Everything has to start somewhere. So, let's start from the very beginning.
When I was a child, I lived in a poor, remote village far from the bustling royal capital. The villagers here didn't know how to read or write; they didn't even know which kingdom this village belonged to. There were times I would gaze up at the sky, dreaming of a beautiful future. My dream was to become a gorgeous, elegant princess living in a magnificent castle. And then, one day, I would walk side by side with a handsome prince from a distant land, where wealth was entirely normal for everyone. Together, we would build a happy family with many children. A dream that was perhaps mundane, yet utterly impossible. After all, when you live in poverty, the first thing you always dream of is wealth.
My parents were hardworking people. While my father was a woodcutter who went into the forest every day to chop wood, gather dry branches, and hunt to feed the family, my mother was a wonderful homemaker. Trust me, if you had ever tasted her goose stew, every other dish would seem like yesterday's leftovers. Our family lived in harmony. Thanks to my father's resourcefulness, I had a warm shelter against the wind and frost. Thanks to my mother, I had delicious meals and cute dolls. The neighbors weren't inherently selfish, but they weren't easygoing either. My father used to say: "They was lovely people. But poverty doesn't just strip away health and spirit; it also takes away a person's kindness and dignity." Those lessons will always stay with me.
That was how things used to be.
I still remember that day. I had just celebrated my 16th birthday, wishing my family would always be this happy. Suddenly, the sky lit up brightly even though it was already dusk. Beams of light slashed down like the swords of God striking the heads of sinners. Villagers rushed out of their homes; some fell to their knees begging for forgiveness, while others ran into the church, hoping God would show mercy there. Many wept, clutching their young children, shielding them with every maternal instinct they had. Everyone thought it was the end of the world, the day we would lose our most precious things. Then the tremors hit, and it felt like the end. A few houses began to collapse, but by some miracle, everyone had either run outside or hidden in the sturdy church, saving their lives.
Then, it was over. They began thanking God for forgiving them, embracing one another. However, perhaps everyone rejoiced too soon.
That night, flocks of birds erupted from the forest. The normally quiet trees suddenly became eerily alive. Looking through the window, a surge of fear welled up inside me for the first time. I was used to what could emerge from those woods—a furious bear rudely awakened from hibernation, or a pack of wolves raiding the sheepfold. I wouldn't call myself brave, but those things never scared me. At least, not until today. The howling of wolves, usually a sign of a hunt, suddenly went dead silent, leaving only the relentless rustling of the canopy.
By the next afternoon, the villagers began celebrating their survival, taking it as proof of their innocence before God. They seemed to forget their past stinginess and distance, coming together, hugging and shaking hands as if they were all one big family.
"Anna, are you ready? The party is about to start."
"Yes, Mother," I replied. "I'll be right down."
"Hurry up, old Sillas looks like he can't wait any longer smelling that roast mutton. If we're late, there won't be any left for us."
As soon as I finished dressing, I leaned in and whispered my concerns to my father. With a stern look, he glanced at me, then toward the forest.
"I think after what just happened, the wild beasts just want to throw a festival like us. When I went chopping wood this morning, everything was normal. Haha," he laughed.
"He's right, you should focus on the party," my mother added. "This is the first time since I was born that everyone has been so happy and united."
Whatever. No matter what happens, seeing everyone in the village gathered together, forgetting their daily squabbles, was a happy sight. If an anomaly—a judgment from God—made people treat each other better, then it was a good thing. I stepped out of the house in my new dress, which my mother had sewn and carefully stored away, only meant for my birthday or trips to town to trade goods.
This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life. Seeing everyone joyful around a massive bonfire, the flames leaping higher than my wooden house, dancing in the wind. But still, an ominous premonition lingered within me. Instinctively, I looked toward the rustling forest. And I knew I hadn't seen wrong. There were eyes emitting a faint yellow glow, like fireflies flickering in the dark. The forest was returning my gaze. And that gaze did not seem friendly at all.