like a doll someone had forgotten to wind.

Spine straight. Ankles crossed at just the right angle. Hands folded with precision in her lap, fingers gently resting one atop the other, as if even her bones had been trained to behave. Her dress—cream, modest, high-collared—was tailored to be flattering without drawing attention. No color bold enough to suggest confidence. No neckline low enough to imply she thought herself worthy of desire.

Just soft. Silent. Palatable.

The drawing room was no longer hers. Or her mother’s. It had been stripped of personality and filled with the scent of cigar smoke and something sharper—authority, perhaps. The kind of authority that walked like it owned your home and sat like it owned your daughter.

She wasn’t supposed to speak. Not even to greet them.

“She looks healthy,” one of the men said. His voice was dry and practical, the way a farmer might discuss a calf. “Good bone structure. Hips wide enough.”

“For a proper litter,” another added with a chuckle.

Elara didn’t look up. Her face didn’t change. She had been taught—no, conditioned—to withstand this. A proper woman didn’t embarrass her family by reacting to the way men spoke about her body in front of her. The moment she flinched, she failed. The moment she protested, she became difficult. And difficult women were left behind. Or worse.

“She’s from strong stock,” her father said proudly. “My wife bore six, all healthy. Elara’s built just the same. Strong. Fertile.”

The word made her skin crawl—but even that reaction was faint now. Old. Distant. Fertility was not a private thing in her world. It was currency.

“She’s got the look,” one of them said. “That softness around the eyes. That quietness. Not the kind you can fake. Girls who really fear stepping out of line? You can tell.”

Another man leaned forward, scrutinizing her like a merchant checking for cracks in porcelain. “Does she talk back?”

Her father scoffed, as if insulted. “Never. She was taught early. She knows the value of silence.”

“She better,” came the reply. “We’ve had enough girls with mouths lately. One of them refused to kneel during dinner. Imagine the nerve.”

“She’ll kneel if she’s told to,” her father said. “Won’t you, Elara?”

Elara blinked once. Slowly. “Yes, Father.”

Her voice was soft. Barely there. Perfectly measured.

They all nodded in approval, like they’d just heard a well-trained dog respond to a command.

There were five men in the room. Four of them talked. Laughed. Negotiated. Enjoyed the sound of their own authority.

The fifth was quiet.

He sat near the fireplace, alone in a high-backed chair, suit neat and dark against the dim light. His hair was pulled back loosely. His hands rested on his knees. He hadn’t spoken once. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t looked at her.

Elara didn’t know his name. No one had offered it. No one had offered hers, either.

But it didn’t matter. Everyone in the room understood what was being agreed upon.

He was the one they were giving her to.

He looked… not cruel. Not like the others. But distant. Remote. Like someone not quite here. Like he’d learned how to disappear without leaving the room.

She risked a glance through her lashes. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care.

He hates this. He hates me.

“She understands the importance of obedience,” her father was saying now. “Knows how to walk behind. Knows how to stay small. We made sure of it.”

“Has she bled?” one of the strangers asked.

Elara froze, only for a breath. That word again. Not shameful here. Just... another box to tick.

Her father nodded. “Twice. Regular. She’s ready.”

Another man stood to inspect her more closely. “How are her teeth?”

Elara parted her lips when her father gestured. She didn’t flinch when the stranger leaned in, even as the scent of his cologne stung her nose. He looked. Just looked. Then nodded.

“Straight. No gaps.”

As if it mattered. As if she were a mare up for auction.

“She’ll be fitted for the house colors before the move,” her father added. “We’ll trim her hair if needed. Whatever you prefer.”

“She’ll wear what we give her,” the eldest man said with finality. “They all do. They learn quickly.”

The man near the fireplace still hadn’t spoken. But he was listening. That much was clear from the way his jaw tensed—just barely. The way his eyes remained fixed on the fire, like he didn’t trust what he’d say if he looked at any of them.

Or maybe, Elara thought, he just didn’t want to see her. Not really.

Her father poured himself a drink as the visitors stood to leave. “We’ll send her by the next full moon,” he said. “With a maid. A quiet one.”

“See that you do,” came the answer.

And just like that, it was done. The bargain made. The deal signed in glances and assumptions and the language of men who had never heard the word no.

The unnamed man stood last. He was tall. Still silent. He didn’t glance back at her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even blink in her direction.

And somehow, that was worse than all the rest.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Elara still didn’t move. Her limbs were starting to ache from holding the posture so long, but she knew better than to shift until dismissed.

Her father hummed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You made me proud today, Elara. You did everything right. You’ll make a fine wife.”

She lowered her head. “Thank you, Father.”

The words left her lips without thought. Without hesitation. They were muscle memory by now.

She smiled—small and sweet, the kind of smile that said nothing and meant nothing. The kind that kept her safe.

Inside, there was no storm. No dread. No spark of rebellion waiting to be born.

There was only silence.

The kind carved into her over years. The kind that obedient women wore like a second skin.

She didn’t know how to feel anything else.