The moment I stepped into the farmhouse, the thick stench of dung filled my nostrils. I instinctively held my breath, yet no matter how I tried, I could not escape the oppressive air.

  Arwa noticed the discomfort on my face but said nothing and continued walking. To her, this smell was ordinary — as it must have been to everyone who lived here.

  As we moved slowly forward, my eyes fell upon a child working in the corner of the barn. He could not have been more than eight or nine. His small hands were busy scraping straw and filth from the hard stone floor. Calling this place a living space would have been inaccurate; it was a shelter for weary animals, a place of steaming breath at dawn and dragging hooves at dusk. To me, it felt like a foreign land — farm life seemed distant, like something from old tales.

  The child wore ragged clothes, his face smeared with grime. His pale complexion spoke clearly of poor nourishment; his cheeks were hollow, and his eyes bore a weariness no child should carry. He had become part of the misery around him. It was evident this had been his reality for a long time — a child accustomed to hardship, already bearing the weight of life.

  A deep sadness stirred within me. In this world, child labour was ordinary. Life here was harsh and unforgiving; to survive, children had to abandon their childhoods. When Arwa noticed my sorrow, a faint look of surprise crossed her face.

  For her, this sight was commonplace. For me, it was still jarring. Perhaps that was what surprised her — I had not yet fully grown accustomed to the truths of this world.

  Here, misery was as inevitable as the cold winds that pierced the night. Save for a privileged few, everyone shared the same fate. Even my lost memory could not explain the instinctive reaction within me. But this was not the time for such thoughts. We had come for someone who was ill; we could not keep them waiting.

  Arwa addressed the boy in a gentle yet firm voice.

  “My child, where is your mother? We have come a long way to help your sister.”

  The boy froze in surprise, then his eyes lit up. He stammered excitedly, “R-r-really? I’ll be right back! I’ll fetch my mother!”

  Hope and astonishment trembled in his voice. Without waiting for a reply, he ran towards the house. As his small feet echoed across the stone floor, I realised that despite everything, he was still a child — still capable of innocent excitement.

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  I glanced around. There was little to examine in the farmhouse: worn stone walls, a wooden roof weathered by time, and a heavy door that seemed to carry the weight of years.

  I wanted to finish our task quickly and leave. I did not wish to linger amidst such poverty. To distract myself, I let my thoughts drift back to something familiar — the forest.

  Why was it so important? Why did the trees beyond that place not emit the strange spiral mists? In Arwa’s stories, it was called the Forest of the Gods. Could it truly be a place ruled by gods?

  The idea did not seem logical. If gods truly existed, why would they choose to dwell in darkness and obscurity? Why would they not build great palaces for themselves?

  Or was the Forest of the Gods merely legend? Perhaps the name carried an older meaning — a forgotten secret buried by centuries.

  No matter how I pondered, I could not reach an answer. Yet a peculiar feeling lingered within me — as though, when the time was right, the answers would reveal themselves.

  “Alek… Alek, are you all right?”

  Arwa’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. Her hand rested upon my shoulder, shaking me gently.

  “I’m fine, Arwa. Why are you shaking me?” I asked, slightly bewildered.

  She looked at me with a faint smile. “My child, you drifted away. I called you several times and you did not hear. Or perhaps you were thinking about the girl I mentioned earlier? Hmm?”

  I frowned. “Arwa, how many times must I tell you I am not ready for marriage? Besides, I was thinking about something else.”

  She did not look entirely convinced.

  Just then, a woman descended the stone steps of the house with heavy footfalls. She appeared to be around thirty-five or forty, stout and strongly built. She wore a brown floral apron over a white tunic, and a scarf tied tightly around her head. The harsh lines of her face betrayed the fatigue time had etched into her.

  “Welcome, Mother Arwa. May the Gods always keep your wine cup full. You have travelled far. You must be thirsty and weary. Our home is old and worn, but it keeps out the rain and holds the warmth. Come inside.”

  Her voice was hoarse and commanding. Arwa inclined her head slightly in greeting, making it clear she held little fondness for the woman, and spoke little in return. Then she turned to me and warned softly,

  “My child, be careful as you climb the steps. They are slippery. I would not have you fall and hurt yourself.”

  Before I could fully register her words, my foot slipped.

  In an instant, I lost my balance and tumbled down the steps. The world seemed to spin around me.

  The basket flew from my hand, its contents scattering in every direction. When I hit the muddy ground, a cold, sticky wetness enveloped me. My hair, my clothes — everything was soaked in mud. It felt as though misfortune had claimed me outright.

  Arwa hurried to my side, concern etched upon her face.

  “Oh, my dear, are you hurt? Did I not tell you to be careful on the steps? Here now — place your hand on my shoulder. Let me help you up.”

  With surprising strength, she pulled me from the mud. The chill of my heavy, damp clothes seeped into my bones. In that moment, I realised that coming here marked the beginning of a long and muddy path indeed.