CHAPTER TWO — Helena's Burden
Helena woke before sunrise, like she did every morning.
The little cottage she shared with her grandmother was cold, the kind of cold that crept into bones and made old wounds ache. The roof leaked when it rained, the door creaked when touched, and the walls were so thin she could hear the forest breathing outside.
But Helena loved it.
It was the only home she had ever known.
She wrapped a fraying blanket around her shoulders and crossed the tiny room to her grandmother's bed. The old woman's breathing was faint, each inhale so fragile that Helena sometimes held her own breath just to listen more closely.
"Grandma?" she whispered softly.
The old woman didn't respond — not at first. Then her hand twitched weakly, trying to reach for Helena.
"I'm here," Helena said, taking her hand gently.
Her grandmother's eyes finally opened, tired and glassy.
"You've been up again all night," she murmured.
"So have you," Helena replied with a shaky smile.
Her grandmother chuckled, then winced at the pain in her chest. "I'm old, child. Pain is a friend that refuses to leave."
Helena swallowed hard and looked around the small room. Herbs hung on the walls, dried from overuse. Bowls of water lay beside the bed, unchanged because Helena feared moving her grandmother too much. The air smelled of mint, old wood, and quiet desperation.
"Did you take your medicine?" Helena asked.
"I did," her grandmother lied.
"Grandma…" Helena began, but the woman shook her head.
"We cannot afford more."
Her voice cracked.
"You've done enough, Helena. Too much."
But Helena refused to cry. She always refused to cry in front of her.
She helped her grandmother sit up, spooning warm soup into her mouth — soup made from whatever roots Helena could gather in the forest. Not enough nutrition, not enough strength… but all they had.
When her grandmother finished, she leaned back against the pillow with a long sigh.
"You're a good girl," she whispered. "But this life is breaking you."
Helena opened her mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come.
Her hands were cracked from working.
Her clothes were patched more times than she could count.
And every time her grandmother coughed, Helena felt her heart tear a little more.
The old woman reached out, brushing Helena's cheek. "You should be in school… or with friends… or living your life. Not trapped in this cottage with an old dying woman."
"Don't say that," Helena whispered sharply. "You're all I have."
"But I won't be forever."
Helena froze.
The truth hung heavy between them.
Her grandmother's illness was getting worse. The healers in town said she needed proper treatment — treatment that cost more gold than Helena could earn in months. And every day without it pushed her closer to the edge.
Helena knew it.
Her grandmother knew it.
The cottage itself seemed to know it.
That evening, when her grandmother slept, Helena stepped outside. The forest wind brushed her face, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth. She stared toward the distant lights of the palace — faint glimmers against the dark mountains.
Her grandmother had warned her all her life:
"Stay away from the palace, child. Some doors are better left unopened."
But those lights were the only hope she had left.
Her fingers trembled as she whispered to the night:
"I don't have a choice."
And somewhere, deep in the shadows of the kingdom, a force she could not see… stirred.