It seems like I’ve been running throughout the whole night. The moon is no longer high above, it’s setting. My legs are growing numb, and I know I can’t keep this pace forever. I need to stop and rest, just for a moment. So I do.
I look around, and it’s only now that I truly take in the forest surrounding me. The trees stretch in all directions like a big colony of birds flying over my village, their trunks impossibly tall, rising like pillars holding up the skies. The leaves, dark and glinting in the moonlight, sway in the cool night breeze. It’s more than I ever imagined, more beautiful and alive. The air smells different here, crisper, richer, with the vague scent of pine and damp earth. For the first time in my life, I’m seeing the world as it truly is, not through the cold distance of a window or the lifeless pages of a book. The trees aren’t just illustrations in an old tome. They’re real and massive, each one unique in shape and texture.
It’s not polished wood like Tárnov’s furniture.
I run my fingers along the rough surface of a tree. It’s uneven and knotted, with deep grooves where rainwater has carved its path over centuries. It feels ancient, as though it has witnessed the world change and grow around it but stood firm. I never knew bark could feel so alive.
Even in our garden we didn’t have trees. Only roses, lots of them.
A tiny movement catches my eye, and I lean close. It’s a caterpillar. Its body is green, little dots at the end of the hairs glowing in the silver light of the moon. It moves slowly, its tiny legs gripping the stem of a plant as it crawls upward. I watch, fascinated, as the caterpillar arches its back and then inches forward. Its world is so small.
I’ve only ever seen creatures like this in my mother’s books, in the sketches she made as she told me stories of the wild. But this... It’s right in front of me.
I follow the caterpillar’s path with my eyes as it crawls over a leaf, the surface glistening with dew that sparkles like stars in the darkness. I reach out, touch the cool, waxy surface of the leaf, feel the moisture cling to my fingertips. How many times have I studied pictures of leaves like this?
Above me, the trees sway, their branches dancing in the moonlight. The sound they make isn’t like the hollow creaking of wood back in Tárnov—it’s a soft rustling, like a thousand whispers all at once. I tilt my head back and stare up at the canopy where the moonlight slips through like threads of silver woven between the leaves. The sky is wider here, unbroken by the walls that trapped me for so long. It’s endless, and for the first time, I feel like I’m standing in a world without limits. I take a deep breath, savoring the freshest air, and exhale slowly.
The ground beneath me is uneven, the forest floor thick with layers of fallen leaves, moss, and small plants I can’t even name. I crouch down and run my fingers through the soft, spongy moss that carpets the earth. It’s cool and damp under my touch, a strange comfort in the middle of all this wildness. Little shoots of plants I’ve only ever read about poke through the soil. My mother used to tell me the names of plants like these, pointing totheir pictures in old books. But seeing them here, growing in the wild, it feels like discovering them for the first time.
I glance up again at the trees, towering above me like guardians. I used to imagine what it would be like to touch one, to feel the rough bark under my hands, to breathe in the scent of real, living wood. Now, standing here, surrounded by them, I feel small, but not in the way I did in Tárnov. Here, in the wild, I feel connected. Like I’m finally part of something I longed for.
I’ve never felt this kind of freedom.
Even when I commanded my soldiers, they were the ones out here in the wild—tracking, scouting, and pushing the boundaries of their skills—while I was kept inside, chained by the unbreakable rules of Tárnov. It didn’t matter that I had trained harder or fought better. I was still a woman, and women are not allowed outside the village walls. Not for safety, not for protection. No, because in their eyes, we didn’t belong in the world beyond.
I remember one mission all too well. My unit was assigned to scout the northern border near the forests where bandits were rumored to gather. It was a critical task, one that I spent weeks preparing for. I poured over maps, strategized routes, thought of every risk. This was my chance to show them that I wasn’t just a “female officer” but a true leader.
But the morning we were to leave, my lieutenant colonel called me into his office.
“You’re not going,” he said simply, his eyes hard as stone. There wasn’t even room for discussion.
I remember the tension in my chest, my fists clenching at my sides as I demanded an explanation. I knew why, of course, but I needed to hear him say it. I needed to hear the words from his mouth.
“You know the rules, Ársa,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk that made my skin crawl. “Women don’t belongoutside the walls. You’re useful here, with the reports and the paperwork. Leave the real work to us.”
Leave the real work to them.
No matter how much I proved myself, no matter how much I outpaced them in every training, they would always see me as less than. A woman’s place is behind walls, behind men, behind limitations they created to keep us small and obedient.
That day, I watched from the tower as my men rode out without me, the sound of their horses fading into the distance while I was left to pace the cold stone halls like a caged animal. They returned days later with stories of battles fought, victories won. They wore their bruises and cuts like badges of honor, while I had nothing.
I find shelter under a large tree, its roots stretched wide enough to offer me some safety while my head aches. I sink down onto the damp forest floor, half lying on the trunk behind me.
Despite my limbs heavy with exhaustion and my stomach aching with hunger, I know I can’t risk lighting a fire. The crackling flames would surely betray my presence and draw unwanted attention from lurking animals. Or Arnold. I wonder what that arsehole’s face will look like when he sees the empty carriage.
I sigh with my whole body.
Mother always encouraged me to join the military because she believed it would make me capable and independent. “You have a strong spirit, Noël,” she would say. “In the army, you will learn to channel that strength.” Her voice echoes in my mind. She stood tall the day I left for training, pride shining in her eyes as she bid me farewell. While other parents were sending their sons, I stood tall with her, full of determination as the first woman to join the military in history. Warmth swells in my heart at the memory.
In my early days in the army, my squadron was subjected to a brutal training in the dead of winter. The relentless cold seeped into our bones, but we had to keep moving. And though we all struggled, I was singled out.
“Push through the pain, Ársa,” the sergeant barked at me. “I knew a woman couldn’t handle it, what were they thinking allowing this madness?”
I clenched my teeth, focused on my mother’s words, and let her belief in me drive each step forward. By the end of the exercise, I was exhausted but proud. I had proven to myself and my comrades that I could. That I’m no less than a man.
I smile at the memory, but it quickly fades as the weight of grief settles on my shattered heart. My mother’s absence hurts more than any wound. Her presence now nothing more than a precious memory I can hold on to.
How I long for her comforting embrace, her words of wisdom to guide me through this darkest of nights. But she’s gone, taken from me too soon, leaving me to navigate this cruel world alone.Mother, how will I survive without you?
