The Secret of the Forbidden Forest

Clara sighed deeply, staring at her now useless sketches. Her hand trembled as the pencil dragged a jagged line across the paper. She leaned back and rubbed her temples.

“So, nights are out,” she muttered. “But during the day… there must be some weak spots. I’ll have to check with Mom. First thing in the morning, I’ll find out.”

But luck wasn’t on her side.

After a few knocks, the door swung open – and there stood Travis, the chief’s son. He was about Clara’s age and known for his arrogance and terrible manners.

“What do you want?” Travis asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Clara took a step back – not out of fear, but to avoid his breath.

“I’m here to see my mom,” she said, calm and steady, hiding any sign of emotion.

“You mom?” Travis smirked, tilting his head. “Do slaves get visitors?”

“Just call her,” Clara said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“What if I don’t?” His grin grew wider. “What’re you gonna do? Complain? Cry about how unfair it is? Dream about how things’ll be if you were in charge?”

“I’m not complaining. I just won’t accept it.”

“Oh,” Travis said, shaking his head like he was impressed. “So brave.” He crossed his arms. “You’re not one to keep quiet and pretend all’s fine, huh?”

Clara swallowed her irritation. Sharp as it was, she held it tight.

“I’m not here to argue, Travis. I just want to see my mom.”

“Right, your mom,” he said, scratching his neck. “Busy woman… Why would she come out for a daughter who clearly forgot her place?” He gave her a slow, mocking once-over. “Don’t be naive, “he added before turning away. “She’s not coming.”

Clara gritted her teeth, feeling a surge of helpless anger. Her fists clenched tightly, knuckles white, her heart pounding in her ears. She pressed her lips together, lifted her chin, and walked away.

I should’ve just slapped him, she thought bitterly as she headed toward the Western Forest.

Morning light filtered through the trees of the Western Forest, casting shifting patches of shade on the ground. The air smelled of damp earth and wild herbs, crisp and clean.

Clara’s house stood where the trees began, their branches brushing against the roof. She liked this quiet spot – it felt like a refuge from the world. She stepped softly, the snap of twigs underfoot the only sound. Pausing, she leaned against the rough bark of an old oak. The coolness seeped through her dress, offering a small comfort. She exhaled slowly and looked up, watching the leaves sway in the gentle morning breeze.

A sudden movement caught Clara’s eye – two women weaving carefully between the trees, struggling with a heavy basket that pressed harshly into their pale, aching hands. The strain showed clearly on their faces.

Clara stood up from the grass, brushing stray leaves off her worn cloth, and hurried over.

“Here, let me help,” she said, lifting one side of the basket.

A soft smile curved Clara’s lips. The women nodded silently, but their eyes showed no gratitude – one flickered with irritation, the other kept a cautious watch on Clara’s every move. Silence stretched between them as they walked along the winding path.

When the trail opened to the edge of the clearing, the women let out a shared breath of relief. The basket thudded down beside a pile of others – worn woven containers brimming with the forest’s bounty. Clara rubbed her palms, brushing away tiny bits of bark, and met the women’s steady gazer.

“Tomorrow’s Mr. Travis’s birthday,” one of them said, wiping sweat from her brow, her eyes locked on Clara.

“I know,” Clara replied with a tight smile, ready to move on.

“He’s quite the handsome one. Shame he keeps everyone at arm’s length.”

Clara fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was about to walk away when the second woman, standing slightly apart, narrowed her eyes and spoke with a sly smirk:

“Your mother’s working there, isn’t she?” she said, crossing her arms.

Clara froze, her eyes sharp, a faint crease forming on her brow.

“What do you mean?” she asked, keeping her voice steady but feeling a tightening inside.

“She belongs there,” the first woman said, reading an eyebrow as her eyes flickered from the basket back to Clara. “She was warned – no use coming out for the runaway.”

“Don’t even say it,” the second muttered, snorting softly. “Nothing but trouble with those Millers.”

“True enough,” the first went on, savoring each word like a secret. “A runaway, a slave… that family sure knows how to find trouble.”

“Oh, do you remember how her grandma ran off with the blacksmith?” the second whispered, covering her mouth like she was sharing a juicy story.

“Ah yes, of course! Guess some things run in the blood. Blood’s thicker than water, after all.”

Clara rolled her eyes and pivoted sharply, too tired of their pointless chatter to linger. She quickened her steps, turning out their voices fading behind her.

“Yeah… I hope the girl’s smarter,” the second woman muttered, watching Clara’s retreating figure. “Though, honestly, I doubt it.”

Clara followed the narrow path, putting distance between herself and the forest’s fruits – and the prying eyes that came with them. Twilight thickened, turning the tree trunks into looming shadows. She kept her gaze low, then suddenly froze.

Up ahead, where the path split, two guards sat side by side. One stretched lazily, the other idly poked the dirt with a stick. Clara quickly slipped behind a thick tree trunk, pressing herself into the shadows.

“You dozing off again?” a lazy voice drawled. “How many times now?”

“Come on, man, I’ve been on watch three nights straight,” the other groaned, still half-asleep. “That grass from the field knocked me out cold. What’s it called… valerian or something? Old Ella mixed it in the tea, and bam – I was out like a stone all night.”

“Ha! And you bragged you wouldn’t nod off, even in a storm.”

“Try it yourself! I’m telling you, that stuff’s no joke.”

Clara stayed frozen, a sudden thought snapping into place. Quietly, she stepped back and took a different path, careful to stay out of sight.

Back in her room, she hurried to the old shelf and grabbed a worn book. The scent of dust and aged paper filled the air. It was a guide to the plants and herbs of the Western Forest.

“Not it,” she muttered, flipping through page after page.

Her fingers traced faint marks on the smooth pages as her eyes skimmed quickly over the text, not lingering anywhere. At last, she stopped, having found the passage she was looking for. Clara let out a quiet breath, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“So that’s you,” she whispered.

Her eyes scanned the lines again, and she read aloud, barely a murmur:

“Valerian.”

Clara clutched the book more tightly and stepped closer to the window, where the last of the light still lingered. The lines on the page were faint, delicate, and growing harder to see as dusk crept in. Clouds gathered quickly, swallowing the sun, and a cool breeze tapped at the glass, sending a faint shiver through the room. But Clara barely noticed – her focus stayed locked on the pages in her hands.

“Extracts from valerian root can cause a deep, relaxing sleep,*” she murmured, her teeth lightly pressing her lower lip. (*It’s not true).

Turning the page she continued:

“Valerian can grow in forests, though it’s more often found in damp meadows, along rivers, in marshy areas, or at the edges of woods. It prefers moisty, shady places.”

She closed the book slowly, her brow knitting in thought. A vivid image rose in her mind – a quiet river winding through dense greenery, its gentle current whispering beneath low-hanging branches.

“So along the river… Clara whispered, eyes drifting toward the shadowed landscape outside the window.

***

Clara fastened the pouch carefully, making sure everything inside was well hidden. She pulled the hood of her father’s old cloak low over her face, her fingers brushing the worn, faded fabric. Beneath it, a rough caftan in earthy tones wrapped around her – uncomfortable, but reliable. The sleeves hung past her wrists, frayed at the elbows, and her patched gray trousers were tucked into scuffed boots. She adjusted the small bag on her shoulder, drew a steadying breath, and tried to calm the restless pulse pounding through her veins.

The door creaked open just wide enough for Clara to peer out. In the dim light, tired workers moved past in silence, their steps heavy, their voices low. A few led a saddled horse down the quiet street, its hooves soft against the dirt.

Keeping her head low, Clara slipped outside. The evening air nipped at her cheeks, sharp and cold. Her hood slipped slightly, and she quickly caught it, pulling it close around her face.

In this village, there were many rules and customs that Clara always found absurd and unjust. One of the harshest was that prisoners were not given food – they were punished with hunger, under the belief that food must be earned. The cruelty felt completely foreign to Clara. This rule weighed heavily on her heart, and now, secretly carrying two red apples – her father’s favorite fruit – she was about to defy the law. She knew that if she were caught, punishment was inevitable. But nothing could stop her.

When Clara arrived at the prison, she stopped for a moment, holding her breath. The place looked more like an old, crumbling barn than anything meant to hold prisoners. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the coarse fabric scraping against her palm.

“Come on,” she whispered to herself, then raised her hand and gave two firm knocks on the door.

After a few minutes, the door slowly opened, and a tall man with a stern face appeared. His dark eyes stared directly at Clara, and lines on his forehead made him look even tougher. Clara felt her confidence slip for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure, cleared her throat, and lowered her eyes, nodding respectfully.

“I’m here to see my father,” she said calmly, though her lips twitched with irritation. Luckily, the guard didn’t catch it.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at her, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to find a reason to say no. Clara felt a cold knot in her stomach. She opened her mouth to ask again, but the man suddenly snorted.

“Now?” he asked, glancing away. “Isn’t that a little late?”

Clara tensed but nodded, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Just for a minute. He’s my dad. I won’t take long.”

The man chuckled, as if deciding whether it was worth the trouble. Then he scratched the back of his head and reluctantly stepped aside, moving away from the door.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he said in a rough voice. “Try not to stay any longer,” he added with a frown before walking off and slamming the door behind him.

Clara closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. When she opened them, a dark, dreary room stretched out before her. Four cells stood in a row, their bars rusted and worn. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and metal, and thin cobwebs clung to the ceiling. Only one cell held someone. In the corner, slouched on a rough wooden bench, sat her father. His shoulders were slumped, and tangled gray strands fell across his face.

“Dad…” Clara whispered, her voice unsteady. She stepped closer and gripped the cold metal bars, looking into the familiar face.

Charles opened his eyes and froze, staring at Clara’s frightened face. For a moment, he seemed unable to believe what he was seeing. He blinked once, twice, but she didn’t disappear. Then, gathering himself, Charles hurried to the bars.

“I missed you so much, dad,” Clara whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Charles reached through the bars and gently touched her cheek. His rough, calloused hand brushed softly over her skin. Clara closed her eyes at the touch and her tears fell even faster.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, don’t cry, my dear,” Charles said with a gentle smile, wiping her tears away. His voice was low and comforting. “It’s okay now. It’s all over.”

Hearing her father’s words, Clara shook her head, making her dark hair sway gently.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” she said firmly, taking Charles cold hands in hers and squeezing them. “And I’ll get mom out too. We’re going to escape and finally be free.”

Charles gave a sad smile, his eyes filled with love – and a quiet sorrow. There was something in his gaze, a knowing acceptance of a harsh truth Clara either couldn’t see or refused to face. He gently squeezed her hands, holding on to both her warmth and the fierce resolve she carried.

“It’s not worth it,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Things might not work out like you hope, Clara. You have to get out – save yourself. Then you – ”

“No,” Clara interrupted firmly. “I’m not leaving you behind. We’re going to leave together. We’ll build a better life. I’m not going to abandon you to this place.”

She pulled a small pouch from her bag, glancing nervously around as if someone might catch her. After checking that no one was watching, she offered a small, resolute smile and passed it to her father.

Charles took it gently, his fingers brushing over the coarse fabric as he loosened the knotted rope.

“Clara…” he said quietly, his tone low but firm when he saw what was inside – two ripe apples resting at the bottom. He looked up at her, eyes filled with both worry and a silent warning. “You shouldn’t be risking like this.”

“Is starving to death better?” she replied sharply, lifting her chin with fierce resolve. “You need strength if we’re ever going to get out. So just eat.”

Charles gave a faint smile, grabbed an apple, and with his rough hands split it in half. He held out the bigger piece to Clara.

“Come on. Share a simple dinner with me,” he said gently.

Clara smiled back and took the slice.

“To freedom,” she said, lifting her apple like a toast.

Her father raised his own piece, his voice above a whisper.

“To yours.”

The crunch of apples was the only sound echoing in the cold room.

“Remember when you used to hide apples in your blouse as a kid?” Charles said suddenly, a soft smile on his face. “You never ate them – you’d just sneak them off to my workshop.”

Clara laughed quietly, warmth spreading in her eyes.

“And you always acted like you didn’t notice.”

He smiled, a little amused. “Had to play along, or you’d have stopped bringing them.”

Clara froze without meaning to, the half-eaten apple still in her hands. Her eyes drifted away, lost in thought. Charles noticed. He wiped the apple’s juice from his lips and, watching her, asked with a gentle smile:

“What are you thinking about?”

“What?”

Dad gave a smirk, nodding at the apple in her hand.

“Yeah, I get it – geniuses get lost in their own head. But, you know, dinner’s not gonna eat itself.”

She shrugged, still chewing slowly, eyes somewhere else. “Sure, yeah… probably…”

Clara looked up at him, suddenly more serious. “They only let me stay for five minutes…”

Her voice softened as Charles reached through the bars, his hand gently threading through her long hair. He leaned in a little, voice low but steady.

“Clara… you don’t have to – like, put yourself in danger for us. We’ve been through enough already. You can just walk away. You don’t have to carry all th – ”

“No!” she cut him off, voice sharp. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ve got a plan, okay? I’ve got.. One…”

“What plan?” Charles squinted, eyes locked on her. “Clara, don’t even go there. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

She bit her lip, not meeting his gaze.

“It’s not reckless, dad. I’ve – I’ve thought it through, I swear. I just wanna help.”

“Help?” his voice went sharp, almost bitter. “This isn’t help, Clara. You don’t know those people. They’re monst – They’re pretending to be human, but they’re not. They’ll crush you before you even open your mouth.”

Clara’s face was calm, but her lips shook.

“T-Tell me what you’re thinking? What is your plan?”

Clara let out a slow breath, still looking anywhere but at him.

“I’m… I’m gonna go to the woods. Get valerian. Make some… kind of extract. It’ll knock the guards out… at least for a little while. That’s all we need to get out.”

Charles’s face twisted, and before she knew it, he grabbed her shoulders hard.

“You think it’s that easy? That they won’t catch you? This isn’t some game, Clara! They’ll kill you. You hear me?!”

She jerked away, eyes flashing fire.

“So what? You’re so scared of losing me you’d rather stuck here forever? Locked up like a damn prisoner?!” her voice cracked, but she kept looking at him, straight in the eyes. “I can’t. I just can’t keep watching you and mom suffer. You don’t deserve this crap.”

Charles let out a rough sigh, voice shaking a little.

“I’m not scared for me, Clara… I’m scared for you. You’re my only daughter. If you… if you just… vanish… If anything happens – » he stopped, jaw tight, like he couldn’t finish. “I won’t survive that, okay? I can’t lose my only daughter…”

The words hit her hard. Clara bit her lip, eyes dark and tight.

“You still think I’m a kid,” she said, voice rough. “But I’m not. I have to do this. I have to try. No matter what.”

Charles pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes fixed on his daughter – the girl so fiercely set on saving what was left of their family. His gaze was heavy with worry; he knew too well how steep the cost of her choices could be.

“Clara, sweetheart, it’s not worth it. You should use this time and – » he began, but he didn’t get the chance to finish. The door creaked open with a harsh, dragging sound, and a sudden gust of wind swept through the room.

The groan of the hinges echoed against the stone walls, and in the doorway stood the shadowy figure of a guard. Clara flinched, quickly tucking the rest of the apple into her pouch and pulling her cloak over it.

“Time’s up. Leave,” the guard said flatly, not even glancing at them.

Clara looked at him, voice quiet, careful. “Can I… can I leave him my cloak? Please?”

The guard glanced at Charles, his face unreadable. A heavy silence settled in the room. He tightened his jaw, faced the door – but stayed put.

“Leave it and go,” he finally muttered, the permission forced from him. “Just be quick.”

“Thank you,” Clara whispered, relief soft in her voice. She slipped off her worn cloak and, hiding the small pouch inside, passed it to her father through the bars.

Charles held her hand tightly, fingers trembling, his face etched with worry. He shook his head.

“You don’t have to do this… Please just don’t…” he said, voice breaking.

Clara gave a sad little smile, squeezing his hand tight.

“I know you’re trying to protect me. But if I don’t do something… how could I ever live with myself?”

Clara set her jaw, eyes firm and unyielding – there was no persuading her otherwise. Once she decided to help her family, nothing could stop her. Charles felt a tight knot of fear coil in his chest, silently wishing his daughter would stay safe.

A dark night blanketed the small village. Inside their homes, tired villagers slept soundly, gathering strength for the work ahead. But three among them would find no rest that night.

In a damp cell that reeked of mildew, the father sat still, eyes locked on the guard beyond the bars. But his thoughts were far from the prison. He whispered silent prayers, pleading with fate to keep his daughter out of harm’s way. Elsewhere in the village, the mother sat curled in the corner of a narrow, overcrowded room, surrounded by the slow breaths of sleeping women. Candlelight flickered on the walls, casting unsteady shadows that danced across her worn face. Evelina did not sleep. Her thoughts wandered restlessly, tangled in the silence – dwelling on the man imprisoned and the daughter now left to brave the world alone.

At that hour, the daughter slipped through the doorway of their humble home, careful not to stir a sound. The night met her with a chill, and she welcomed it in silence. In her arms she held a basket. A knife lay inside, coiled rope beside it. Her father’s bow crossed her shoulder, and from her back hung a quiver of three arrows, their steel tips whispering against one another as she walked into the dark. Her hair was wound tightly in a thick strip of cloth, not a single strand left free. In one hand, Clara carried a small lantern, its flame trembling in the breeze. She cast a wary glance around, ensuring the street lay empty, then turned the key in the door with practiced care, not letting it utter a sound. A heartbeat later, she was running toward the Western Forest.

Leaves whispered beneath her feet, shattering the night’s stillness, while ragged breaths rose in warm clouds before her. She had never dared to venture into the forest alone – especially not under the cloak of darkness. Yet now, she crossed the familiar edge, stepping beyond what was known. Fear gripped her deeply, but beneath it flickered an unfamiliar hope.

“Al’ for the family,” Clara breathed out, the cold biting at her lips. “All for them.”

The brunette shivered, suddenly aware how foolish she’d been to wear so lightly. The white dress offered little defense against the chill of night.

She pressed on carefully, aiming to reach the river before dawn’s first light crept over the horizon. Yet Clara hadn’t imagined the journey would stretch beyond two hours.

Her legs felt like lead, each step heavier than the last. A dull ache pulsed in her head, and her eyelids drooped relentlessly, forcing Clara to jerk herself awake time and again to keep moving. The candle inside her lantern burned low, its fragile flame trembling faintly beneath her cupped hand, struggling against the night breeze.

Yet the instant Clara caught the distant, muffled roar of the waterfall, she surged forward, breaking into a run – ignoring the ache in her knees and the numbness in her toes cramped inside worn boots.

When she finally made it to the waterfall and the river, Clara stopped, panting hard. Her chest heaved, and the cold air stung her lungs. Every inch of her felt chilled and exhausted, but a small, determined smile stayed on her face. A little way down by the riverbank, she noticed a small cluster of valerian.

Clara knelt in front of the plants, slipped the quiver of arrows off her shoulder, and set it down beside her. She took the knife from her basket and started carefully digging up the roots, making sure not to damage them.

Thank goodness it’s autumn, she thought as she pulled another root free, a quiet smile playing on her lips. The smile was simple – autumn was when valerian roots were at their strongest, soaking up all the good stuff she needed for her plan.

Clara worked her way through the soil, taking care not to break the thin roots as she pulled them free. Dirt covered her hands and got under her nails, but didn’t really care. She smiled, dropping each plant gently into the basket. When the basket was almost full, she grabbed a bit of rope and started tying the valerian into small, neat bundles, and set them carefully on top.

“Perfect,” she said with a satisfied grin, slinging her quiver of arrows over her shoulder.

A sudden gust of wind came whistling through the trees and killed the lantern’s weak flame, leaving Clara in pitch blackness. She paused, feeling a wave of confusion, and let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Then a sound – a soft rustle – caught her ear. Her heart jumped. She straightened up fast, and the basket slipped from her hands, landing with a soft thud on the damp ground. Her fingers went straight for the quiver, and in a second, she had an arrow in place and the bow drawn, the string biting at her fingertips.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice calm, though she hoped no one would answer.

The forest held her question for a moment before a clear, confident male voice replied:

“The future chief.”

Clara frowned, tightening her hold on the arrow. Moonlight slipped through the branches, casting light on a man’s figure drawing near. Travis emerged from the bushes, weapon gripped firmly in his hands. She didn’t lower her bow but took a step back, keeping the basket close behind her.