The forest pressed in like a secret.
Mist curled low across the roots of ancient trees, swallowing the cries of distant hawks. Leaves, wet and glistening, whispered under the hooves of horses as a scouting party wound its way through the underbrush, silent, alert.
Then a falcon's cry tore the quiet apart.
The riders halted.
She was lying near the base of a felled pine, half-buried under scattered leaves and dirt, her frame too still for someone alive, too whole for someone dead. The wind tugged at her tangled hair, revealing a gash on her temple and her palm holding a dull silver pendant resting against her collarbone.
No carriage. No footprints. No weapons.
Just the girl, and the way the forest seemed to hold its breath around her.
The guards brought her back to the estate before sunset.
A heavy silence followed them through the gates, stone walls rising tall and cold, servants whispered.
The manor was one of the oldest in the region, rising from the hills like a fortress, its spires turned westward. Here, in this house of soldiers and shadows, softness was rare.
Which made the moment all the more strange.
"She's young," the guard murmured.
"Unconscious," added the younger guard, dismounting. "But breathing."
They laid her in the great hall, near the fire. The pendant around her neck shimmered in the light.
"She doesn't belong to any of the houses," said a voice, crisp and composed.
A woman stood at the far end of the room, wrapped in deep green. She studied the girl with clinical stillness. "No crest. Not from our empire. And not one of the Veltorin strays, either. They wouldn't have left her alive."
Beside her, a man watched without expression. He wore the cloak of command, the sharp lines of discipline worn into his features. He said nothing at first.
Then: "She crossed the western woods."
The room stilled. Everyone understood the implication.
No one crossed those woods and lived—not from the borderlands. Not alone.
"But she did," he added. "And she wore this."
He held the pendant between gloved fingers.
"She stays. shift her to a guest room and tend to her wounds", the words landed like judgment. Final. Unshakeable.
She did not wake.
Not that night.
Not the next.
Not the one after.
She drifted beneath it all, somewhere between breath and silence. Voices reached her only as echoes. Warmth and cold bled into one. The world had gone dim.
But there were dreams.
Not the soft kind. The sharp, broken kind that didn't feel like dreams at all.
A voice screaming. Hers?
A woman's hand, reaching...
A pair of eyes, silver like steel, staring as if through her.
Another hand, the one soft, tugging her toward light. "Run"
Then darkness again. The kind that hums.
She opened her eyes when the storm broke.
Wind howled beyond the windowpanes, lightning flashing across the sky. Her body ached in places she couldn't name, her mouth dry, throat sore.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. So were the thick wool blankets. So was the silence.
She didn't move.
Even breathing felt foreign.
Her hand lifted slowly, trembling towards her chest. The pendant was still there, warm against her skin. The moment her fingers brushed the metal, something shifted.
A dull ache stirred behind her eyes.
Images. Flashes. A name, hers? No. It was just out of reach. The sound of bells. A pale hallway.
Gone.
Footsteps outside the door.
She closed her eyes again, instinct more than intention. Let them think she was still asleep. Let them pass.
But the door didn't open. The steps paused. Someone stood just beyond.
Waiting.
Listening.
She counted the breaths until they left.
Whoever stood beyond the door… waited. Hesitated. Then walked away.
She tried to wake, her hand tried to reach for something solid, but her body felt like stone, heavy. Too heavy. Too hollow.
So she sank again. Into that fogged, flickering space where time unraveled and meaning blurred.
When her eyes finally opened, the storm had subsided. The sky beyond the tall windows had turned a pale grey, tinged with morning light. The mist on the windows had blurred the mountains outside. Somewhere, a fire crackled softly, scenting the air with charred pine and cedar.
She blinked slowly, her body ached in quiet protest as she tried to move, like stone warmed after too many cold nights. The blanket felt heavy, though someone had tucked it carefully to her chin. She tried to rise, but her limbs refused. Her fingers twitched first, then curled weakly against the linen sheets. One hand lifted to her chest, drawn by something cool against her skin.
The pendant.
She ran her thumb over it. Anhourglass, its sands frozen mid-descent, enshrined within a crown of thorns, flanked by two silver wings outstretched. The metal was smooth but cold, strangely so, and carried the faintest scent of iron.
Not a sound, but a feeling, subtle and strange, like breath caught in the throat of the world.
And then
Nothing.
No names.
No faces.
No anchors to hold on to.
Just the ache of something lost too long ago.
And then
The door burst open.
A maid, barely older than seventeen, stood wide-eyed in the doorway, breathless from running.
"She's awake," she gasped. "The girl, they said she wouldn't, she's awake!"
Her voice echoed down the long stone corridor, ricocheting off oil paintings and polished arches. Footsteps followed, firm, deliberate, heavy with authority.
Within moments, two figures appeared in the doorway.
The man entered first. Tall, broad-shouldered, with grey eyes that swept the room in a single glance. His coat was dark navy, lined with ash fur at the collar, and he bore the quiet weight of command like a second skin.
The woman beside him moved with practiced grace, her hair twisted into a simple braid, her presence wasn't cold, but it was composed, carefully measured. Eyes like quiet embers, watching, waiting.
They stopped a few feet from the bed.
The girl blinked at them. Her hand instinctively closed around the pendant at her neck, the hourglass surrounded by wings and a thorny crown.
The man's voice was quiet, but it filled the space.
"You were found in the western woods, half-frozen, holding that thing like it was your last breath."
He stepped closer, kneeling so they were eye level.
"Do you know your name, child?"
She shook her head. It was a small, careful motion.
The woman leaned in now, eyes softening just slightly.
"Do you remember something, anything?"
Another shake of the head.
The man exchanged a glance with the woman, then looked back at the girl. His eyes were steady, though a trace of something, concern, calculation, caution, lingered beneath the surface.
Just then, a soft knock interrupted the silence.
A butler peeked in and gave a respectful bow.
"Your Grace… the physician has arrived."
The Duke gave a small nod.
"Send him in."
Within moments, the doctor stepped into the room, a tall man in his late sixties, he carried a satchel of worn leather and moved with the brisk efficiency of someone used to answering emergency summons.
"Your Grace. My Lady." He bowed to both, then turned toward the bed with a softened gaze. "And this… must be our mystery guest."
The girl stiffened slightly, shrinking back into the pillows as he approached. Sensing it, he lowered his posture and spoke gently.
"No harm, little one. I'm only here to make sure you are well."
He began his examination with care, checking her pulse, her temperature, the dilation of her pupils, and the healing scrapes along her arms and temple. He asked her questions, her name, where she was from, what year it was.
She only blinked. Silent. Lost.
After a few moments, the doctor straightened.
"Physically, she's stable," he murmured to the Duke. "Mild dehydration, exhaustion, and some bruising likely from a fall. No major wounds or fractures."
He glanced back at her, eyes narrowing with concern.
"But there is a significant memory loss. She doesn't recall her name, her origin, or even her age."
The Duchess stepped forward slightly "We noticed, will her memories return?"
The physician exhaled slowly.
"Its amnesia, likely retrograde, trauma-induced. The mind sometimes shuts doors it cannot yet bear to open. Ensure she's given warm, easy-to-digest food. Porridge, fruits, broth. Keep her hydrated. And plenty of rest."
"In cases like this the memories do return but it may take days… or weeks.", the doctor said gently.
The Duke nodded, jaw tense. The Duchess's gaze remained on the girl, quiet and unreadable.
"Thank you, Dr. Loren," she said.
The physician packed away his tools, gave a slight bow, and exited.
Once the room had quieted again, the Duke looked back at the girl, "You'll need a name," he said again, more softly now. "Until yours returns."
He glanced briefly at the Duchess, and she gave the faintest nod.
"Acacia," he said. "Let that be your name."
The girl looked up.
"It's a tree," the Duchess added gently. "A stubborn one. It blooms in places nothing else dares to grow. Strong. Resilient."
The word fell over her like snowfall, gentle, weightless, and unfamiliar.
Still… she nodded.
And became Acacia.