Chapter Text
The sea closed over her. The world stilled. Cold slid through her bones as the tide spun her, leaving her weightless. Salt burned her lips as she gasped, water flooding her throat.
She thrashed, legs flailing in endless dark, arms slashing frantic paths through the water. Her lungs knotted, ravenous, clawing for air.
Above, light blurred to a pale smear before vanishing altogether.
Fear twisted inside her, cold and steady. Her chest burned for air as the water pulled her down. Just moments ago, she had fought the current, but now her limbs sank, heavy as anchors.
Move.
The word cut through the fog. She obeyed. Her legs kicked hard, arms stretching until her fingers scraped something solid—a jagged rock. She clung to it and hauled herself forward, lungs burning for release.
At last, she broke the surface, gasping as sunlight hit her eyes. Sounds returned: gulls screaming overhead, waves crashing against stone. She dug her nails into the slick ledge and pulled herself free of the undertow.
The sea lunged again, slamming her against the rock with such force her shoulder went numb. She gripped harder and climbed, teeth clenched, until the foam frothed far below and the water could no longer reach her.
She collapsed onto her side, coughing up saltwater. Each breath was harsh and painful.
The sky spun, bright and endless, sunlight shining across the water and making her squint. Ahead, a wall of jungle waited at the horizon, thick with heat and hidden sounds.
She crawled toward it, dragging herself by the elbows, lungs rasping with each breath until leaves finally closed in around her, swallowing her into green.
When darkness folded around her, she let it take her. For the first time in days, she surrendered to sleep.
When she woke, heat greeted her. Sunlight striped the earth by her cheek, warmth sliding into her bones and easing the ache.
The air was full of life: wet roots, thick plants, and bright flowers. Insects buzzed, birds called, and somewhere in the distance, water flowed.
Her throat scorched with thirst, parched and desperate for even a drop of water.
She pushed up on trembling arms, the world tilting green and gold. Roots curled around her ankles, vines brushed her shoulders, yet she kept moving, step by step, until the foliage split and the light turned silver.
A stream wound through the dark, clear as glass, stones glimmering beneath its skin. Tiny fish darted quick and bright in the shallows.
She dropped to her knees. Cold water curled against her wrists as she bent forward, lips breaking the surface. She drank deep, clean mouthfuls that slid through her like breath itself.
When her thirst eased, she leaned back, palms trailing in the current, watching ripples scatter into shadow, silver and shifting.
She ate what she found: berries, sharp and bitter; figs splitting under heat. Their juice stained her lips, soothing the gnaw in her belly.
By dusk, when the sky turned gold and purple, she climbed. Bark scraped her fingers, branches raked her arms, but she did not stop until she reached a place where the leaves wove into a roof. Through the gaps, stars kindled in the dark.
Below, voices floated up, mingling with the shine of metal. Shapes moved between the trees, spears catching the moonlight—trolls, drifting like ghosts.
She curled tight against the trunk, breath locked shallow, and waited until their murmurs faded into the rustle of leaves.
As days blurred together and her body adapted, strength threaded back into her limbs. She learned which vines bled water and which roots to chew. Mud became armor against biting things, and she scored tree bark to map her paths, carving a language only she could read.
Her steps grew softer as she learned the signs: the stillness that whispered danger, the trembling leaves that promised fruit to come. At night, she climbed until the ground fell away and the canopy opened to a scatter of stars. From her perch, the jungle stretched endlessly, black and breathing, and she stared into it without fear.
The sea vanished from her mind—the chains, the hands that forced her under. None of it mattered now.
The jungle closed in around her, vast and alive, until it felt like part of her. Fear faded, replaced by something fiercer. The wild echoed her secret with every rustle of leaves. She moved quietly and quickly, and when hunters crossed her path, they never saw her. They only found empty snares, footprints lost to rain, and the uneasy sense of being watched.
In troll camps, voices coiled low around fires, stories told of a spirit haunting the green, a phantom that stole under starlight and vanished like smoke. Once she listened from the trees, crouched in the cradle of branches while sparks spun into the night. She watched firelight paint their tusks gold and beads glint red in the dark, then slipped away before their fear sharpened into questions.
For a while, the wild was enough. It fed her, taught her a silence keener than any blade. But as months passed, the green pressed in, its hum filling her veins until stillness itself became a cage.
One morning, mist curling pale along the roots, she rose with a dull ache in her limbs and walked. She did not know where the path led, only that it would not circle back.
Heat thinned as she climbed north. Gold bled through the green; patches of dying leaves fluttered like torn silk. The air cooled, grew drier, and the wild’s music faded to creaking branches and the harsh caw of crows. She crossed rivers by balancing along trunks slick with moss, letting icy water press against her shins, and slogged through marshes where mud clung and stained her legs in ropes of silt. She avoided open roads where wagons crawled heavy as beetles, though sometimes she shadowed them, holding her breath and keeping her steps soft as mist until they halted for the night.
From them she learned new things: the grit of coal smoke, the tang of iron, the jingle of coins exchanged. Fear smelled different on men who never saw her—acrid, pooling beneath sweat and leather.
She once found a body in a ditch, throat cut, purse untouched. She took the knife, boots, and bloodstained cloak, wearing them until they wore out and no longer kept her warm.
Storms crashed down, wild and merciless. She huddled beneath tangled roots or in the mouths of caves, shivering through nights that bit with frost. Still, she pressed onward, every step a silent rebellion against the world that tried to break her.
She traveled through the Pass, where the wind howled. She passed moss-covered towers with damp stones and walked roads where no birds sang, only wolves waited in the shadows, their eyes shining in the dark.
North drew her thinner, sharper, but not empty. Strength now ran through her like a second pulse. One night, smoke curled between the trees in the blue-gray coil of a campfire, voices cracked low against the hush.
She slipped through the brush, each step carefully placed to avoid snapping branches, and crept until the fire’s glow reached her boots. A camp sprawled ahead—canvas tents sagging with damp, a wagon hitched to a dozing mule.
No guards. No eyes for the shadows.
Clothes steamed on a line strung between poles: coarse linen, a roughspun tunic patched at the elbows, a pair of trousers. She crouched near the line, counting her breaths while she waited for a break in the laughter by the fire. When mugs clinked and voices rose, she darted forward—one step, two—snatched the fabric, tore it free, and vanished before the firelight betrayed her absence.
The stolen clothes hung loose, smelling of smoke. They hid the wild part of her, softened her edges—enough to pass, at least in the half-light, so long as no one looked too closely.
The green lay far behind her now. The air clung with dampness, and trees arched overhead like ribs closing in. Their branches tangled against a sky blurred gray, while mist crawled low to coil around her boots. Shapes stirred at the edges of sight—shadows stretching before slipping away.
The road ahead curved into blackness. Lanterns glimmered unevenly through the fog, their glow thin and wavering, as if darkness ate the light.
She paused, listening. Silence pooled behind her, stitched with rain and the ghost of wind. Ahead, the hush grew heavier, thicker, laced with something colder than night.
Her hand brushed the hilt at her thigh—warm, waiting. She stepped forward, heartbeat loud, moving not with fear but with the steadiness the wild had given her. She walked lean, sharp, confident, her shape honed by hunger and time.
The mist closed behind her, and one by one, the lanterns guttered out.
*
Night weighed on the woods. Mist crept between the trees, hiding roots and branches in a pale shroud. Her fire was small, only a faint flame under the canopy, hidden behind a fallen trunk. It spat and hissed as damp sap seeped from the wood, and smoke drifted into the darkness where no stars shone.
She crouched by the fire, knees drawn in, knife across her thighs. The blade caught the flicker, glinting with a dark stain. Nearby, meat dangled from a low branch, its shadow long in the firelight.
The fire's warmth gilded her scars. Light illuminated the mark carved deep in her skin: VII, blurred by years but never erased.
She stared at it. The lines were inked deep, stark as bars. Once, it meant chains. Once, it meant she was owned.
Her thumb traced the edge slowly while the fire murmured. She knew she should hate it, and part of her did. But now, it was not just a wound. It was a story, a hard truth that would not disappear from her skin.
Words slipped from her lips before her mind could catch them.
“Vi,” she whispered.
The word landed softly, almost lost among the trees. It sounded strange, plain, and new, but honest. Short. Firm. Something no one else could change.
She repeated it, this time with more force, letting the fire catch the sound.
“Vi.”
The night kept the word. The leaves stayed still. The darkness gave no reply. But inside, she felt something settle, steady and sure, as if a weight had finally found its place.
She wasn’t nameless anymore. With that certainty, she left the woods behind, her steps carrying her through mist and silence toward the distant lights of the village.
*
The tavern was busy and noisy. Damp air, brought in by boots and cloaks, filled the room, contrasting with the cold. Shadows gathered away from the firelight. Lanterns behind the bar cast a dull orange glow on old boards, highlighting slick wood from spilled ale.
She stood by the far wall, hood down, listening as people spoke around her. Hunters exchanged stories over drinks, often mentioning superstitions and dangers in the woods. She listened carefully and learned from what she heard.
“Oi.”
The voice caught her attention. A big man with a ledger under his arm and a quill in his other hand motioned for her to come over. His beard was streaked with gray, and his eyes were pale as he scrutinized her, like a butcher inspecting meat.
“You’re the one asking for work.” Not a question. His gaze flicked to the knife at her hip, damp stains darkening its hilt. “You’ll get coin if you’ve got a name to sign.”
For a moment, silence stretched thin. She felt the mark's weight under her sleeve, the old name coiling at the edge of thought, rusted and bitter. She left it there.
Slowly, she straightened. She pushed her hood back just enough for her eyes to catch the light, cold and steady.
“Vi,” she said.
Her voice was flat and sure. The name was just one syllable, spoken with finality.
The man blinked, then etched it onto the page. “Vi. Fine.” He slid a slip toward her, corners curled, ink still wet. “Wolf culls. South wood’s edge. Bring proof.”
She took it without a word. His eyes lingered—curious, maybe—but she turned away before he found more.
As the door closed behind her and the mist swallowed her steps, the name stayed with her.
Vi.