The Secret of the Forbidden Forest

The Secret of the Forbidden Forest

Seda Martirosyan

© Seda Martirosyan, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-7355-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

“The dark waits in silence, trusting time as its ally, while the light races forward, afraid of vanishing.”

PROLOGUE: THE BIRTH OF THE WORLD

Long ago, when the world was still young, two supreme gods stood at the heart of a prophecy written in the stars. Getia, the Goddess of Light, and Morgar, the God of Darkness, faced each other in a battle destined to shake all realms. But this was no ordinary fight for power – it was a war over the very essence of divinity, a struggle to decide who would shape the fate of the universe.

Getia held in her hands the greatest of all artifacts: the Scepter of Life. Forged in the heart of the universe, it was born from the union of earth and sky – a staff that embodied the very essence of light. In her grasp, it radiated pure brilliance – an incarnation of light itself, ready to banish the darkness.

Opposite her, shrouded in the shadow of a crumbling wall, stood Morgar. Tall and unmoving, he wore the darkness like a coat, a silent figure wrapped in night.

Morgar’s power lay in its depth and mystery. It extended beyond the physical world, woven into the fabric of existence itself. He ruled the shadows, commanding the fear that hid in the darkest corners of hearts and souls. His magic was subtle, deceptive, concealed beneath layers of silence. But with each of Getia’s strikes, his strength diminished. The Scepter of Life broke through his enchantments without mercy, its light unstoppable.

The battle between the great gods raged for millennia. At the end of the final day, Getia stood victorious. Morgar was defeated, but in an act of mercy, the Goddess granted him three days to say goodbye to the world he had tried so desperately to consume. Three days – a mere heartbeat to a god.

When the time was up, Getia sealed him in the underworld, a desolate abyss that came to be known as Morgar’s Tomb.

At the height of her triumph, she shattered the Scepter of Life, breaking it into five fragments – five sacred jewels scattered across six newly born worlds. Before departing, Getia made the ultimate sacrifice, transforming herself into a magnificent tree – the Tree of Birth. Its roots dug deep into the earth, while its branches reached out, giving life to every being in the newly born realms. As she faded into eternity, Getia left behind a final gift to the world: the Red Book. Within its pages were the locations of the Scepter of Life’s scattered fragments and the two guardians – chosen to protect and guide the Book’s next bearer.

CHAPTER 1: DREAMS AND REALITY

Tucked away in a secluded valley, hidden among dense forests and rolling hills, lay a small village of no more than a thousand souls. In this quiet corner of the world, time moved slowly, and life flowed in gentle harmony with nature. The villagers’ days followed the rhythm of the season: spring brought the sweet scent of blossoming fields; summer was rich with the aroma of herbs and warm earth; autumn whispered through falling leaves; and winter wrapped the land in a hush, blanketed in soft, white snow. Each morning began with humble tasks – tending to grain and vegetables in the fields, their labor simple yet full of purpose. At the village’s edge, a hidden waterfall whispered softly, its steady murmur adding to the serenity. The homes, tucked neatly among the trees, blended into the landscape as though grown from it, offering quiet refuge from wind and storm.

In one of those quiet homes, nestled beneath the green canopy of the forest, lived a young woman. Her long, slightly tangled brown hair framed a face marked by deep, earth-colored eyes. Her clothes were worn thin – frayed and misshapen by time. Clutched tightly in her hands was a book – a gift from Old William, the village librarian.

Clara had spent her nineteen years in the quiet company of Old William, driven by a love for learning and discovery. In their village, few girls were ever allowed into the library, let alone given an education. Smart women were often seen as suspicious, sometimes called witches or simply labeled as odd. No one understood why a girl would want to explore the world when her future was supposed to follow one clear path: working the fields and raising children. Clara refused to accept such a fate. Her mind burned with curiosity, driven by a deep desire to uncover the world’s mysteries and gain the greatest power of all – knowledge. She stood firm, even when the village chief, with his commanding voice and unyielding authority, decreed that no woman could enter the schoolhouse.

Clara’s father, worn from years of hard labor and constant struggle, carried a quiet dream – a better life for his daughter, one free from the hardships he and his wife had known. He wanted to give her what he had never had: freedom, choice, and the chance to shape her own future. In a moment of hope and desperation, he approached the village librarian, asking him to teach Clara whenever possible, to share the knowledge that might one day unlock her path.

The librarian, a kind old man with a gentle voice, agreed without hesitation. After just one lesson – watching the little girl furrow her brow in concentration as she wrote her name, her tongue sticking out in concentration, and giggling softly as she wrote each letter – he was completely won over. Touched by her innocent determination and endless curiosity, he promised to do everything he could to nurture the bright mind before him.

Seated beside the librarian, Clara devoured the book with eager eyes, soaking in every word as if it were a secret just for her. The old man watched quietly, a wistful smile on his lips. But beneath that smile was a quiet sorrow – the knowing that these bright, carefree moments were soon to end. Despite everything he had taught her, despite all she had learned, the truth hung over them like a shadow: Clara’s fate still seemed bound to the narrow confines of their village. He knew, all too well, that no matter how fiercely she dreamed, the world beyond would remain distant and unforgiving. In the end, like so many before her, she would be expected to conform to tradition and quietly accept her place.

“Clara, please set the book aside.”

Clara lifted her head, her brown eyes full of curiosity, completely focused on him. For a moment, she hesitated, reluctant to leave the page that had captivated her. Slowly, she closed the book.

“What is it, Grandpa?”

He heard the genuine curiosity in her voice, sensing she was waiting for something – perhaps a new book, one he had carefully chosen just for her.

“You haven’t thought about starting a family, have you? After all, you’re at the right age,” the man said, trying to keep his tone light. He knew Clara usually avoided this topic, but it was one that always seemed to linger, no matter how much she tried to sidestep it.

As expected, Clara furrowed her brow and looked away.

“Grandpa…” she sighed, her voice heavy with the weariness of a conversation she didn’t want to have.

She shrugged slightly, as if trying to shield herself from the topic, and turned her gaze to the far corner of the room, silently hoping the conversation would end.

“I get it. You want to explore the world, but you’re not a child anymore. Your parents need your help,” the man said, falling back on the same tired arguments.

Clara paused, biting her lower lip as she shut the book. She had heard it all before – over and over. It was always about marriage, continuing the family line, making her parents proud.

“But I can’t…” she whispered, the words hanging in the air, heavy and unfinished.

The librarian saw how his words had shaken her.

“Clara,” he said gently, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She kept her eyes on her hands, tracing the smooth cover of the book with restless fingers.

“I know, Grandpa. It’s just.. I’m afraid I won’t ever get out of here.”

He nodded and looked away, unable to bear the sight of her dreams colliding with the life others had laid out for her. The room fell silent. Slowly, the grandfather stood, walked to the shelf by the window, and paused there for a moment. When he returned, something in his expression had shifted.

“Reading old manuscripts again?” the old man asked, his eyes resting on the worn crimson book in Clara’s hands.

“Oh, this…” Clara blinked, a faint smile forming. “I love rereading it. It’s different from all the others. Sometimes I think… it wasn’t written by a human at all.”

“And you’re right,” the old man said, smiling at the surprise that lit up her face.

“What do you mean, Grandpa?”

“This book came from the Forbidden Forest. It’s no surprise you find it hard to understand,” the librarian said, watching Clara’s eyes widen.

“How?” Clara asked, tightening her grip on the book. “Who gave it to us?”

“I never thought I’d be telling you stories like this…” the old man said with a smirk as he settled back into his chair. “But since you’re so curious…”

“Of course, Grandpa!” Clara said, her voice bright with excitement.

“Twenty years ago, a young man came to our village with that very book. Everyone called him a madman and a fugitive.”

“What was his name?”

“Charles Miller,” William said, his voice steady. “He was the fool who dared to enter the Forbidden Forest.” he paused, letting the weight of the words sink in.

He watched as emotions flickered across Clara’s face – confusion, disbelief, wonder. Not everyone is ready to learn the truth, especially when the person they’ve admired from afar turns out to be much closer than they ever imagined.

“My father?” Clara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, my dear,” the old man said with a gentle smile. “Your father was the one who brought the knowledge of the Forbidden Forest to our village.”

“But what about the ban?” Clara asked, her voice tight with worry.

“Back then, the law didn’t exist yet,” the librarian said gently. “But after others followed his path and vanished without a trace, the village had no choice but to set a strict ban to stop it from happening again.”

Clara froze, her thoughts still reeling when a loud crash broke the silence – the door slammed open, hitting the wall with a thud.

A man stood in the doorway, looking like any other tired laborer. He was breathless, bent slightly as if he’d been running for miles, chest heaving with every gasp.

“Charles broke the ban! They’re sending him to prison!” he blurted out, then turned and ran off without another word.

For a brief second, everything went silent. Then Clara bolted from her chair, sending it skidding back across the floor. She didn’t hesitate – she ran straight for the door, her pulse thundering with panic.

She weaved through the crowd, barely feeling the sting of shoulders and elbows knocking into her. Up ahead, a group of men was forcing her father into a carriage – the kind reserved for criminals. Clara came to a halt, breathless, eyes wide. Her father didn’t resist. He looked at peace, his expression calm, as if this were something he had expected all along.

“Move out!” the man on horseback barked, his voice cold and final. With a swift tug on the reins, the horse surged ahead, jerking the carriage into motion and pulling Clara’s father farther and farther away.

Clara’s breath caught. “Wait!” she cried, breaking into a sprint.

Her voice echoed through the air, raw with desperation. She stretched out her hand, as though sheer willpower could stop the carriage and bring her father back. But before she could get close, a pair of rough arms seized her from behind. Others followed – three, maybe four men – dragging her down. Pain flared in her shoulder as she hit the ground, the weight of their bodies pinning her in place.

The dirt crunched beneath Clara as she kicked, scratched, and fought with everything she had. Her shoes were gone, knees scraped and bleeding, but she didn’t stop. She kept struggling, even as strong, unyielding hands pinned her down, pressing against her chest and robbing her of breath. Somewhere in the crowd, someone swore. Another person laughed.

“She’s even more stubborn than her father.”

“Stand down!” a stern male voice commanded.

The crowd froze. Heads dropped. No one dared to move.

Clara tore herself free from the grip that had held her down, gasping for air as she doubled over, clutching her ribs. After a moment, she straightened, brushing the dirt from her clothes. With a heavy sigh, she lifted her head, locking eyes with Chief Ergus.

He regarded her with an icy, unwavering gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice low and sharp. “Do you not know the rules?”

His small eyes narrowed further as he studied her, waiting for her response as she stood there, head bowed, searching for something – anything – to explain her reckless actions.

“Have you forgotten how to speak to a man?”

Clara stayed silent, her lips pressed tight, eyes fixed on the ground. Behind her, the crowd’s murmurs began to rise. She remained still, letting the whispers swirl around her. Finally, she lifted her head. There was no hint of fear or regret in her expression. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she quickly clenched the hem of her dress, hiding the betraying movement. After a long pause, Clara lowered herself just enough for it to be seen as a reluctant gesture.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clara’s anger surged – at the chief, at the circumstances, and at herself for not being able to help her father in that moment. She knew that no matter how much she wished it were different, before the chief, they were all nothing but pawns, herself included.

When she lifted her head again, a familiar figure cut through the crowd.

“Mom?” Clara called out, her voice sharp, as she instinctively took a step forward. Without hesitation, she moved through the crowd, ignoring the eyes that followed her.

The woman, her face etched with worry, rushed toward Clara and pulled her into a tight embrace. Her uneven, hurried breaths were a clear sign of just how terrified she was.

“Clara, where’s your father?” her voice trembled as she looked into her daughter’s eyes, full of concern.

Clara didn’t meet her gaze. The silence between them spoke louder than words ever could. Evelina moved past her daughter, pressing on.

“Mom, no! You can’t go there!” Clara cried, grabbing hold on her mother’s dress. But Evelina brushed her aside and kept walking. Clara’s grip tightened, her heart pounding as she realized the danger her mother was walking into. She knew the price of defying the chief. But Evelina didn’t stop. She kept moving forward, her resolve unshaken.

When the chief created the rules forbidding entry into the forest, a few fools chose to defy him and flee the village. In response, Ergus escalated the consequences with cruelty. As punishment, he ordered that the women – wives, sisters, daughters, and mothers – of the offenders be taken and forced into slavery. The freedom the villagers once knew vanished, replaced by an oppressive reality where they were all left powerless, bound by the chief’s will.

Evelina had long accepted the price of her husband’s crimes. She didn’t wait for judgment to descend upon her doorway – instead, she walked willingly into its arms. With unwavering resolve, she made her way to the chief’s lair, determined to face the punishment meant for both herself and her daughter.

The dusty road stretched ahead, each step laden with the weight of what was to come: a life of slavery, stripped of hope, where each day blurred into the nest. Still, she did not falter. Behind her, her daughter’s cries rang out – raw, desperate pleas to stop, to turn back – but Evelina did not look back. She gently pushed the girl aside and stepped into the dim hut where the chief sat in silence, waiting.

Ergus welcomed her with a smirk that never touched his eyes, lounging like a king in a chair draped with a bear pelt – the spoils of his most recent, and no doubt ruthless, hunt. As ever, one leg rested lazily over the other, while his fingers absently toyed with the heavy ring on his hand.

“As I expected,” his voice rasped, filled with mock satisfaction. He rose from his seat, moving with slow, deliberate steps. The fur draped over his shoulders rustled softly as he crossed the room.

Evelina’s hands tightened around the edges of her faded scarf, her fingers trembling. Still, her face remained calm, revealing nothing – only her brown eyes, flickering with unease, hinted at the fear she fought to hide.

The chief halted just a step away, his gaze fierce, eyes drilling into hers.

“Do you understand what you’ve brought upon yourself? You and your daughter stand at the edge of disgrace,” he said, voice thick with mockery. “Disgrace is relentless. Once it touches a family, it never lets go.”

Evelina remained silent, refusing to speak.

Ergus shifted to the side, his tone steeped in scorn. “I might grant you a way out. If your daughter were to marry my son, both of you could be spared the fate your husband had condemned you to.”

“It’s not my place to decide how my daughter’s life should unfold,” she said firmly. “But she will never marry a man who has neither education nor a sense of justice.”

“Then from this day on, you are a slave, and your husband will rot in a dungeon until death takes him,” the chief said, his voice dripping with contempt.

Evelina only nodded, pushing down the surge of anger threatening to break free.

“Your daughter will also work he – ”

“My daughter will not be a slave,” Evelina cut in, her voice sharp.

“You dare defy me?” the chief’s eyes narrowed.

“I will take on her duties. I did not bear a slave.”

Evelina and Charles had raised a daughter who defied every expectation. Clara rejected tradition, spurned the laws she deemed unjust, and was always seeking a way to escape the confines of the village. Yet Ergus was certain that, sooner or later, they would regret everything.

CHAPTER 2: FORBIDDEN AREA

Clara paced anxiously in front of the massive door, circling like a caged bird. Two guards stood motionless, as if carved from stone. She couldn’t shake the image of her father being forced into the carriage – dragged away to some grim place where freedom disappears.

Suddenly, the doors swung open. The chief emerged first, followed by her mother. Chief Ergus cast a cold, disdainful glance at Clara, clearly unimpressed by her boldness.

“From this day on, your mother is my slave. She’s not allowed to leave my house without my permission,” he said, his tone flat and unyielding.

“Isn’t that a bit extreme? Why jump straight to slavery?” Clara asked, forcing her voice to stay calm. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

“She already belongs to me,” he replied coldly. “She is my slave.”

Clara’s fists clenched. “She’s not a thing you can own. You don’t get to decide what she is!”

“You can scream all you want,” Ergus said, turning his back to her. “But she answers to me now. Your father made sure of that.”

He disappeared inside, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. Clara let out a sharp breath, scoffed, and turned away, fury in her steps as she walked off.

***

Clara stood in front of the old house, fists clenched in anger. She didn’t notice the sun slipping behind the hill, its final rays quietly bidding farewell to the village. Night was settling in. The streets were nearly deserted, and a soft breeze stirred – rustling the trees and brushing past the few workers still lingering after a long day in the fields, offering them a moment of cool relief.

With a tired breath, the brunette let the tension melt from her body, her back finally relaxing after a long day of holding herself upright. She stepped inside.

Brown eyes wandered over the familiar walls of the house her father had built with such care – a sanctuary for the family he had cherished above all else. Shelves lined the walls, each one thoughtfully filled with books Clara loved most. This house had seen her joy, held her sorrow and fear, listened to her cries, and echoed with her laughter.

Her brown eyes swept over the worn corners of the dear home, slowly welling with tears until everything blurred. She blinked hard, trying to push back the sudden wave of sorrow. But the moment her eyes closed, a warm line of tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the old fabric of her cloth.

The same delicate hands that once turned pages with quiet reverence now dragged across her face, rough and trembling, as if wiping away tears could also erase their cause. But her eyes fell upon the unfinished fabric resting on the table – and in that moment, her composure collapsed. Her vision blurred, and this time, with nothing left to hold them back, the tears came freely.

Clara’s tears fell because her mother – who should have been beside her, resting, sharing quiet moments and stories still waiting to be told – was instead scrubbing the floors of a cruel, selfish man. And she cried because her father, meant to stand at her side and watch each arrow fly straight, sat locked away in a cold, empty cell.

Bit by bit, Clara got her breathing under control. Tears clung to her lashes, catching the last of the light like dew at dusk. Her lips, bitten and raw, stood out red against her pale skin, and even the tip of her nose was flushed. Her head began to clear – and then reality came back, heavy and solid, settling over her like a weight she couldn’t shrug off.

“I won’t leave them,” she whispered, barely audible.

But determination wasn’t enough. She needed a plan. Clara had to get her father out of prison and help her mother get away from the chief’s house.

Without wasting time, she sat down at her small, messy desk, covered in scattered papers – some with quick sketches, others balled up and thrown aside. Taking a deep breath, she focused and started to figure out her plan.

Clara pulled out a clean sheet of paper and a pencil. Biting her lip, she started sketching light outlines. Slowly, the scribbles took shape – her home here, the prison there, and the chief’s house a little farther away.

“Okay,” she sighed, putting the pencil down and clenching her fists. “First, I have to get Dad out. They’re watching Mom like a hawk,” she said, staring out the foggy window as twilight deepened. The room was quiet except for the soft tapping of her pencil on the paper. Outside, the streets were already fading into darkness. Clara’s eyes caught a guard disappearing around the corner, and suddenly it hit her.

“Of course!” she whispered, eyes bright with excitement. “At night! No one will see me if I go then!” her voice grew a little louder.

Without hesitation, she leaned back over the paper and quickly drew a line from her house to the prison.

The next night, Clara slipped quietly toward the prison. She pulled the hood of her worn cloak down low, hiding her face, and pressed close to the shadows, careful to stay unseen. When she reached the heavy door, she paused and rested her hand on the cold metal. Her fingers inched toward the iron handle, feeling its icy chill – when suddenly, the door creaked open. Clara gasped, her body jolting. She ducked behind the corner and vanished from sight.

“See you “round,” one man said, voice rough but tired.

“You on nights tonight?” the other asked.

“Yeah, watching the old man – Charles,” the first chuckled.

“That nutcase? Why bother guarding him? You think he’s gonna run off to the Forest again?”

“Nah, it’s his daughter they’re worried about. The chief’s convinced she’ll come get him.”

“She’s just a kid, though. Relax, it’ll be fine. I’m outta here.”

“Later.”

One of the men slowly headed home, while the other slipped back inside, closing the door with a sharp click. Clara stayed hidden in the shadows, silent and tense. She lowered her head, crossed her arms, and muttered a curse under her breath at chief.

I need a new plan, she thought as she made her way back home.

Going out at night was too risky now. If Ergus suspected Clara was planning something, the guards had surely doubled, and their watchfulness sharpened. Trying to get near the prison or the chief’s house after dark could end in disaster.