Far from the world, in the heart of the forest, Amara grew in beauty. She knew nothing of human sorrow, nor of the burden of inherited names. She was a child of light, made of sun and smiles, able to warm and illuminate even the blackest soul.
At first, the old woman Rava came only now and then, sent by Elena to watch over her and bring back news. The woman knew the forest like a wild, silent daughter. But soon, her old heart could no longer part from the child. One day, she simply did not return. She stayed. And it was good.
With words learned from Elena, with spells spoken in the language of magic, Rava transformed the grotto into a simple, yet warm and welcoming cabin. She brought woven blankets, dried herbs, a stone stove, and jars filled with honey and greens. She painted old stories on the walls with ash and blood, and at night, she lit lamps filled with scented oil, casting light over dreams.
There, in that nest of love and magic, Amara took her first steps. There she spoke her first words. Rava taught her gently, with the patience of a heart that wanted nothing more than to see that little girl grow.
"This is a leaf. This is the wind. This is a 'no' — and it's good to carry it with you."
Every evening, Rava told her stories. About trees that had lost their voices, about rivers that dreamed, about a girl who spoke with shadows. Amara listened with wide eyes, sometimes whispering, sometimes giggling. She learned not just the words, but the silences between them.
Rava brewed her teas from dried flowers and baked cinnamon bread, which she shared with the forest animals. She tucked her in at night and kissed her cheeks each morning when she woke.
Amara grew — a serene creature with large, luminous eyes who seemed to smile even in her sleep. Her smile was round like the moon, and her unlearned grace silenced the leaves whenever she passed.
She ran barefoot among the trees, her hair flying like a golden shadow through the filtered forest light. She spoke to the leaves, gave them names, asked them for stories. She learned the language of the forest as easily as other children learn lullabies. She hid among the moss, rolled through meadows of blue flowers, wove crowns from thorns and ivy, then left them as offerings at the roots of trees.
She slept beneath roots, wrapped in earth and coolness, with a red fox curled beside her — her first friend, a fox cub she had saved one cold autumn morning, at the forest's edge. She had seen her from afar, caught in a metal trap, trembling and biting at the air. At first, Amara stopped, fear and pity beating in her chest as one.
But she came closer. Step by step, her arms bare. She spoke softly, not knowing if the fox could understand. And yet, those black, wet eyes looked at her without hatred. Only with pain. Amara gently pried open the trap's jaws, tore an old scarf and wrapped the wounded paw. Then she carried her in her arms back to the grotto.
Rava helped heal her with herbs and poultices, but the true care came from Amara: gentle words, honey stolen from the jar, songs whispered in the dark. When the fox opened her eyes for the first time without pain, the little girl said:
"Codrea. That's what I'll call you. You see in the dark, don't you?"
From then on, Codrea was her shadow. Her friend. Her sister. When Amara was sad, Codrea would lower her head, come closer, and rest it gently against her cheek, comforting her with the warmth of her small body. She made no sound, but her presence banished every shadow. When Amara laughed, Codrea leapt beside her, tail fluttering, dancing as if in rhythm with joy itself.
At night, she slept tightly pressed against Amara, her snout curled beneath the girl's chin. And sometimes, when the child tossed in her sleep, Codrea would softly cover her with her fluffy tail, like a living blanket. At dawn, she would sometimes wake before the girl and watch her in silence, eyes moist with an unspoken promise: "I will never leave you alone."
She was more than an animal — she was her silent confidante, her sister of the woods, an ally in dream and wakefulness, a living presence who watched, kept quiet, and loved without condition, without fear, without end.
From Elena, Amara had received a thick blanket, hand-woven by her mother — heavy, soft, and carrying the scent of burned wood and blooming acacia. That was all. Elena had never visited her. The pact was clear and painful: the forest would protect her, but only if Amara belonged to it completely. And that meant she could not see her. Ever. No touch, no word, not even a whisper across the wind. The price of protection was absence. And Elena, her heart knotted with longing, paid it without complaint.
Only letters passed through, carried by migratory birds with agile wings and wise eyes. The paper was thick, slightly rough to the touch, and the ink smelled of jasmine mixed with ash and wax — a sign that Elena wrote them under the light of vigil candles. Every letter began with the same words: "To my daughter, from a mother's heart."
Then, her heart poured onto the page — all of it.
They were lines written with longing, with trembling, with the silence of a mother holding her child only in thought. Lines that carried memories, hopes, promises, unspoken questions, and tears that had fallen between letters. Rava received them with reverence, smoothed them over her knees, and often read them in whispers, sitting close to Amara while the girl slept.
Other times she read them only with her eyes, and the tears slid silently down cheeks deepened by age. There was no pain in those tears, only a love that had no other way to show itself. It was Elena's way of touching — without touching. Of being there — without being seen.
Amara knew nothing of her father, Baron Vornic, the man who had wanted her without ever knowing her. And even less about the demon bound in light, whose call she carried in her blood without knowing his name. For her, the world was green and soft, scented with wet bark, forest flowers, and sweet teas.
She lived in the forest, raised by Rava, loved by creatures and caressed by trees. She woke to birdsong and fell asleep with the warm earth beneath her cheek. Around her, everything was simple, yet full of mystery — the wind that called her by name, the leaves that listened, the fox that watched over her like a blood sister.
The little girl was happy. A serene, undisturbed, whole kind of happiness. In her sweet ignorance, childhood was whole, pure, complete — a story that lived without beginning and without end.
In the soft clearings near the grotto, where the spring flowed as clear as a breath of light, Amara invented her world. It was her green kingdom, where trees needed no commands and the wind was a playmate.
Together with Codrea, the fox with gentle eyes, she played "shadow hunt" — a silent chase between tree trunks, where shadows turned into monsters and bushes hid treasure. Then came the "leaf dance," when Amara raised her arms, and leaves fell around her like golden applause. Codrea leapt through them, spinning until she collapsed, tongue out and eyes laughing.
From an acorn, a dry flower's cap, and a few blades of grass, Amara had crafted a doll. She called her Zuri. She slept with her, fed her seeds, and told her bedtime stories.
The wind listened. When she sang, a breeze would often rise suddenly from nowhere, lifting the hair from her forehead. Sometimes, a white bird — the same one, she believed — glided above her in wide, silent circles, like a blessing.
In that corner of the forest, between river and ancient trees, Amara was not alone. She was home.