The forest held a deceptive calm, the kind of heavy stillness that comes before storms—not just of rain, but of ash. Amid that silence, a woman knelt. She moved among damp roots with a ritualistic patience, her dark hair cut short and uneven, as if she had no mirror when she did it. It barely brushed her nape, keeping branches from tangling while blending seamlessly into the shadows of the undergrowth. Her fingers, slender but hardened by labor, lifted leaves with almost ceremonial care, as if the earth itself might take offense at rough handling.

To her, the plants were not objects to study, but companions in a silent conversation. She recognized them by touch long before sight: the rough veins of a dead nettle, the cold smooth stem of celandine, the bitter, almost fetid scent lingering on her fingertips. Her lips moved in soft murmurs, incomplete words that vibrated through the air, holding back the oppressive silence around her.

Then, something stirred among the ferns. A rabbit appeared cautiously, ears swiveling like tiny organic radars. Its fur was smeared with mud, its eyes like two wary rubies. It made two clumsy hops, stopping to study her. It didn’t run. The woman, whose expression usually mapped caution and isolation, felt her features soften. A faint, almost forgotten smile touched her lips—a gesture her face hadn’t worn in years, alien in its gentleness, almost painfully tender.

But the smile died before it could bloom.

The forest tensed. Not a sound first alerted her, but a shift in the air. Birds erupted into coordinated panic, their shrill cries shredding the afternoon’s quiet, hundreds of wings blotting out the sun’s wan light. She rose, heart hammering against her ribs. Fire appeared first as a strange reflection among distant trunks, an orange glow that had no place in the golden hour. Then came the smell: burning straw, old wood, the chemical stench of despair.

She ran to the edge of the forest, careful not to enter the village. Hidden behind the trunk of an ancient oak, she watched her familiar world collapse again. All she could hear was the chaos: metal clashing, voices barking brutal orders, a roar that wasn’t fighting but a violent tearing of life itself. Shadows moved in the orange blaze; a torch, hurled in clumsy rage, set the baker’s roof alight within seconds.

Amid the smoke licking the forest’s edge, her gaze locked with someone else’s.

A stranger. A mistake. His silhouette against the flames looked like a demon rising from hell. The moment their eyes met pierced her more sharply than the fire’s heat. It was not hatred she saw, but cold recognition, a single arrow aimed at her very existence. Pure, liquid fear flooded her limbs. 

Without thinking, she fled. She was no longer the careful herb-gatherer; she was prey, running from a predator that had just picked up her scent. Blood surged to her extremities faster than her mind could process. Panic clouded her vision, and in her desperate flight from the burning village, her feet struck something heavy hidden in the underbrush.

She fell with a stifled scream. Turning to see what she’d hit, her eyes widened. Thoughts spun in endless circles; the village’s chaos seemed to invade her mind, a thunder of voices and fire that left no room for reason.

The lump was a person. Warm. Alive. Bleeding.

She recoiled, scraping her palms against the earth. Instinctively, her hand went to the sharp stone hidden beneath her skirts—a tool now a weapon. The instinct was clear, primal, honed over centuries: Kill it. Just as she raised her hands to strike with all her strength, the voice came.

She always heard it. She always obeyed. It wasn’t a cry from outside, but an unbearable pressure inside her chest, as if the forest itself spoke through the rustling leaves. It was an order vibrating in her bones, demanding she ignore fear and rage.

Heal him. 

“No,” she whispered, gripping the stone until her knuckles went white. “Not now.”

The man groaned—a low, broken plea escaping his parted lips. The world narrowed again; the village smoke seeped into the forest, stealing her breath. She closed her eyes, fighting the voice, the forest, and herself.

Through babbles and indistinct murmurs, she let go of the stone. Adrenaline lending strength, she dragged him across the uneven ground, avoiding the main paths until they reached her refuge: a small cabin hidden beneath a rock overhang, cloaked in ivy, unknown to the villagers and only partly hers.

Inside, with the door barricaded and a single candle flickering on the wooden table, silence returned—tense, urgent silence.

The light finally revealed the man’s face. Young, pale blond hair plastered by sweat and dirt, a strong jaw now taut with pain. She tore his shirt to reveal the wound: a deep, ragged gash on his flank, between the lower ribs and hip. Several layers of muscle were torn, but the blade’s angle had spared the peritoneum and vital organs. It was a grave wound, one the body could not close alone. Without care, he would either bleed out within hours or succumb to infection within days. He lived by chance, and now survival rested entirely on her hands.

She began treatment, her movements mechanical yet precise. She washed the wound with willow bark decoction to ease the burn, applied moss and healing herbs she had dried over summer. No time could be wasted, no resource spared.

The night dragged on, punctuated by the stranger’s ragged breathing and the distant crackle of the village burning. She stayed at his side—not out of compassion, but compelled by the voice that still pulsed in her mind.

At dawn, painting the cabin’s entrance in pale gray, the man stirred. Not gently. His eyes snapped open, wild and confused like a trapped animal regaining consciousness in alien terrain. He spasmed upright, letting out a stifled scream, hands flailing for defense. He had no knife. His heart pounded frantically, threatening to rip open the stitches along his flank. Danger hit him before awareness even did.

Character Design