Bound by blood, Torn by fire.

The Solara Kingdom, once vibrant and thriving, now wore the pallor of despair. Its sandstone buildings were weathered, their edges crumbling from neglect. The marketplace was a shadow of its former self. Stalls were sparse, many left abandoned by merchants who had fled to seek better fortunes elsewhere. The air was thick with a sense of unease, the faint scent of stale bread mingling with the acrid smoke rising from makeshift fire pits.

Amara walked cautiously through the narrow streets, her satchel pressed against her side. The cobblestones beneath her boots were uneven, some displaced by years of wear and neglect. Around her, the murmurs of the townsfolk rose and fell like a quiet tide. Their voices carried the weight of desperation, tinged with a faint hope. A hope that the beast's capture might herald better days.

Children played in the dirt with makeshift toys, their laughter brittle, lacking the carefree exuberance of youth. Nearby, a woman haggled with a fishmonger, her voice strained as she argued over the price of a meager catch. The fishmonger shook his head, his own face etched with worry.

Amara's eyes scanned the faded shop signs, searching for the bookstore. The pendant around her neck, felt cool against her skin. It glinted faintly under the sun, a reminder of the burden she carried.

As she turned a corner, she collided with a figure, nearly dropping her satchel in the process. Startled, she looked up to see none other than Rhys Alistair, the kingdom's celebrated general, flanked by two guards.

"Lady Amara," Rhys greeted, his tone gruff but with a hint of familiarity. His steel-blue eyes softened momentarily as he steadied her.

"General Alistair," Amara replied, offering a polite smile. "My apologies, I wasn't watching where I was going."

"No harm done," Rhys said, stepping aside to let her pass. But their collision had drawn attention. The commoners nearby began to recognize him, their murmurs growing into scattered applause.

"Alistair!" an elderly man called, raising a bony fist. "The hero who brought us hope!"

Another woman, clutching a thin bundle of fabric, added, "You've done what no one else could, General. Bless you!"

Rhys inclined his head humbly, a faint smile gracing his lips. " Thank you", he said simply. His voice carrying the weight of modesty despite the praises being showered upon him.

As the crowd began to disperse, Rhys turned back to her. "What brings you to the streets, Amara? Shouldn't you be buried in your books?"

"I'm looking for a bookstore," she admitted. "I need a book about myths."

Rhys nodded, his expression thoughtful. "If it's myths you're looking for, there's a shop near the southern square. Look for a sign with an open book carved into it. If it's still standing, that is."

"Thank you, General," Amara said, her smile faint but genuine.

Rhys took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Amara, there's something you should know."

She tilted her head, curiosity piqued.

"The court meeting is this afternoon," he said. "And Prince Edward is...in a difficult position. Word has spread that the help he promised hasn't arrived, and the council demands answers."

Amara's smile faded, replaced by a furrowed brow. "What will happen to him if the council loses faith?"

Rhys exhaled deeply, glancing away. "That's hard to say. His father, the king, still supports him—for now. But the court is powerful."

"And the beast?" Amara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It remains in the dungeon," Rhys said. "But the longer it stays, the more uneasy the people grow." Rhys knew that fear was preading. Fear of what the beast might bring. 

Amara nodded slowly, her mind racing. "I need to find that bookstore," she said, her voice weary.

Rhys studied her for a moment before nodding. "Be careful, Amara," he said. "The streets may not be safe enough."

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied, offering him a small but genuine smile.

With that, Rhys and his guards continued their patrol, their presence commanding respect from the weary commoners. Amara watched them go, her thoughts heavy with the weight of her discoveries and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

As she resumed her search for the bookstore, the reality of Solara's fragile state pressed down on her. The answers she sought felt more distant than ever.

After a long walk and search, Amara's steps came to the endge of the southern square. The bookstore distant and vacant, it's faded wooden sign, creaking in the wind.

As Amara's steps nearing, she scanned the building. The open book that was carved into it was weathered and nearly indistinguishable, its edges smoothed by time and neglect.

Amara approached cautiously, her boots crunching against scattered debris on the ground. The windows were grimy, streaked with years of dust and grime, and the door hung slightly ajar, its hinges rusted.

She pushed the door gently, but it refused to budge more than a few inches. Sighing, she tried again, harder this time, but the door wouldn't give way. Frustrated, she leaned against the frame, catching her breath.

"Trying to break into an old man's home, are you?"

The voice startled her, making her spin around. Standing behind the store was an elderly man, his wiry frame bent slightly as he leaned on a gnarled walking stick. His hair was sparse and gray, and his face bore the deep lines of age and sorrow. His clothes were simple and worn, patched in places with mismatched fabric.

"Young lady, come over here," he called, motioning her toward him. "How may I help you?"

Amara approached hesitantly, her hand clutching her satchel. "I'm looking for a book," she said. "A book about myths and secrets."

The old man squinted at her, his gaze sharp despite the cloudiness in his eyes. "Ah, myths, is it? You're one of those curious ones, aren't you?" He chuckled dryly. "Haven't had a customer like you in years. Come along, let's see what I've got left."

He shuffled toward the back of the store, leading her to a small courtyard cluttered with crates, scrolls, and stacks of books covered in dust. "War's ruined everything," he muttered, gesturing to the disarray. "Nobody wants to read anymore. No one has the time or the luxury for stories in times of difficulty." He scoffed, shaking his head.

Amara followed him, her eyes scanning the piles of books. The courtyard had an air of forgotten magic, as if it were a portal to another time. She picked up a leather-bound tome and flipped through its brittle pages, the faded ink recounting legends of the Solara Kingdom's founding.

The old man returned with an armful of books, placing them on a rickety table. "These are what I could find," he said. "Might be something useful in there, but no promises. Everything's a mess these days."

Amara began to sort through the books, thanking him softly. He pulled up a wooden stool and sat, watching her with a curious gaze.

"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked.

"I've been here a while," Amara replied, her attention on a particularly ornate volume. "But no, I'm not originally from Solara."

The man nodded, his expression pensive. "I've lived here my whole life," he said. "Watched this kingdom rise and fall. Had a son once, you know. He was a soldier."

Amara paused, looking up at him. His voice had taken on a tremor, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"He went to war," the old man continued, his gaze distant. "Fought bravely, they said. But bravery doesn't mean much when you're dead." He laughed bitterly, a sound that was more a sob than mirth. "They brought me his sword, his armor. Told me he was a hero. But what use is a hero to a father who's lost his only child?"

Amara felt a pang in her chest. "I'm so sorry," she said softly.

The man waved her off, though his hand trembled. "It's the way of the world, isn't it? Always taking and never giving. I've made my peace with it or at least I tell myself I have."

He stood abruptly and disappeared into a small side chamber. When he returned, he was carrying a cup of tea, steam rising faintly from the liquid. "Here," he said, placing it in front of Amara. "You look like you could use some drink. And don't argue, I'm too old to care for politeness."

Amara accepted the cup gratefully, taking a small sip. It was warm and surprisingly tasty, a comfort in the midst of her unease.

"You said you're looking for myths," the old man said after a moment. "Why? What's got you so interested?"

"It's complicated," Amara replied, choosing her words carefully. "I think there's more to the stories than people realize. Sometimes myths aren't just stories."

The old man studied her, his gaze piercing. "Be careful, young lady," he said finally. "Curiosity's a dangerous thing. It's what gets people hurt or worse."

Amara nodded, her thoughts heavy. She finished the tea and stood, gathering the books she'd chosen. "Thank you for your help," she said.

The old man waved her off again, his expression softening. "Come back if you need anything else," he said. "Not many people care about stories anymore. It's good to see someone who does."

As Amara left the courtyard, her arms laden with books, she couldn't shake the feeling that the old man's words were just the ramblings of a grieving fat

her. They felt like a sword cutting through her heart. She was tired of this war and how it could take people's happiness away.