Elira, 1479 – The Fall of Shkodër
The bells of the cathedral stopped ringing on a cold morning in January.
Some said the priest had fled. Others said he had been nailed to the altar by men who laughed while setting God on fire. Either way, the silence was louder than war drums.
Elira sat at the window, a white veil heavy on her head, though her wedding had not yet begun. Her fingers were stiff, clutched around the edge of the windowsill like she might fall forward and fly. Or fall and break. She didn't know which one she wanted more.
Shkodër was burning — not with flame, but with rot. Soldiers had camped outside its walls for months. The air smelled like sweat and fear. Girls had stopped going to the market. The song of the city had gone quiet.
Her mother's hands tightened the sash around her waist.
"He's a powerful man," she whispered. "He can protect us."
Elira didn't respond.
There was nothing to say to a woman whose own voice had been cut from her mouth decades ago.
Elira had always been quiet. She was not allowed to climb trees or run through the city square like her brother. She wasn't even allowed to walk without an escort.
"A woman's shadow should not be longer than a man's patience," her uncle had once said.
So she learned how to listen instead.
She heard things others missed — the shaking in her father's voice when he lied about their safety, the coded weeping of the maidservant scrubbing blood from the guest room floor, the hollow clang of a sword against a church bell two blocks down.
She had been taught to keep her voice inside her ribs. So that's where she buried it. Along with her rage. Along with her sorrow.
But rage grows teeth in the dark.
And sorrow becomes bone.