CHAPTER FOUR: The Forest Does Not Care
895 Words
The forest did not welcome her.
It swallowed her whole.
Elara walked until her legs burned and her lungs screamed, driven forward by a terror that refused to let her rest. Branches clawed at her skin. Roots reached up like traps, snagging her feet. The moon slipped behind thick clouds, plunging the world into a darkness so complete it felt suffocating.
Every sound was too loud.
Every shadow too close.
She did not know how long she walked before her strength finally failed her. When she collapsed, it was not graceful—her knees gave out, and she fell hard against the forest floor, breath bursting from her chest in a sob.
She curled in on herself, trembling.
The night air bit through her thin dress. It was torn now, snagged in too many places, offering little warmth. Goosebumps rose along her skin as a deep, bone-deep chill settled into her.
Her wolf whimpered softly inside her—lost, confused, stripped of the pack’s constant hum. The silence was unnatural. Terrifying.
“Elara,” she whispered to herself, just to hear a voice.
No one answered.
She forced herself to sit up, wiping her face with shaking hands. Crying would not keep her alive. Her mother’s voice echoed faintly in her memory—Stand up. Breathe. Think.
So she did.
“I have to survive, no, I must.” She thought to herself. She couldn't hold back the beads of tears that rolled down her cheeks as she mentally replayed what had happened the day before.
The first night nearly killed her.
She tried to sleep curled beneath a tree, pressing her back against its trunk, but every snap of a twig sent panic racing through her veins. The forest was alive with unseen eyes. Predators moved in the dark—wolves that were not hers, creatures that did not care about pack laws or banishment rituals.
She did not sleep.
By morning, her throat was raw and her head pounded mercilessly.
Hunger came next.
It started as a dull ache, easily ignored. By midday, it sharpened into something cruel, clawing at her insides. She searched desperately for anything she recognized—berries, roots, fallen fruit—but fear tangled with ignorance. What if it was poisonous? What if it killed her faster than starvation?
Her hands shook as she picked a small cluster of berries she thought she remembered from childhood lessons. She ate one cautiously. Waited.
When nothing happened, she devoured the rest with shaking hands, barely tasting them.
Water was harder.
She followed the sound of running water until she found a narrow stream. She dropped to her knees, drinking greedily, cold liquid spilling down her chin. Only after did she realize how exposed she was—how vulnerable.
A growl echoed in the distance.
Elara froze.
Her heart thundered. She backed away slowly, every muscle coiled, ready to run. When nothing emerged from the trees, she didn’t wait to confirm safety. She fled.
Days blurred together.
Hunger became constant. So did exhaustion.
She tried different fruits, grasses, nuts, leaves, anything to fill her stomach with. Some made her sick, some made her purge her tummy out, some gave her skin reactions, others were delights for her stomach; But the forest was merciful to her, none killed her.
She learned quickly—how to move quietly, how to climb trees when danger drew near, how to wrap leaves around her feet when blisters tore her skin raw. She learned that pain could be endured, that fear could be managed if she didn’t let it rule her.
She cried at night. Always at night.
For her parents.
For her bed.
For the life that had been stolen from her in a single dawn.
Once, she dreamed of lanterns and laughter—and woke screaming.
By the fourth day, her strength began to fail.
Her steps slowed. Her thoughts dulled. The forest stretched endlessly, every direction the same. She tripped often now, her body too weak to recover quickly. When she fell, she stayed down longer each time.
It was during one of those moments—lying flat on her back, staring up at the tangled canopy—that she wondered if this was how she would die.
Alone. Unmarked. Forgotten.
A rustle nearby snapped her out of the thought.
She scrambled upright just as figures emerged from the trees.
Not wolves.
People.
They moved cautiously, weapons in hand, eyes sharp and wary. Their clothes were worn, patched, practical. Scarred.
Rogues.
Elara stumbled backward instinctively, terror flooding her veins. She had heard stories—brutal, merciless, lawless.
“Easy,” one of them said, raising a hand slowly. “You’re deep in rogue land, girl.”
Her throat worked, but no sound came out.
They took her in quickly—the dirt-streaked face, the torn dress, the hollowed eyes.
“She’s half-dead,” another muttered.
A woman stepped forward, older, her gaze piercing but not unkind. “When was the last time you ate?”
Elara’s knees buckled.
She didn’t remember falling—but strong arms caught her before she hit the ground.
“Get her to the village,” the woman ordered. “Now.”
As darkness claimed her, the last thing Elara felt was warmth.
Not comfort.
But survival.
And for the first time since her banishment, she did not wake alone.
- Writer
