The princess and the forest of secret

The Ruins and the Silence

Dawn crawled slowly into the forest like a tired traveler, spreading pale gold across the treetops. Dew glittered on leaves, tiny silver jewels trembling at the slightest breath of wind. Somewhere far beyond the canopy, birds greeted the morning - not in chorus, but scattered, like a world waking uncertainly.

Jackline opened her eyes before the light fully reached her.

Her bed was not a bed - just old stone softened by layers of moss, hidden beneath a broken archway of the ruined castle she called home. A cold breeze slipped through the shattered windows and brushed her cheek. She pulled her thin fur wrap tighter around her shoulders and sat up, bones cracking lightly after another night on unyielding stone.

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind she sometimes imagined other people lived in - warm silence, maybe wrapped in laughter and human presence. No. This was the silence of emptiness. Of long corridors with no footsteps. Rooms that had forgotten voices. Walls that once knew music but remembered nothing now.

She breathed out slowly, watching the faint puff of mist vanish into the air.

Another morning alive.

Another morning alone.

Jackline stood, feet bare against the cold floor, the roughness of old stone familiar as skin. She moved through the corridor like someone who knew every crack, every place where the floor dipped, or stones had loosened. She had grown up here - grown into the castle like ivy clinging to its bones. It was broken, forgotten, half-swallowed by nature... ...but it was hers.

She pushed open the warped wooden door and stepped into the open courtyard. Grass choked the cracked tiles; vines draped over archways like sleeping serpents. The morning sun filtered down in soft streaks through the skeletal ribs of the collapsed roof.

Jackline paused, letting the wind brush her face - cool, sharp with the scent of pine, damp earth, and river water.

Another day of hunger, she thought.

The forest always gave, but never easily. She had learned to respect it, to listen to its rhythms. If she misread the silence of birds or misjudged the strength of a river, she would starve - or worse. Out here, mistakes were not lessons. Mistakes were endings.

But she did not fear the forest. It was the only companion she had ever known.

Jackline crouched and picked up her handmade spear - a sharpened metal shard she'd scavenged long ago, bound to wood with strips of hide. The weapon felt like an extension of her arm. With it, she had fought wolves, hunted boar, and brought down deer twice her weight. It was survival, but also identity. The castle may have shaped her, but the forest made sure she lived.

She stepped into the trees.

The forest swallowed her like it always did - silently, effortlessly.

Light flickered through branches, dappling her skin. She knew where mushrooms clustered under rotting logs, where berries ripened fastest, and where deer tracks cut through the underbrush. Today, she needed meat. Her stomach had been aching for two days; the rabbits she'd caught last week hadn't lasted.

She moved through ferns and shadow as she belonged to the woods. In many ways, she did. Her footsteps were soundless, her breath controlled, her senses open to every rustle, every shift of wind.

She paused - head turning slightly.

Something is off today.

The birdsong was scattered, unsure. The air held the faint metallic tang of blood. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the ground until she found it - a drop of dried red on a leaf. Then another. Then smears along a patch of soil torn by claws.

Jackline's pulse quickened, but not from fear.

From instinct.

Quietly, she followed the trail, heart steady, breath slow. A predator had been wounded - or a prey animal badly injured. Either way, it could mean food.

Or danger.

The scent grew stronger. Her grip tightened around her spear.

Branches thinned. Light brightened. The trail led her to a hollow between the exposed roots of a towering ancient tree - and she stopped breathing altogether.

Because there, curled like a dying shadow, lay the largest wolf she had ever seen.

Black as storm clouds. Blood soaked through its fur in dark patches. Its chest rose shallowly, each breath strained. One eye opened - silver-gray, sharp even through pain - and locked onto hers.

Jackline froze, breath trapped behind her teeth.

This creature was powerful even in weakness, muscles tight beneath its ragged fur, jaws capable of crushing bone. A wolf like this could kill her in a heartbeat - and part of her knew she should turn and run.

But she didn't.

Something in that eye - not beast, not entirely - held her there. Not rage. Not a threat.

Loneliness.

A loneliness she recognized like her own reflection in river water.

She slowly lowered her spear.

"It's alright," she whispered - voice rough from disuse, words small in the vast quiet of the forest.

The wolf blinked once. Not submission - but acknowledgment.

Jackline stepped closer.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Her heart hammered so loudly she feared it might fill the entire forest. Yet she knelt beside the great creature, and for the first time in her life, she wondered if helping meant risking everything.

Maybe survival wasn't only about fighting.

Maybe it was also about choosing not to leave something to die.

Jackline's fingers hovered over the wolf's fur, close enough to feel the faint heat of his body, but not touching yet.

Up close, he was even bigger than she'd thought. His head was the size of her chest, his paws heavy and thick, his claws dulled and cracked from struggle. Blood had dried stiff along his flank, dark against black fur. Flies buzzed faintly, drawn to the scent of iron and death clinging to him.

He should already be dead.

"You fought something," she murmured under her breath. "Or something fought you."

The wolf's ears twitched weakly.

Jackline swallowed, throat tight. She had seen bodies before-animals torn apart by predators, bones left pale against the soil. She knew what it looked like when life had gone out of a creature. But this wolf... he clung to it with a stubbornness she recognized as if he refused to let the forest take him yet.

She knew that feeling too.

Jackline set down her spear and slid the bundle from her back. It was a crude leather satchel she had stitched together herself, worn and patched. Inside, wrapped in leaves and cloth, were bits of dried herbs, strips of linen from old curtains, and a small skin of water.

Her hands shook slightly as she uncorked the skin.

"This is a bad idea," she muttered. "You know that, right?"

The wolf didn't respond, obviously, but his eye was still open-tired, dull, but watching.

It made her feel strange. Seen.

Jackline held the water near his muzzle. "Drink."

He didn't move.

She hesitated, then wet her fingers and carefully let a few drops fall onto his tongue. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his throat worked in a swallow.

Relief loosened the tight knot in her chest.

"That's it," she whispered, a faint, humorless smile tugging at her lips. "Come on, beast. Either bite me or let me help."

Slowly, he lapped weakly at the rim, just enough to wet his tongue. It wasn't much, but it was something.

When he turned his head away, exhausted, Jackline didn't push him. Instead, she set the water aside and reached for his side, close to the worst of the wounds.

"Don't kill me," she said quietly. "I'm your only chance."

His lips curled back in the faintest growl.

Jackline tensed, but she didn't pull back. The growl didn't feel like a promise of violence. More like... protest. Fear. Instinct.

She understood that language better than any human tongue.

"I know," she said. "I'd be scared of me too."

For a moment, she let herself just breathe. The forest rustled around them-leaves whispering, distant birds calling cautiously. Somewhere, water moved against stones, a nearby stream murmuring over its own path. Life continued, indifferent.

She was the only one stopping this moment from becoming an ending.

Jackline wiped her palms on her tunic, then leaned in and gently parted the fur around the wound.

It was worse than she'd hoped.

A long gash carved across his flank, deep but jagged, as if ripped rather than sliced. Another wound clawed its way down his shoulder. She could see where something-teeth, maybe-had sunk in, leaving punctures and torn flesh. The injuries were angry, inflamed, but not yet rotting.

Fresh enough to save. Maybe.

She'd treated smaller creatures before-foxes caught in traps, birds with broken wings, once even a wild dog-but never something this large, this dangerous.

Her hands moved carefully, mind slipping into a steady focus she had learned out of necessity. Fear could exist. Panic could not.

"Okay," she murmured, mostly to herself. "We need to stop the bleeding, clean it, keep you from tearing it open again."

The wolf's eye tracked her, heavy but deliberate.

"You're lucky I never had anyone else to talk to," she told him, reaching into her satchel for a strip of torn linen. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be talking to a half-dead monster right now."

She poured a trickle of water over the wound, washing away some of the blood. The wolf flinched, a sharp, pained breath rattling out of him. His muscles bunched, claws digging into the earth.

Jackline froze, one hand hovering over his side, the other clenched around the water skin.

"Easy," she whispered. "Easy. You move like that; you'll tear it worse."

The wolf's head shifted, teeth bared. His body trembled with effort-not an attempt to attack, but a battle against pain itself.

Jackline's heart squeezed.

She reached out with her free hand, voice low and soothing. "Hey. Look at me."

His eye flicked toward her. Silver met dark hazel.

"There you are," she murmured. "You can endure this. I know you can. I have."

For a heartbeat, she saw herself years ago-small, bruised, shivering in a corner of the castle after falling from a crumbling ledge. Blood on her knees, breath shallow, tears burning her eyes. No one came. No one knew. She had gritted her teeth and wrapped her own wounds with ripped fabric from a forgotten curtain, sobbing silently into the night.

She had survived.

So would he. If he let her.

She poured more water. This time, he didn't jerk as violently. His body quivered, but he stayed still, watching her with an intensity that made her feel as though she were the one under examination.

"I'm going to clean it more when we reach the castle," she said. "This will have to be enough for now."

She pressed the linen gently over the wound, applying pressure to slow the blood that still seeped. It stained the cloth deep red, warm against her fingers.

Her mind was already leaping ahead.

He couldn't stay here. Out in the open, weak and wounded, he'd be dead by nightfall-if not from blood loss, then from another predator, or from men, if any dared wander this deep. The forest could be merciless.

But moving him...

Jackline eyed the wolf's massive frame. He had to weigh at least three times as much as she did, maybe more. There was no way she could carry him.

"Of course," she muttered. "You couldn't be a small wolf. No, that would be too easy."

She sat back on her heels, thinking quickly. Dragging him alone would be slow and brutal on both of them. She needed a sled. Something flat, sturdy, that she could pull-if she could manage it over the uneven ground.

Her mind flicked through memories of the castle: fallen doors, broken shutters, bits of furniture half-rotted but still solid in places.

"I'll have to leave you," she said.

The wolf let out a low, warning sound. This time, it did sound like a threat.

Jackline raised her hands in surrender. "Just for a little while. If I don't, you're going to die here. I'll come back, I promise."

It felt strange, promising anything to a creature that couldn't even understand her words.

And yet, as she held his gaze, something in her chest tightened. It mattered whether he believed her.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and watching.

Finally, she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, but she seized her spear and slung the satchel over her shoulder.

"Don't move," she said, as if that were a choice. "And don't die. That's an order."

The wolf's eye followed her as she slipped back into the trees.

The run back to the castle was a blur of speed and branches whipping against her skin.

Jackline moved quickly but carefully, using paths she knew by heart, leaping over roots and ducking under low-hanging limbs. Her breath came hard, chest tight, but she didn't slow. Every moment she wasted was another moment the wolf bled alone beneath that old tree.

The castle emerged slowly from between the trees: towering walls broken by age, ivy crawling up weathered stone, jagged silhouettes of collapsed towers cutting into the sky. To most eyes, it would look haunted.

To jackline, it was simply home.

She slipped through the half-fallen gate and into the main courtyard, eyes already scanning for what she needed. Her mind sorted possibilities: fallen doors, planks, anything wide and flat-

There. Against the far wall, half-buried in weeds, lay the remnants of a heavy wooden door that had once led to the stables. It was thick, solid, despite rot along the edges.

"Perfect," she breathed.

She grabbed one side and heaved. The door barely budged.

Jackline gritted her teeth, planted her feet, and pulled harder. Muscles in her arms burned, tendons straining as she dragged the door free from the grasping roots. It scraped along stone and dirt, leaving a scored trail.

Once she had it flat, she paused, chest heaving.

"Now ropes," she muttered.

Her gaze darted toward an old storage alcove beneath a crumbling stair. She sprinted over and dropped to her knees, rummaging through the pile of discarded items she'd collected over the years-bits of wood, rusted tools, scraps of leather, and rope.

She found three leather straps and a length of frayed rope.

Not ideal, but good enough.

Her hands worked quickly, fingers sure and practiced, threading, tying, looping. She lashed the rope and leather to the front of the makeshift sled, forming crude harnesses she could throw over her shoulders. Each knot was tested twice.

She was used to doing everything alone.

She was not used to doing something for someone else.

When she finished, sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, and her arms trembled from effort. But the sled was ready.

"Alright," she said quietly to the empty air. "I'm coming back."

The words surprised her.

She realized, with a hollow sort of ache, that she had never said that to anyone before. There had never been anyone to leave. No one is waiting for her return.

Until now.

She slipped the harness over her shoulders and started dragging.

The weight of the door fought her, stone scraping against wood as she hauled it across the courtyard and into the forest once more. It was twice as hard going back, the sled catching on roots and snagging on stones, but she dug her heels into the earth and refused to stop. Every time her body screamed to rest, the image of the wolf's silver eye flashed behind her eyes, and she leaned forward, pulling harder.

Pain became a distant thing. Fatigue turned into background noise.

There was only the path, the sled, and the knowledge that something depended on her.

By the time she reached the ancient tree again, Jackline's lungs burned, and her shoulders felt like they were on fire. Sweat trickled down her spine; her hands were blistered around the rope.

She dropped the harness and stumbled the last few steps toward the hollow.

The wolf was still there.

For a moment, terror seized her-what if he had stopped breathing? What if she had been too slow?

She knelt quickly, hand hovering just above his muzzle, feeling.

Warm air brushed her palm, faint but present.

Jackline sagged back in relief, her vision blurring for half a second.

"You listened," she whispered. "You didn't die. Good."

The linen she'd pressed to his wound was soaked through, now dark and sticky. Carefully, she peeled it away. The bleeding had slowed, but not enough.

"Okay," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Now for the hard part."

She dragged the sled closer, angling it beside his body. The effort made her muscles scream; the door was heavier now, weighed down by exhaustion as much as its own mass.

Once it was as close as she could get it, she took a breath and looked down at the wolf.

"I'm going to move you," she said softly. "It's going to hurt. I'm sorry."

His eye opened again, meeting her gaze. There was pain there. Weariness. But also, something like resignation.

Do what you must.

She could almost hear the words, though his mouth never shaped them.

Jackline slid her arms under his body as much as she could, fingers sinking into his thick fur. He was burning with fever. The heat of him soaked through her skin.

"On three," she told herself-or maybe him. "One... two... three-"

She heaved.

The wolf was impossibly heavy. Every muscle in her back and arms felt like it was tearing. Her legs quivered, boots sliding on damp earth. Slowly, inch by inch, she dragged his body onto the flat surface of the door.

He let out a sharp, strangled sound, teeth flashing as pain ripped through him.

Jackline flinched, nearly dropping him, but forced herself to keep going. "I know, I know, I'm sorry-just a little more-"

It felt like an eternity, but finally, his weight settled fully onto the makeshift sled. His sides rose and fell rapidly, breath rough and uneven. He trembled, every line of his body tight.

Jackline collapsed to her knees, panting, arms limp at her sides.

"That," she said between breaths, "was... awful."

The wolf's ear twitched faintly. To her surprise, a breath huffed from his nose in what sounded almost like a humorless snort.

Jackline blinked.

"You're welcome," she replied dryly.

She gave herself only a moment to recover before forcing herself back to her feet. This was only half the work. Getting him onto the sled meant nothing if she couldn't pull him back.

She slipped into the harness again. The leather bit into her shoulders, the rope rough against her palms.

When she leaned forward and pulled, the sled resisted, immovable.

For one terrifying heartbeat, she thought she wouldn't be able to move it at all.

Then, with a grinding, dragging scrape, it shifted.

Jackline gritted her teeth and pulled harder.

The forest did not make it easy for her. Roots rose like knotted fingers from the earth, rocks waited beneath the soil, and dips in the ground threatened to tip the sled. She had to weave carefully, adjusting her path with each step. Her body screamed in protest, but she locked her jaw and kept going.

Behind her, the wolf lay still except for the labored rise and fall of his chest. Every so often, he let out a low sound, half growl, half pained exhale, when the sled jolted.

"I know," she panted. "I'm not... enjoying this either."

Time lost all meaning.

There was only the next step.

And the next.

And the next.

At some point, sweat blurred her vision. The rope cut into her palms hard enough to tear skin. Her feet slipped more than once, knees hitting the ground, but she always dragged herself back up.

She did not stop.

She had no memory of anyone ever doing the same for her. No memory of being carried, protected, or saved. But she didn't need one.

She could be the person she had needed.

For a wolf with human eyes.

By the time the trees thinned and the castle loomed into view again, Jackline felt more like a ghost than a solid being. Her limbs were numb. Every breath burned.

But when she looked back and saw the wolf still there, still breathing, something fierce lit inside her chest.

She had done it.

Not yet all the way-but close.

"Almost home," she whispered to him and herself.

The sled scraped over the threshold of the broken gate and into the courtyard. The sound echoed faintly off stone walls. The castle, long silent, seemed to listen.

Jackline guided the sled toward a side corridor, one that remained intact enough to provide shelter. The ceiling was low but sturdy, the walls thick. She had cleared it long ago of debris and made it a place for herself when storms grew too harsh.

Now, it would be his den.

She stopped the sled in the center of the room and let the harness slip from her shoulders. The absence of weight was almost dizzying.

"Here we are," she breathed, voice cracked. "My... home. Such as it is."

The wolf's eyes were closed now. For a moment, fear spiked through her, but when she placed a hand near his muzzle, she still felt breath-shallow, but steady enough.

She allowed herself a single, shaky sigh of relief.

Then she went back to work.

She lit a small fire in the corner, careful to keep the smoke drifting out through a jagged gap in the high wall. As flames caught and warmth crept into the cold stone room, Jackline gathered her herbs, cloth, and water beside the wolf.

Her hands were no longer shaking from fear. Now, they trembled from exhaustion-but they moved with practiced precision.

She washed the wounds again, more thoroughly this time. The wolf flinched, low whimpers vibrating through his chest despite his size and strength. Jackline murmured whatever came to mind: half-comfort, half-distraction.