The books were neatly stacked.
Dried fish, herbs, and mushrooms were bundled and knotted in twine. Her clothes were folded into each other like puzzle pieces.
The hide-turned knapsack was nearly full. She covered the blades of the kitchen knives and placed them inside carefully. She couldn't bring herself to pack everything from the kitchen, so she chose just one pot. The rest of the utensils, she figured, she could carve from soft wood later.
She almost felt sad.
She never did find any truffles, despite the earthy scent that lingered near the forest's roots. Still, she was content with the assortment of nuts she had managed to gather.
Wearing a blue raglan shirt, cream-beige cargo pants, and black-laced boots, she secured the sword and katana across her back using the black leather straps.
The wooden tumbler she carved from a slim branch fit snugly in one of her side pockets.
She grabbed the candlelit lantern and tied it to hang on the outside of her bag, then shoved the matches into another pocket.
Finally, she threw on the heavy black wool cloak, covering her whole body. The backpack, despite the books inside, felt surprisingly light as she latched it onto her back.
She made one last round inside the cabin.
Her fingers brushed across the bed she'd grown used to. She double-checked the wardrobe... once again, empty. The bookshelf by her reading nook now sat bare.
She thought about leaving a mark, something simple, like the old saying: "___ was here."
So, on one of the bricks beneath the fireplace mantel, she carved her name: Sena Yukari.
It wasn't obvious. It could be missed.
But if someone ever stumbled into this cabin and decided to stay… they'd find it eventually, while cleaning around the hearth. And when they did, they'd know she had lived here once.
She considered leaving a written note, but dismissed the idea.
Who would read it? she thought.
She took a long moment to appreciate the tiny washroom tucked into the corner with its quaint little door. She was thankful to have learned how to care for her female body in the privacy of those walls.
She looked down into the water basin, watching the ripples distort her reflection. She still didn't know what she looked like — not truly — but at least now, she knew what to call herself.
In the kitchen, she took a deep breath, remembering all the times she'd cooked here, and how full her belly had been. She couldn't bring herself to pack the tea cups and plates. She couldn't bear the thought of them shattering along the way.
The cabin was small. Square and simple. But it had done its job well.
She closed her eyes, placed her hands on her sides, stood tall, and gave a low bow
"I'm leaving for now."
"I don't know if I will be back soon. Please don't wait for me."
She covered her head with the hood of her cloak, and with a soft flick—almost a wave—the hem brushed the cabin floor as if bidding it goodbye, just as she stepped out and closed its doors.
She didn't look back…
She didn't want to…
She didn't need to…
She remembered her failed attempt at building a compass: a wooden dipper from the washroom, filled with water, and the metal nib from her pen.
Instead of pointing north, the needle spun in endless circles.
Aimless.
Without direction.
So today, as she trudged forward, she tried something else: a makeshift sundial.
She fashioned it from a flat, disc-like piece of slate with a twig balanced upright at the center. The shadow it cast stretched long and lean across the surface.
If the slate were the face of an analog clock, it pointed toward six o'clock. She turned her body to face where 3 o'clock would be — what she hoped was east... and began walking.
One foot after another, she walked forward. Toward her new destination. The cabin blurred behind her, swallowed slowly by the tall, watching trees.
The sound of the river faded to a hum.
The chirping birds, the cawing crows, even the scurrying of rabbits and wild boars… all of it gone.
Nowhere to be heard.
For Sena, it was already a memory.
She was moving forward now.
Slowly but surely, she was trekking into the unknown… away from what she had come to know.
But every step was her own. And for now… that was enough.
The dense forest through which Sena walked, despite its initial looming presence, felt strangely peaceful… almost calming.
The towering trees layered above her, their trunks rising thick and tall, as if each one was striving to outgrow its neighbors to reach the coveted canopy above.
She kept her direction steady, staying true to what she believed was east.
There were some minor misdirections along the way... she had to leap over fallen trunks and crouch beneath massive branches twisted like gnarled arms blocking her path.
But her pace remained determined.
By midday, Sena could feel the warmth of the scorching sun filtering through the gaps above the towering trees.
She pulled back her hood to let the breeze brush her face.
Despite the heat of high noon, she didn't feel suffocated beneath her heavy wool cloak. The fabric was thick, yes, but the air inside the forest stayed cool enough under the dense canopy.
She pressed onward.
Her stride had gained a newfound rhythm, smoother and more confident now that she had somewhat accustomed herself to the dense weave of Silvershroud Forest.
Every step felt a little lighter, each motion more deliberate.
As she advanced, the forest began to open here and there, revealing patches of light and life.
In one such clearing, she came upon a sparse stretch of foliage where blankets of multicolored flowers bloomed freely across the forest floor: vivid blue, bright yellow, pale pink, and soft white petals swaying gently with the breeze.
Consulting her memory and her well-worn copy of Roots & Remedies: A Forager's Fieldbook, Sena recognized some of the species: blue poppies, buttercups, wood anemone, and pink yarrow.
Temptation rose… she wanted to reach out, to touch, to smell, to pluck a few of the vibrant blooms.
But she restrained herself.
She knew better now.
The toxicity of plants in Elioudra was not to be underestimated; what seemed beautiful could well be deadly.
Soon, the foliage thickened again. The light dimmed as the trees crowded closer, branches knitting overhead.
The path ahead darkened, and with it came a new sight: a dense carpet of foxglove, monkshood, and hemlock stretched across the ground before her, their colors rich and strangely inviting.
Sena paused. She knew the danger well.
The beauty of these blooms masked their lethality. Even their pollen could cause severe symptoms if inhaled.
Kneeling down as she opened her knapsack and rummaged through its contents, she looked for her old nightgown.
With swift fingers, she tore the sleeves from the worn garment, fashioning them into a makeshift face covering. Carefully, she wrapped the fabric around her nose and mouth, securing it into a simple protective mask.
Once the mask was tied firmly in place, she gathered her long, flowing hair and tucked it beneath her cloak, smoothing it down to keep it hidden and out of the way.
Finally, she pulled the hood of her cloak back over her head, the familiar weight settling around her, shielding her once more from the forest's unseen dangers.
She stood again, gazing at the poisonous field shimmering faintly beneath the filtered light. Their almost nostalgic, dreamlike presence called to her, glowing faintly.
Inviting. Alluring.
But she would not be fooled.
Glancing left and right, she weighed her options. Moving forward through the dense, poisonous carpet of flowers seemed to be the best course if she wished to stay true to her eastward path, even if it wasn't perfectly east.
Knowing she'd need something to clear the way ahead, she stepped back slightly and scanned the forest floor for a long, sturdy fallen branch among the scattered debris.
Half-hidden beneath a tangle of ferns and leaning against a crooked stump, a particular stick caught her eye.
It was longer than most, sturdy, with a natural taper from base to tip. The wood had weathered smooth in places, its surface worn by time and rain.
It curved gently, not perfectly straight, but balanced, like it had been shaped slowly by the forest itself rather than snapped by force.
The bark was stripped in parts, revealing pale wood streaked with faint, silvery lines, like veins in stone. A small knot near the grip gave it texture, and just above that, a shallow twist ran along its length; subtle, almost like a handmade grip, though it clearly wasn't carved.
Near the top, the branch forked softly to one side, not enough to snag, but enough to stand out. A patch of soft moss clung to one edge like a resting shoulder pad, and a faint trail of lichen curled along the spine.
When she lifted it, it felt solid.
Not too heavy, not too light. Just right for brushing past low branches, clearing tall grass, or steadying her footing along uneven earth.
It wasn't a weapon or a relic. But something about it felt... chosen.
With the hem of her cloak, she brushed the soft moss and lichen off of the stick and claimed it as her staff.
Sena drew in a steady breath through the cloth and stepped forward carefully, prepared now to face the beautiful danger ahead.
One… Two… Three…
She started mentally counting each step as she marched through this enchanting garden of hell.
"This must be Silvershroud's Middle Finger," she muttered, shoving her makeshift staff through the poisonous blooms crowding her path.
Five hundred sixty-four… Five hundred sixty-five…
Three thousand… Three thousand eight hundred five…
"For the love of all things divine, how long is this stretch of blossomfuck valley?!"
Counting her steps was the only way to gauge just how vast this cursed patch of Silvershroud truly was. The farther she went, the more agitated she became.
Wariness mounting, a thin edge of nausea curling in her gut.
The stifling mask, the layers of her cloak, the suffocating air thick with floral toxins… not to mention being hemmed in on all sides by these botanical demons.
The distinctive, looming presence of a figure kept foreshadowing itself from one shadow to the next in Sena's peripheral vision.
Her head jerked left, then right, then left again in sharp, rapid movements.
Her breath quickened. Her heart pounded harder and harder. Each beat like the thunderous drums of a parade, blurring her line of sight, zooming and pulsing in rhythm.
An intense, creeping dread wound its way into her chest.
Her slow, cautious steps quickened, becoming a tense, jittery speed-walk.
She could feel cold sweat forming at her hairline, trickling down her temple in thin, icy streams.
Her grip on her walking stick tightened.
She swayed it forward in rigid, urgent strokes, keeping her balance, fighting to maintain her sanity, careful not to trip on gnarled roots or jagged stones that littered the forest floor.
The sudden flapping of birds echoed above and around her, sharp bursts of sound bouncing from ear to ear, left to right.
Her strides grew longer. More frantic.
Then… through the blur of leaves and stems… she spotted it: a clearing. Freedom beyond the suffocating press of murder meadow.
She sprinted, her legs straining to propel her forward. The loud wingbeats seemed to chase after her, mirroring her frantic footsteps.
With one last desperate leap, she dove into the clearing, landing hard on both arms and knees.
She glanced behind her—fast.
Nothing.
No one.
Paranoia clawed at her mind. Her thoughts fractured.
Had she imagined it?
Was it the toxins from the flowers seeping through her mask?
Or all of it—real, imagined, inevitable—all at once?
Sena could feel herself spiraling.
"No… No… No… No… No… No…" she whispered, the words spilling out in rapid succession as her body locked up.
Her arms stiffened, fists curled hard at her sides. Her eyes squeezed shut.
She didn't know where she was anymore.
Didn't know where she was heading.
She had barely escaped a poisonous field in one of the densest parts of the forest.
Her senses were overloaded.
Her mind unraveling.
I have to keep moving. It's almost nightfall. Move! I have to move!
She ordered her body forward, forcing deep, deliberate breaths.
She couldn't camp here. Not just outside the garden of Satan.
She shook her head hard.
Loosened her arms.
Wriggled her legs left and right.
She remembered: keep the blood flowing, stay grounded.
One step at a time.
Gradually, her heart slowed. Her breathing steadied.
Her steps resumed, faster now, but more deliberate.
She didn't look back again. Her eyes scanned the forest ahead, searching. A small cave. An uprooted tree. Another hidden cabin.
Anything that could offer shelter. Anything to rest beneath for the night.
After what felt like an eternity of tense steps, a faint sound reached her ears… a soft, constant rushing.
Water.
She peeled off the makeshift mask and shoved it into her pocket. Pulled down her cloak's hood to let her face breathe.
For the first time since leaving the cabin, she took a sip of water from her tumbler.
A riverbed might offer a safe enough place to camp for the night.
But nightfall came faster than expected.
Before Sena could find better shelter, the forest was already swallowing the light.
In the midst of sparse trees, she chose her spot. She would build a small log cabin fire.
With trembling fingers, she struck a match.
Just as the tiny flame reached the stacked twigs and dried leaves, the darkness swallowed the space around her.
Like a candle's flame extinguished by a whisper of breath in a pitch black room.
Sena was left in complete absence of sight.
Frozen where she stood.
She held her breath.
Stunned by the sudden, absolute black.
No moonlight reached through the canopy.
The shadows of leaves and towering trees fused above her like a dark veil covering her surroundings…
Then… flick!
The fire caught.
A small spark. A crackle.
Moments later, smoke curled upward. Orange light flickered to life.
Relief hit her like a wave.
She exhaled… slow, long, exhausted.
For safety, she spread her cloak on the ground a yard from the fire. Her knapsack would serve as her pillow.
She clutched her sword and katana close, prepared for anything.
But she thought it best to secure a perimeter; at least as far as the campfire's light could reach, before daring to close her eyes for the night.
The woods had grown too silent. The wrong kind of silent… And darkness weighed too heavily here to trust chance alone.
Scouring the ground nearby, she gathered several scattered branches. With her knife, she hollowed out small cup-like shapes in the thicker ends of each branch. Into these crude wooden cups, she placed a handful of small, smooth rocks scattered about.
She tested one, cupping it in her hands and giving it a firm shake.
A dry, grainy rattle emerged, just enough sound to catch a wary ear.
Makeshift maracas.
Primitive, but serviceable.
Next, she stripped her old nightgown, tearing it carefully into long strips. With deliberate fingers, she knotted the strips into a single rope, thin, uneven, but strong enough to hold.
One by one, she looped the rope around the thinnest trees that surrounded her makeshift campsite. Crisscrossing between trunks, she wove herself inside a rough circle of cloth and thread, the torn remnants of her old garment forming a fragile, defiant boundary.
At intervals along the rope, she tied her makeshift bells; each one dangling from a knot, ready to shake and make a sound if anything disturbed the line.
When she was done, she stood back and surveyed her work.
Not a fortress…
Not a guarantee of safety… but enough.
Enough to wake her if something moved where it shouldn't. Enough to grant her a shred of peace.
This would be her perimeter tonight.
With that, she gently laid down on her cloak spread out on the earth, gripping both her wooden sword and katana close to her chest, her body curled in a fetal position, turned away from the fire.
Staring at the darkness beyond where her campfire light reached, she slowly drifted to sleep.
Eyes—wide, dead, unblinking.
Lurking beyond the darkness.
Silent. Still. Waiting.