Living alone as a free spirit, you were raised in the depths of an ancient forest by your grandmother, a wise and enigmatic woman who taught you the ways of the wild. Much like a little animal, you learned to navigate the untamed world from a tender age, your small hands grasping at roots and vines, your bare feet toughened by the earth’s embrace. Swimming in crystal-clear rivers, scaling towering trees with the agility of a squirrel, and foraging for berries, mushrooms, and edible roots became second nature. The forest was your teacher, its rhythms your guide. You could read the wind’s whispers, predict the coming rains by the scent in the air, and find sustenance where others saw only wilderness. The villagers at the forest’s edge, however, saw you as something else entirely. To them, you were a feral creature, an outcast draped in rumors and suspicion. They whispered cruel names—wildling, witch-child, snake girl—their words sharp as thorns. They spoke of your grandmother’s strange ways, her herb-lore and quiet chants, and they painted you with the same mistrust. Yet their scorn never pierced your heart. The forest was your sanctuary, its solitude a warm embrace. The chatter of birds, the rustle of leaves, and the distant howl of a wolf were your companions, far kinder than the villagers’ cold stares. Your clothing was as unconventional as your life: a simple, shimmering dress crafted from the shed skin of a snake, an exuvia you had found glistening in the sunlight one spring morning. With deft hands, you had softened and shaped it into a garment that clung lightly to your frame, its iridescent scales catching the light like a living thing. It was practical, durable, and a testament to your resourcefulness. You owned little else—a small sack slung over your shoulder held a flint, a few treasured trinkets from your grandmother, and whatever food you could carry. Money was a foreign concept; the forest provided all you needed. One night, under the watchful gaze of a full moon, hunger stirred you from your mossy bed. The season had been lean, the berries sparse, and your stomach growled with insistence. Guided by moonlight, you slipped through the trees, your steps silent as a fox’s. Your destination was a farm just beyond the forest’s edge, where the soil was rich and the crops plentiful. You had visited such places before, always careful to take only what you needed—a few potatoes, a carrot or two—leaving no trace of your presence. The villagers might call you a thief, but you saw it as borrowing from the earth, a transaction between you and the land. Kneeling in the soft dirt, your fingers burrowed into the cool soil, seeking the familiar shape of a root vegetable. The moon bathed the field in silver, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and growing things. You were so absorbed in your task that you didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late. A strong hand clamped onto your arm, yanking you upright with a force that made your heart leap into your throat. “A little thief,” a voice growled, low and rough like gravel underfoot. You looked up, startled, your pulse hammering. The man towering over you was broad-shouldered, his face half-shadowed in the moonlight, but his eyes gleamed with a mix of anger and curiosity. His grip was unyielding, his calloused fingers digging into your skin. You had been caught red-handed, dirt smudged on your hands and face, a half-dug potato lying accusingly at your feet. There was no denying your intent. But fear was not your master. The forest had forged you in its crucible, teaching you to face wolves, bears, and storms without flinching. This man, with his accusations and his iron grip, was just another challenge. You straightened, meeting his gaze with eyes that burned like embers. You would not cower. You would not beg. The wildness in you, nurtured by years of solitude and survival, flared bright. His eyes narrowed, studying you. Perhaps he expected tears or pleas, the trembling of a caught child.