The forest remembered what mortals forgot.
It remembered wars and kingdoms turned to ash. It remembered the day a witch, broken by betrayal, leaned against its oldest tree and wept a single tear—her last.
That tear sank into the roots, a sorrow carried down through bark and stone, until the earth itself drank it in. For centuries it lay hidden, a seed of grief pressed into silence, until the forest, ever patient, shaped it into something else.
A child.
She was not born with screams or cries. She opened her eyes beneath a canopy of green, the world around her alive with gentle murmurs. Her hair carried the shimmer of moonlight tangled in leaves; her skin, pale as morning mist. The birds were the first to greet her, their wings fanning the air above her as if blessing a fragile flame.
The forest raised her.
When she stumbled, roots curved to catch her. When hunger gnawed, fruit ripened early and fell into her hands. Streams bent their course to meet her lips, cool and sweet. Deer did not flee from her touch; foxes slept by her side. Even the wind seemed to laugh with her when she danced barefoot through the moss.
She grew not in years, but in seasons. Spring taught her gentleness, summer taught her joy, autumn gave her patience, and winter wrapped her in silence. She sang with the robins, braided wildflowers into her hair, and listened to the whispered lullabies of the pines.
The forest loved her, and she loved it in return.
She did not know her name. She did not know what she was. Only that she belonged to the earth and the earth belonged to her.
It was on a twilight evening that the forest's harmony faltered.
Shadows slipped between the trees—witches wandering from distant lands, weary and hungry, their eyes sharp with greed. They smelled it before they saw it: the strange purity in the air, thick as honey, the way the leaves seemed to hum a hidden hymn.
And then they found her.
The girl sat upon a mossy rock, weaving crowns of daisies for a doe that bent its head to her lap. Her laughter, clear and unguarded, rang like silver bells across the clearing.
The witches froze. In her aura they felt a power unclaimed, raw as lightning. A child shaped not by womb but by nature's own will. A child who could be bent, broken, bound.
"Look at her," one whispered, lips curling. "Nature's pet."
"Not for long," another replied.
The forest stirred, warning. The wind hissed through branches, birds scattered in frantic clouds. A fox bared its teeth, growling low. But the witches were many, and their hunger was iron.
They seized her.
She cried out, not in fear but in confusion, reaching for the doe that bolted, for the trees that groaned but could not move. The earth trembled, roots surged upward, but fire burned them back. The forest fought, but it could not save its child.
Dragged through dirt and shadow, her flower crown trampled beneath boots, the girl vanished into the night.
The forest wailed.
From that day, its rivers grew restless, its winds whispered in grief, its animals kept watch. For though they had lost her, they swore never to abandon her.
Centuries passed.
She grew in chains. The witches who took her did not call her child, nor sister, nor kin. They called her slave, alalay, burden. They mocked her bond with the earth, beat her for mistakes, starved her for defiance.
Her hands bled on stone floors. Her back bent beneath endless toil. Her laughter—once bright—faded into silence.
And yet… she endured.
When thirst clawed her throat, water seeped through cracks to touch her lips. When hunger twisted her belly, crows dropped crumbs, rabbits left roots. When lashes cut her skin, leaves pressed against wounds, whispering comfort.
The forest never forgot.
And neither did she. In the secret corners of her heart, she clung to the sound of wind in branches, the taste of moss after rain. She dreamed of green places and the song of birds.
Two centuries of cruelty passed like slow-burning seasons, shaping her into something delicate yet unyielding.
But the day of change was coming.
The forest, patient for so long, began to stir. Winds carried whispers further. Animals moved with restless purpose. The earth itself seemed to lean toward a certain path, as though waiting for someone.
Someone who would see her.
Someone who could break the silence of her chains.
The night was restless.
Rossetta felt it first as a hush that did not belong—an unsteady cadence in the forest's breath. She had lived long enough to know the difference between silence and warning. This was no mere quiet. This was the world holding its tongue.
She should have ignored it. For centuries she had taught herself not to listen, not to follow. Humans had betrayed her. Witches had scorned her. She owed nothing to cries in the dark.
And yet.
The wind tugged at her cloak. Owls screeched in frantic chorus. Even the soil beneath her boots seemed to hum, urging her forward.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, though her steps lengthened, her senses sharpening.
She found them in a clearing drenched with moonlight.
Three witches circled a girl, their laughter sharp as broken glass. Chains clinked with each movement, biting into the child's thin wrists. She was no child, Rossetta realized at a glance—her body had grown into a young woman's frame, yet her posture was that of someone who had never been allowed to stand straight.
One witch shoved her to the ground. Another kicked dirt into her face. The third muttered a curse, and Marian's body jerked in pain, a muffled gasp caught between clenched teeth.
Rossetta's jaw tightened. She had seen cruelty before, on battlefields, in palaces, in villages starving under their lords. But this… this reeked of something worse. Centuries of it, carved into the girl's eyes like scars that never healed.
The forest whispered again, loud enough to make her spine prickle: Help her.
She stepped forward.
The branches rustled above, wind sweeping through as if in relief.
The witches spun toward her, their jeers faltering.
"Who dares—" one began, but her voice faltered when she saw Rossetta's face.
The Witch of War. The mercenary shadow who had once split kingdoms with her spells, who vanished into myth when the world turned its blade against her kind.
Recognition flared in their eyes, followed quickly by fear.
Rossetta raised her hand lazily, not even weaving a spell, and the ground quivered beneath them. Roots curled like serpents, stones shivered loose. The forest itself bent to her will, as it always had.
"Run," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried.
The witches hesitated only a moment before retreating into the shadows, their curses swallowed by the night.
Rossetta exhaled, lowering her hand. She had let them go deliberately, though a part of her bristled at the thought. Mercy was not a habit of hers. But something told her she had not seen the last of them. One in particular—the one who cursed with a serpent's tongue—left a chill along her spine.
When the clearing stilled, her gaze fell to the girl.
She lay trembling in the dirt, her hair matted, her lips cracked. Yet her eyes—green, vivid as young leaves—were wide with astonishment, not fear.
Rossetta knelt, not close, but enough to see the faint shimmer around her. Nature clung to her like a second skin, a quiet glow that no beating could extinguish.
"What's your name?" Rossetta asked.
The girl hesitated. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke, as though unused to kindness.
"…Marian."
Rossetta's throat tightened against her will. A fragile name. A fragile girl. She should leave her. Better not to entangle herself in chains not her own.
But Marian looked at her with something she had not seen in centuries.
Hope.
It was dangerous. Hope always was.
Rossetta stood, turning away.
"Go home."
A pause. Then a whisper: "I have no home."
She nearly cursed under her breath. Why did the forest lead her here? Why this girl, of all souls?
Rossetta began walking, her cloak brushing over the leaves. She did not look back. She did not need to. She could already hear the faint, uneven steps trailing after her.
In the days that followed, Marian lingered like a shadow at her heels. Rossetta never invited her, never welcomed her, but neither did she drive her away.
When hunger threatened, Rossetta wordlessly tossed her half a loaf. When cold set in, she gestured toward the fire. And when Marian stumbled too often, she sighed and corrected her footing, teaching her where to place her weight so her soles would not blister.
"Keep your shoulders straight," she instructed once, adjusting Marian's stance with a firm hand.
"Even a beaten dog must learn not to look beaten."
Marian nodded, wide-eyed, absorbing each lesson as though it were treasure.
Rossetta kept her tone sharp, her manner distant, but inside she felt the faintest crack. This girl, this child of sorrow, carried herself with a kind of stubborn light that reminded her of something she had buried long ago.
Each night, as Marian curled close to the embers with gratitude written across her weary face, Rossetta told herself she would send her away tomorrow.
And each morning, when the forest stirred as though watching them both, Rossetta found herself silent.