TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 1 (RAW)

Chapter 1 - A Place of Memories

Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.

- Rosa Parks.

The young girl moved quietly through the woods, gathering herbs and picking nuts beneath the dappled light of the late autumn sun. Gold leaves danced in the breeze around her, framing the forest in glory before winter’s hush. She had a gift for this kind of work, it seemed. Her hands skilled and dextrous, moving as if by instinct to find whatever it was she was looking for. Half the time she didn’t even have to look, the plants she wished for seemingly appearing in her hands. Housework, however, was another matter entirely, and her attempts at cooking were little short of catastrophic.

Still, this was the least she could do for Levine and his father.

The beautiful girl hummed a soft tune as she worked, and soon her voice lifted into song. It was a simple melody, but rich with something deeper—something that stirred the quiet soul of the forest. Her notes twined through the trees like sunlight through branches, warm and inviting.

Birds fluttered down to perch along the low-hanging limbs above her, their heads cocked to better hear her song. Squirrels paused in their foraging, inching closer with twitching tails. A timid fox crept from behind a mossy log, its amber eyes wide with cautious wonder. Then came more—a pair of plump rabbits, a sleek brown weasel, even a young fawn stepping gently through the underbrush as though drawn by some ancient instinct.

The girl giggled softly, crouching down and extending her hand.

The fox reached her first, brushing its narrow snout against her fingers, only to be bumped aside by an eager squirrel who clambered up her arm with no shame whatsoever. The birds chirped in a chorus, fluttering close enough for her to stroke their tiny heads. One rabbit nudged her knee, demanding attention with impatient thumps of its hind foot.

“Oh, you’re all so greedy,” she said, laughing as she scratched the fawn behind its ear and gave the jealous fox another affectionate stroke. The animals crowded around her in a gentle flurry of fur, feathers, and bright curious eyes, each one angling for her touch, her warmth, her approval.

For a moment, she sat among them like a young forest queen, radiant and serene. The forest—alive, watching—seemed to pause with her.

The girl smiled faintly. Yes, this was the least she could do for the family who had pulled her half-dead from the river’s grasp. But as the creatures nestled close and the sun dappled her golden hair, she felt, if only for a moment, like she belonged—not just to the village, but to the world itself. She had a feeling, that part of her at least, had never quite felt at home in this world.

They had fed her, clothed her, nursed her broken body back from the edge. Levine’s family was not poor, but still—relying on their kindness left a bitter taste in her mouth. Something in her rebelled at the idea of being a burden.

She ran a hand through her short-cropped blonde hair—an oddity in these parts, though she wasn’t sure how she knew that. Why had she cut it? She had asked herself that question a hundred times, yet the answer always slipped through her fingers like water. The memory was gone, washed away with so many others.

The river had taken more than her strength that day. It had stolen her past, leaving only fragments behind—whispers at the edge of waking, colors too bright to name. Gold and rose-pink. Two titans that loomed in the shadows of her forgotten life.

The young girl had reached for them again and again, but they were like mist—vanishing the moment she tried to hold them. She sighed. Her basket, she realized, was now full—mushrooms, nuts, bundles of edible grass. Her hands had worked on their own while her thoughts wandered.

The animals rose as she did, their eyes following her as she stepped out of the woods and onto the well-worn path toward Milani Village. They lingered at the treeline, silent sentinels of fur and feather.

The girl skipped along the path, careful not to spill her gathered harvest. A little further up, she spotted old Grena kneeling by the mossy stone wall that marked the edge of the village, stacking fallen stones with stiff determination.

“Hello, Grena!” Mina called, her voice light and bright, like sunshine breaking through the trees.

The old woman glanced up and offered a crooked grin. “Ah, good day to you too, Mina. Lovely weather, eh? Been off collecting Kali nuts again?”

Mina nodded cheerfully. “Yes, I thought they’d be perfect for the Soutirers stew Levine’s father is making.”

A shadow flickered across her heart. Mina. That name had once belonged to Levine’s older sister—a child who had died many, many years ago. Levine’s father Gaellan had given the name to her, and at first she had accepted it without thought. Now, she wasn’t so sure. The meaning behind it unsettled her. Was she a replacement? A memory given flesh?

“Pah,” Grena scoffed. “Gaellan’s stew is a disgrace. That madman adds honey like it’s going out of fashion. That makes it more a dessert than anything. If you want real Soutirers stew, come by my place sometime.”

“I will, I promise,” Mina laughed. “But I’ve got to run. See you later!”

“Off with you then, girl. Hah! You’re a pretty one, just like I was at your age. I can see why that Levine lad’s sweet on you. Oh—Arnell’s been looking for you. Wants help at the smithy when you’ve got a moment.”

Another thread that bound her to this place.

Mina paused for just a moment as she walked. The village needed her. She mattered here. In small but tangible ways, she made a difference.

And then there was Levine.

What had begun as simple gratitude had begun to change. She had started noticing the strength in his shoulders, the softness in his voice when he spoke to her. It made her heart flutter—and ache. The warmth of it both frightened and thrilled her.

Yet something inside her remained unsettled. As much as she wanted to forget, a deeper part of her longed to remember. The past called to her, even as it eluded her. And until she found the missing pieces, she would never truly feel whole.

Mina looked back over her shoulder at the forest’s edge, where the animals still watched. Then she turned and continued down the path, the weight of her harvest in her arms, and a far heavier burden tucked silently behind her smile.

***

Milani Village stirred gently under the soft cloak of early evening, and as Mina made her way through its winding paths and cobbled lanes, heads turned—one after another.

Men paused in their work, their tools stilling midair. One baker, arms dusted white with flour, stared for too long. His wife caught the look and smacked his shoulder with a rolled apron. “Eyes front, fool,” she scolded. The man blushed and resumed kneading his dough, eyes firmly on the bread.

Young boys who had once run barefoot and wild now stammered awkward greetings when she passed. One tried to bow, then tripped over his own feet and went sprawling in the dirt. Mina knelt to help him up, her laughter light and musical. His face turned crimson, and his friends hooted in glee.

Women smiled when they saw her. Old seamstresses waved from their stoops, and girls her age called out kind words as she passed. No jealousy clung to them—only affection, the kind reserved for someone who brought something rare to their lives. Mina had become, quite by accident, a kind of sunshine in the village. Something healing. Something beautiful.

She walked with a small skip in her step, the weight of the forest’s bounty cradled in her arms, and made for the smithy.

Arnell’s forge stood just outside the heart of the village, where the clang of iron wouldn’t disturb the infants or the elderly. Smoke coiled from the chimney in lazy spirals, and the rhythmic hammering of steel echoed from within. The scent of iron and hot straw hung thick in the air.

Arnell was a man shaped like a bear—broad-chested and thick with muscle, his beard tangled and black, his voice a rumble. He stood in front of the smithy now, wrestling with a fractious horse that tossed its head and snorted in agitation.

“Whoa there, Ember! Easy, girl!” Arnell barked, trying to calm the beast as it backed and kicked against the post. The mare’s eyes rolled white with fear, and her flanks shivered like taut cords.

Mina stepped forward, not afraid. “Hello, Ember,” she said softly, ignoring Arnell’s surprised glance. She moved with the same gentle instinct she used in the woods.

She reached out and touched the horse’s muzzle, letting her palm rest there. Her voice dropped to a whisper, singing something low and wordless. Within moments, the mare’s ears flicked forward, and her trembling slowed. She let out a long, sighing breath, pressing her nose into Mina’s chest.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Arnell muttered, eyes wide with disbelief. “She won’t even let my boy near her when she’s like this.”

“She was just scared,” Mina replied, stroking Ember’s neck. “She needed to feel safe.”

Arnell grunted, impressed. “You’re somethin’ else, girl.”

With the mare calm, Arnell bent to his task. Mina helped—holding the tools steady, keeping Ember still as he pried off the old iron shoes and fitted new ones. Sparks flew, metal hissed in the water trough, and the sun began to dip below the thatched rooftops of Milani. When the job was done, the mare stood comfortably, nuzzling Mina one last time before trotting off to her stall.

Arnell wiped sweat from his brow and took the bundle of herbs and nuts she offered with a grateful grunt. “Much appreciated, lass. Ember’s got a taste for those grass pods you pick.”

“I thought she might,” Mina smiled. “They calm her stomach.”

Arnell paused, then looked at her sideways, his tone light but probing. “By the way… what do you think of my son, then? Vito?”

Mina blinked. Vito was kind. Always polite. But his voice lacked the softness that made her heart flutter. His presence did not stir anything inside her.

“He’s a very nice boy,” she said gently, her voice carefully neutral.

Arnell raised an eyebrow. “Just nice, huh?”

Mina offered him a bright smile and dipped her head. “Thank you again for letting me help, Arnell. I should be heading back. Gaellan will be wondering where I’ve wandered off to.”

Arnell chuckled and stepped aside. “Anytime, girl. And tell that fool Gaellan that he still owes me ten silver, eh?”

Mina laughed, then turned and walked down the path leading back to the village center. The sun was fading now, spilling the sky with streaks of crimson and amber. As she walked, a breeze tugged at her short hair, and she caught the distant scent of something sweet.

She quickened her pace, but a flicker of unease stirred beneath her ribs.

Mina was smiling, yes. But some part of her still felt hollow, as if she were walking in borrowed shoes and wearing someone else’s name.

***

Levine’s home stood where the cultivated fields lapped against a patch of managed woods, set a little apart from the nearest neighbors so it could breathe in the afternoon breeze and answer in the quiet creak of its beams. Timber‑framed walls, soot‑kissed and honey‑colored, rose beneath a steep thatch whose ridgeline arced like the back of a resting cat. Along those walls clambered old vines thick as a child’s wrist, their leaves a deep green that seemed almost blue once dusk touched them. All summer the vines bore nothing but shy buds, but now, at the hinge of autumn, the buds had opened into Phalasia flowers—five‑petaled trumpets of glowing violet that spilled cascades of perfume each time wind brushed their throats. Even before Mina reached the gate she could taste that perfume on her tongue.

She lingered a moment by the low stone fence, letting the fragrance wrap around her. In the slanted light her basket looked jewel‑bright, a tumble of mushrooms pearled with dew, braided herbs, flavorful nuts fresh from the forest. The vines lifted and rustled above; petals drifted down and caught in her short blond hair. She laughed under her breath, brushed them loose, and walked the flagstone path to the oak door.

It opened before she could lift her hand. Levine filled the doorway, one arm braced against the jamb as if merely standing there were not enough to contain him. He was dusty with flour, an errant smear like a stroke of white paint across the angled plane of his cheekbone. Tall and broad through the shoulders, he possessed the kind of strength that did not need to boast. The firelight at his back threw a glow around him; in that glow the deep brown of his hair gleamed almost auburn, and his eyes, usually the mild color of river‑stone, caught sparks of amber. Mina had thought he was handsome. Lately, though, her awareness had sharpened, blossoming into a tender ache whenever he smiled. It struck again now, a sudden flutter beneath her ribs.

“Mina,” he said, voice pitched low so it rumbled through her name, and the flutter worsened. “Thought I heard the gate. Come in—before the steam steals all the warmth.”

She stepped past him, trying—and failing—not to notice the faint cinnamon scent that clung to his shirt or the way his sleeve strained gently over the curved muscle of his forearm. Inside, heat from the kitchen pressed close, carrying aromas of simmering broth, leeks, wild mint, and dough frying in shallow lard. The thatch muffled outside noises so thoroughly that every pop from the hearth sounded intimate, conspiratorial.

“You’ve been cooking again,” she said, lifting a finger toward the flour on his cheek.

He laughed, short and sheepish, and tried to wipe it off, succeeding only in smearing it to his temple. “Evidence of my crimes. If the dumplings burn we’ll blame the pan and never speak of it.”

“I’m the last person who would scold you,” she answered. “I’m hopeless with anything sharp or hot. I nearly set the smithy on fire last month just by stirring tea.”

“Nonsense,” came a deep voice from the next room. “Stoves fear you now and will think twice.” 

Gaellan emerged carrying a steaming pot in a towel‑wrapped fist. Years had carved stern furrows along his brow and threaded silver through his dark hair, but there was an unmistakable gentleness in the way he set the pot down, as though even iron might bruise. 

He nodded to Mina, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “You’re back later than I expected. Arnell didn’t put you to work shoeing every horse in the county, did he?”

“Only the one,” she replied, holding out the grasspods. “But Arnell told me to remind you that you still owe him ten silver.”

Gaellan’s eyes narrowed. “Tight bastard, as always.” His eyes flicked to the basket and brightened. “Kali nuts. Perfect. We’ll grind them with juniper for the stew tomorrow.”

Levine reached to relieve her of the basket. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, feather‑light yet enough to send a spark up her arm. She hid her reaction by fussing with her cloak clasp.

“I can chop the herbs at least,” she offered.

Levine gave a mock gasp. “But you’ll put us all to shame.”

“Out,” Gaellan said, waving them toward the table set before the hearth. “Let the girl sit. Dumplings are nearly done.”

Mina obeyed, easing onto the bench. The dining room glowed with late‑day sun and lamplight, their hues interlacing in stripes across floorboards worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Upon the far wall hung Gaellan’s sword. It was a long, slightly curved blade darker than steel, as if forged from midnight itself. Tiny runic scratches climbed the fuller like frost. Each time she came near it a chill threaded her spine, and now was no exception; her eyes skittered away before she realized they had moved.

Levine joined her, the bench dipping under his weight. She felt the warmth of him, close but not quite touching, and the faint rise and fall of his breath. If she looked sideways she could see how the fire gilded his profile—straight nose, strong jaw, lashes so thick they cast shadows on his cheek. An absurd, irreverent thought darted through her mind: it’s unfair for a single face to hold that many pleasing angles. Heat climbed from her collar to her ears. She ducked her head and concentrated on smoothing her skirt.

Gaellan served dinner. The dumplings floated in rich broth fragrant with woodland herbs; wisps of steam curled upward, catching firelight like ghosts. They ate in companionable quiet at first, save for the occasional clink of wooden spoons against clay bowls. When appetites had taken their sharpest edge off, Gaellan addressed the matters of the day.

“The harvest promises to be grand,” he said, wiping his mouth with a linen square. “Barley’s fat, wheat stands chest‑high, even the cabbages look like green moons. Good thing, too, with Meridian still buying every grain sack south of the River. Their granaries must be as hollow as a drum.”

Levine shook his head. “Meridian pays high coin, but merchants grow bolder each season. If we sell too cheap now, come winter we’ll regret it.”

“We’ll hold some back,” Gaellan assured him. “And I’m thinking of moving the harvest fair to the twenty‑third. Traders won’t expect it so soon.”

Mina listened, absorbing the rhythms of their planning. She liked how father and son spoke—voices different in texture yet woven with such ease it formed a single fabric. Occasionally she let her gaze stray to Levine and found fresh details to admire: the way his brow furrowed in thought, the subtle dimple that appeared when he smiled, the strong lines of throat and collarbone revealed where his linen laces were undone against the heat. Each discovery lit a small candle inside her, until she felt aglow herself and had to sip water to calm her pulse.

Talk shifted. Gaellan’s tone darkened a shade. “The beast in the southern woods—reports place it nearer than before. A shepherd lost three ewes at dawn. Only drag marks left, no blood.”

“What kind of beast leaves no gore?” Levine murmured.

“Something that swallows whole,” Gaellan replied. “Serpent, if rumor proves right. Scales thick as shingle, eyes like lantern glass. A traveling minstrel claims to have glimpsed it from the ridge trail—says it moved like a river bending through trees and made no more sound than a whisper.” He paused, turned stern eyes on Mina. “I’ve already posted warnings, but I need your word. No more wandering into the deep forest.”

She set her spoon down. “I promise.” Yet the promise tasted bitter. The woods were her refuge, her one place of unclouded certainty.

“Good,” Gaellan said, though concern lingered. “Adventurers have been summoned from Meridian. The bounty’s high enough to draw every sellsword with a blade and a dream of glory. Until they arrive, caution is our shield.”

Levine reached beneath the table, laid his hand briefly upon Mina’s. The gesture was meant to reassure, but the warmth of his skin distracted her utterly. Her reply caught in her throat. She could only nod, hoping he mistook her flushing cheeks for firelight’s kiss.

Dessert followed—a platter of bite‑sized tarts whose flaky shells cradled apple slices soaked in clover honey. Mina discovered she had room for three. The first melted on her tongue; the second filled her senses so sweetly she forgot all talk of grain prices and serpents. By the third she was conscious only of the quiet pleasure on Levine’s face as he watched her enjoy them.

Night gathered. Gaellan cleared his throat, pushed to his feet with a muted groan of old joints. “I’ll see to the ledger before sleep,” he said, carrying bowls to the washtub. “You two go on up. Lamps are trimmed.”

 Mina rose. Levine did likewise, and for a moment they faced each other uncertainly. He made a soft, playful salute with his flour‑dusty towel; she laughed, stepping past him toward the stair. But halfway up she sensed him following and felt a giddy whirl in her stomach.

The stairs curved tight; the tiny landing at the top forced them close. Lev­ine reached around her to light the hallway candle. His arm brushed her shoulder. She inhaled bread and ash, spice and the faintest hint of male sweat—scent that felt startlingly intimate. He pulled back, apparently oblivious to the chaos he’d just set boiling under her skin.

“Good night, Mina,” he said. The candle’s flame flickered in his eyes.

“Good night, Levine.” Her voice was barely breath.

She slipped into her room, closed the door, and leaned against it. Her heart thudded so hard her ribs seemed to echo. Beyond the window a nearly full moon hung low, turning the Phalasia blooms silver‑blue. She crossed to the sill and pushed it open. Cool night air rushed in, tinged with petal scent and distant chimney smoke.

Below, the garden lay hushed. Pumpkins, almost ripe, glowed faintly. A few fireflies bobbed above them, lanterns held by invisible hands. Somewhere a barn owl hooted. Mina drew the curtains, fearing that if she lingered she might see the sinuous silhouette of a serpent sliding between trees—and worse, that it might look back. She shivered, rubbed her arms, and busied herself readying for sleep.

Her room was small but lovingly appointed: a polished elm chest under the eaves, a braided rug dyed in sunset colors, a narrow bed heaped with quilts that smelled of lavender. She changed into a linen nightshift, braided her hair as best as its cropped length allowed, and slid under the quilts. For a time she lay still, listening to the house settle. A joist popped. Far below, Gaellan’s chair scraped, then silence claimed the rooms.

Sleep did not come. Thoughts churned, restless as wind in rafters. She pictured Levine at the kitchen table earlier, sleeves rolled, wrist flexing as he pressed dumpling edges closed. Each motion had looked effortless, but strength lay beneath—she had seen it whenever he hefted sacks of seed or bent nails straight with bare fingers. The memory warmed her cheeks anew.

A floorboard creaked beyond her door. Low voices—Levine’s and Gaellan’s—floated up the stairwell in a hush meant for night, not for ears. Curiosity pried her from the bed. Barefoot, she crossed the rug and set one palm to the cool latch. She did not open it, only leaned close, heart thudding.

“…time we told her,” Gaellan murmured, his baritone heavy with months of unspoken worry. “She is no ordinary girl, son. We found her downstream of where that red giant crashed from the sky.”

Levine let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Because she’s an angel, Father. How else do you explain that smile?”

“Mock if you like,” Gaellan replied, tone sharp but not unkind, “yet you saw it just as I did. We hiked the riverbank at dawn and found no wreckage, only the scorch‑marks in the soil—and her, half‑drowned, clinging to a branch further downstream.”

Levine fell quiet. Gaellan continued, gentler now. “And you remember the necklace she wore? Emeralds the size of eyeballs set in pure gold. That piece alone could pay off every debt from here to Meridian. She was raving until the moment I slipped it from her neck. Then, and only then, her screaming stopped. ”

Levine’s voice softened. “I intend to give it back to her, of course, I haven’t forgotten. But look at her now—how she laughs with the villagers, how the children follow her like ducklings. She is happy here.”

“I know she looks happy… but that doesn’t stop her from being a strange one. Haven't you noticed her strength?” Gaellan pressed. “Yesterday at Arnell’s she lifted a forge plate one‑handed. Arnell gaped like a landed fish. Most men need two arms just to slide it.”

Silence stretched, then Levine exhaled, the sound of dreams cracking. “I just… don’t want the dream to die,” he confessed. “This quiet life—hers, ours—feels fragile. If we name the strange, maybe we shatter it. I’m in love with her, father…”

“If we keep silent,” Gaellan said, voice low, “reckoning will come and tear it down for us. Secrets rot from the inside. I’ve held my tongue to spare her the added stress while she recover, Goddess knows the human mind is a fragile thing and can only take so much strain. But the truth will find its way. And, better from your lips than mine…”

Mina’s fingers slipped from the latch. Truth—some part of her yearned for it; another clutched the peaceful hours of berry‑sweet tarts and time spent beside Levine. She retreated, limbs trembling, and slid beneath the quilts as if hiding from moonlight itself.

Sleep found her at last, but it was jagged and uneasy. She drifted through corridors of half‑memory: a blazing streak across the night sky, the roaring river, the emerald necklace burning against her skin. Gaellan’s warning echoed—secrets rot from the inside. Yet woven through the nightmare was Levine’s laugh, bright as morning bells, tugging her toward waking.

The fact that he was in love with her.

When dawn bled pale gold across the ceiling she surfaced with damp lashes and an ache where hope and fear wrestled. Outside, the Phalasia vines brushed the roof in the first breeze of day, and the scent of their blossoms crept in—sweet, tentative, as if asking whether the dream of quiet village life might survive one more sunrise.