Bella's POV

Thirteen years Later

"You should eat more, Grandmama," I say, adjusting the thin blanket around her frail shoulders. "You're getting too skinny."

She laughs, but it turns into a cough that makes her whole body shake. "Oh, my sweet Bella. Always worrying about this old woman." Her voice is raspy, like dried leaves rustling in the wind. "I've lived long enough to see you grow into a beautiful young lady. That's more than enough for me."

I settle into the wooden chair beside her bed, the same chair I've sat in every day for the past three weeks since she got really sick. The afternoon light streams through the small window, casting golden patterns on the quilt Mama made years ago. Everything in this room smells like the lavender sachets Grandmama keeps in her dresser drawers.

"Tell me about when you were young again," I say, even though I've heard all her stories a hundred times. But I love the way her eyes light up when she talks about dancing at village festivals and riding horses through meadows I've never seen.

"Which story do you want to hear?" she asks, her gray eyes twinkling. "The one about the time I snuck out to meet your grandfather by the old oak tree?"

"Yes, that one." I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. It's my favorite because it's about being brave enough to break the rules for something important.

She tells me about climbing out her bedroom window in her best dress, about running through the moonlit forest to meet Grandpapa, about how scared and excited she felt all at the same time. Her voice gets stronger as she talks, like the memories give her energy.

"And when my father found out," she continues, "he was so angry his face turned purple as a plum. But your grandfather stood right up to him and said, 'Sir, I love your daughter, and I'm going to marry her whether you like it or not.'"

We both giggle at that part, even though I know it wasn't funny at the time. Grandmama always makes her stories sound like fairy tales, but I know real life isn't that simple or happy.

"Grandmama," I say after our laughter fades, "do you ever wish you could go back? To when you were young and could go anywhere you wanted?"

Her face gets serious, and she reaches out to touch my cheek with her cold, thin fingers. "Oh, my dear girl. You've been trapped in this house your whole life, haven't you? Like a bird in a cage."

I don't answer because we both know it's true. While other girls my age went to school, made friends, and learned about the world, I stayed home with my books and my family. Mama and Papa always said it was for my own protection, that the outside world was dangerous for someone like me. But they never really explained what that meant.

She pats my hand gently. "Speaking of medicine, didn't you say we were running low on willow bark? And I could really use some fresh chamomile for my tea."

I nod, grateful for something useful to do. "I'll check what we have in the pantry, and if we need more, I can ask Papa to get some from town."

"Town herbs are never as good as wild ones," Grandmama says with a weak smile. "Remember what I taught you about finding the best plants?"

"The ones growing in their natural places are always strongest," I recite. "Wild willow bark works better than store-bought because it hasn't lost its natural oils."

"That's my smart girl." She squeezes my hand. "There's a good patch of willow trees about a mile east of here, near the creek. And the best chamomile grows in sunny meadows."

I know what she's suggesting, and my heart starts beating faster. She wants me to go into the forest alone, something I've never done in my entire life. Mama and Papa would be furious if they found out.

But looking at Grandmama's pale face and hearing her labored breathing, I know I have to try. The medicine from town isn't helping, and maybe fresh, wild herbs will make a difference.

"I'll be careful," I promise, more to myself than to her.

An hour later, I'm standing by the kitchen door with a woven basket in my hands. Mama and Papa went to visit the Hendersons about some hunter business, and they won't be back until evening. If I'm quick, I can gather what I need and be home before they return.

I've read about plants and herbs in dozens of books, but actually finding them in the wild feels different. Exciting and terrifying at the same time.

The forest behind our house is beautiful in the late afternoon light. Golden sunbeams filter through the green leaves, and birds chirp in the branches above my head. My boots make soft sounds on the mossy ground, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly free.

I find the willow trees Grandmama mentioned, growing beside a babbling creek. Their long, drooping branches dance in the gentle breeze, and I carefully peel strips of bark from the younger trees, just like the books taught me. The bark smells bitter and medicinal.

Next, I search for chamomile, following the creek toward a sunny clearing. The little white flowers with their yellow centers are exactly like the pictures in my herb books. I pick them carefully, leaving the roots so more will grow.

I'm so focused on my task, so happy to finally be doing something important and useful, that I don't notice when the forest around me starts to change. The trees grow taller and darker, their branches blocking out more of the sunlight. The friendly chirping of birds fades away, replaced by an odd silence that makes my skin prickle.

When I finally look up from my basket, nothing looks familiar anymore.

"Oh no," I whisper, turning in a slow circle. The creek is gone. The sunny clearing is gone. I'm surrounded by tall, dark trees that seem to press in closer with every breath I take.

I've been so careful my whole life, never straying far from home, and now I'm completely lost. My parents were right to keep me inside. I'm not brave like Grandmama was at my age. I'm just foolish.

I pick a direction and start walking, hoping to find the creek again or some landmark I recognize. But every tree looks the same, and every path seems to lead deeper into the unknown forest.

That's when I hear the voices.

They're rough and low, speaking words I can't quite make out. Male voices, and they're getting closer. My heart starts pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

I duck behind a thick oak tree, pressing my back against the rough bark. Maybe they're just other people who got lost, or hunters from town. Maybe they can help me find my way home.

But something feels wrong. The way they're moving through the forest is too quiet, too purposeful. Like wolves hunting.

"Found tracks over here," one of them says, his voice carrying clearly now. "Fresh ones. Small boots, heading this way."

They're tracking me.

I clutch my basket tighter and try to stay perfectly still, but my hands are shaking. Every story Mama and Papa ever told me about the dangers outside our safe little world comes flooding back. They never said what exactly they were protecting me from, but now I think I'm about to find out.

"There," another voice says, much closer than before. "Behind the tree."

I hear footsteps crunching on dead leaves, coming straight toward my hiding spot. There's nowhere to run. I've never run anywhere in my life, and my legs feel like jelly.

A hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around. I find myself staring up at a huge man with dark eyes and a cruel smile. He's wearing rough clothes and has scars on his arms like he's been in fights.

"Well, well," he says. "What do we have here?"

"Please," I whisper, my voice barely coming out. "I'm just collecting herbs for my grandmother. I got lost."

He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "Lost, are you? Do you know where you are, little girl?"

I shake my head, too scared to speak.

"You're in Northwest territory now. And nobody comes here by accident."

Before I can ask what that means, before I can tell him it really was an accident, I feel something hard hit the back of my head. Pain explodes through my skull, bright and sharp.

The basket falls from my hands, spilling chamomile flowers and willow bark across the forest floor. The man's face starts to blur and spin, and I reach out desperately for something to hold onto.

But there's nothing there.

The last thing I see before everything goes black are unfamiliar faces staring down at me with expressions I can't read. Strange, cold faces that belong to a world I was never supposed to enter.

And then... darkness swallows everything.