My childhood was woven from sunlight filtering through leaves and the scent of freshly cut wood. We lived in a small, sturdy cabin nestled deep within the edge of the Whispering Forest, far enough from the main road to be peaceful, close enough to the town of Descate for my father, Thomas Meadowlight, to sell his timber. My mother, Elara, was gentle and kind, her hands skilled with herbs and weaving, her voice soft when she sang the old lullabies. And then there was Anya, my older sister. Anya was practical, serious, and sometimes, to my younger eyes, a little stern. But she loved us, fiercely and protectively, in her own quiet way.
We weren't rich, not by the standards of the nobles in the distant city, but we had enough – enough food on the table, enough warmth by the hearth, enough love to fill our small home to bursting. My days were spent helping Mother, learning the names of plants and their uses, or trailing after Father into the woods, listening to the rhythmic thud of his axe and the rustle of falling trees. But my favorite times were spent exploring the forest edge, chasing butterflies or collecting smooth, colorful stones from the stream. I had a secret place, a small, overgrown clearing hidden behind a curtain of vines, where I would sometimes go to read the tattered fairy tale books Mother had given me or just to dream.
One evening, just as the sun was beginning to dip below the trees, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, I saw a rabbit. Not just any rabbit, but one with fur as white as snow, its nose twitching curiously. It was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Forgetting everything else, I chased it, deeper and deeper into the woods than I usually went, my laughter echoing softly in the twilight.
The rabbit, nimble and quick, led me on a merry chase. I was so focused on its bobbing white tail that I didn't notice the change in the air, the faint coppery smell, until I nearly stumbled over him.
He was lying still, half-hidden beneath a thick bush, his clothes torn and stained with blood. His hair was dark, spread out on the damp earth, and his face, pale and drawn, was twisted in pain. He looked young, not much older than Anya. My heart hammered against my ribs, a bird trapped in a cage. I had never seen anyone so badly hurt. Fear, cold and sharp, washed over me.
But then I saw the deep gash on his side, the way his breathing was shallow and ragged. The fear didn't completely disappear, but it was joined by something else, something warmer – a desperate need to help. Mother had taught me about wounds, about cleaning and bandaging. I couldn't leave him here.
Gathering my courage, I knelt beside him. He didn't stir. He was heavier than he looked, but somehow, fueled by a strange determination, I managed to half-drag, half-carry him towards my secret clearing. It was the only place I could think of, hidden and safe.
Getting him there felt like an eternity. Once in the clearing, I used some clean rags I kept there and the basic herbs Mother had shown me for treating cuts to clean and bind his worst wounds as best I could. It wasn't much, but it was something. Then, leaving him as comfortable as possible, I ran home, my heart still pounding, but now with urgency.
"Father! Mother!" I burst into the cabin, breathless.
They looked up, startled by my panicked arrival. I quickly, tumbling over my words, told them what I had found – the injured young man in the woods. Father's face grew serious, and Mother's hand flew to her mouth. Anya, sitting by the fire mending a cloak, simply stared.
Father, bless his steady heart, didn't hesitate. He grabbed his own medical supplies, more comprehensive than mine, and followed me back to the clearing. Mother came too, her face worried. Anya remained behind, her gaze fixed on me.
As we tended to the young man, cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds properly, Anya arrived, her expression a mixture of concern and disapproval. "Celine," she said, her voice sharper than usual, "why did you bring him here? A noble? Do you have any sense? We shouldn't get involved!"
I was shocked. Anya rarely spoke to me like that, so openly critical. "He was hurt, Anya! I couldn't just leave him!"
"Some people are best left alone," she retorted, her eyes flicking towards the unconscious young man. "Especially those from their world."
Mother gently intervened, her hand on Anya's arm. "Enough, Anya. The child did what she thought was right. We will help him."
Despite Anya's reservations, we brought the young man back to the cabin, carefully settling him on a makeshift bed by the fire. For the next few days, he drifted in and out of consciousness. I helped Mother change his bandages, bringing him water and broth. But whenever he seemed close to waking fully, I would hide. I didn't know why, exactly, but I felt a strange shyness, a desire to remain unseen by him.
I asked Father and Mother if they would promise not to tell him about me, about who found him. They looked at each other for a moment, a silent conversation passing between them, and then Father nodded. "Alright, little one," he said, "if that is what you wish. We won't mention you."
He stayed for a week, slowly regaining his strength. He was quiet, even when awake, his dark eyes observing everything. He never spoke, not a single word. We didn't know if he couldn't, or wouldn't. Then, one morning, he was simply gone. He had left silently, just as he had arrived.
Life returned to normal. The incident became a hushed story, a strange interlude in our quiet lives. Anya seemed relieved he was gone. I... I felt a strange mix of emotions. Relief that he was safe, but also a lingering curiosity about the silent young man.
A few weeks later, after dinner, I told Mother I was going to play with the rabbits by the forest edge. It was a common enough excuse, a little white lie to get some time to myself before bed. But this time, as I chased a flash of white fur near my secret clearing, strong hands grabbed me from behind.
Fear, cold and paralyzing, seized me. I tried to scream, to call for Father, but no sound came out. They were rough, smelly men, their faces hard. They dragged me away, ignoring my struggles, my silent terror. "Pretty little thing," one of them sneered. "Fetch a good price."
They took me to this dark, damp place underground. They pushed me into a cage, the metal bars cold against my skin. I looked at the other women in the cages, their eyes hollow, their spirits broken. Despair, heavy and suffocating, settled over me. Was this my fate? To be caged, to be sold, to become like them?
Hours bled into one another. Fear and hopelessness were my only companions. And then, in the dim light of the cavern, amidst the stench of blood and fear, he appeared. A masked figure, moving with a deadly grace I had only read about in fairy tales. He fought like a storm, silent and unstoppable. He wasn't a knight in shining armor, but a dark, terrifying presence. Yet, he shattered the cages. He released us. Without demanding anything, without a single word of expectation.
It felt like a dream. As the other women scrambled for freedom, for the meager goods scattered around, I felt a pull, a strange recognition. This masked figure... there was something familiar about his presence, his dark hair visible beneath the mask, the way he held himself.
Ignoring the fear that still trembled through me, ignoring the urge to simply flee, I walked towards him. He watched me, his gaze intense even behind the mask. As I reached him, the words tumbled out, a mix of gratitude and awe. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice shaky, "for saving my life from this... this place." I took a deep breath, straightening my shoulders, wanting to show him I wasn't just a frightened child. "My name is Celine Meadowlight."
And then I saw it. A flicker in his eyes behind the mask, a sudden stillness in his posture. A reaction. He knew the name. The masked figure, the silent killer, was somehow connected to the woodcutter's daughter who had found him bleeding in the woods.