The sun had barely climbed the sky, but the village already smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. A thin mist lingered among the rolling hills, weaving through the pines like a restless spirit. It was the kind of morning that held a secret promise or a warning.
Liesel Maren crouched low in the mossy underbrush, her fingers trembling slightly as she plucked a sprig of yarrow, careful not to tear the delicate leaves. She had learned early that nature offered both healing and harm in equal measure. The wild herbs around her were the sum of her education; old, tattered books she'd found in the village's discarded refuse told her which ones could soothe fevers or staunch wounds.
Her small, calloused hands worked methodically. The yarrow was meant to be dried and crushed, then boiled in water with ash, a remedy passed down from her mother, whispered in dreams and half-remembered prayers. Liesel murmured the instructions aloud, her voice barely a breath:
"Boil yarrow in ash water. Bitter, but it eases the burning."
The ground beneath her knees was cold and damp, but she paid no mind. Barefoot and with hair untamed, Liesel was as much part of the forest as the foxes and ravens that darted around her.
Her gaze drifted up to the apricot tree standing sentinel at the edge of the clearing. Its branches stretched out in twisted grace, heavy with fruit that had long since fallen and rotted into the soil. The tree was her monument, a silent witness to the past she tried both to hold onto and forget.
It was beneath this tree, two winters past, that her mother had died. Alone. Sick. Eyes wide open to the indifferent sky.
Liesel's breath caught, and she shut her eyes tightly. A soft voice, as faint as the wind through the pine needles, whispered in her mind. Her mother's voice.
"Survive, my child. Find the light beyond the shadow."
The memory was sharp yet distant, a fragile flame in the dark.
When she opened her eyes, the village lay just beyond the treeline, the smoke curling from crooked chimneys like a thread connecting her to a world she longed to escape.
But the village did not welcome her.
Whispers followed her steps: witch's child, motherless outcast, dark fate. The priest's eyes held thinly veiled contempt whenever they met.
Liesel avoided him.
She knew better than to cross the Church, for the priest's words could turn neighbors into enemies overnight.
Her daily routine was a careful dance of survival: scavenge herbs, hide from suspicious gazes, and bury herself in the brittle pages of the old books she treasured. They were remnants of a world that seemed impossibly far away — tales of distant courts, learned scholars, and whispered secrets. In those moments, she dared to dream.
Dreams of freedom.
Of a life beyond dirt floors and cold nights.
Of a place where she could be more than a shadow.
She settled onto a fallen log and opened one such book, its cover cracked and faded. The language was old, but the words felt like keys, unlocking secrets she was born to know.
Suddenly, footsteps approached.
She snapped the book shut and slipped into the shadows, heart pounding.
A woman emerged from the path, tall and poised, with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. Her cloak was dark green velvet, dusted with dew, and her hair gleamed like polished ebony. There was something familiar about her—an elegance born not just of birth, but of purpose.
Liesel's breath caught as the woman's gaze swept the clearing.
"You are Liesel Maren," the woman said, voice soft but certain.
Liesel froze.
"How do you know my name?"
The woman smiled faintly, lifting a hand in greeting. "I have heard of you. You are the girl who speaks to the wind and reads the earth."
Liesel's eyes narrowed. "Stories."
"Perhaps. But stories often carry truth."
The woman knelt, producing a small bundle of parchment tied with a leather cord. "My name is Lady Elsa von Adalbrecht. I seek a girl of uncommon promise, someone who might change the course of more than a village's fate."
Liesel's mind raced. A noble? Here? In the wilds?
Elsa's gaze held no judgment, only something rare and precious: hope.
For the first time in years, Liesel felt the stirrings of a new path.
The path beneath the apricot tree was growing clearer.