Long, long ago, a strange little creature came into the world. She was born deep within the forest’s heart, in a place so ancient and hidden that only the oldest spirits and the wildest of animals had ever wandered there. No one knew who her parents were, or what had become of them, and yet the child never seemed to feel their absence.

  It was as though the forest itself had claimed her and wrapped her in its endless arms. Everything she was, and all that she would ever become, belonged to the forest. Her first breaths were drawn beneath towering trees that brushed the sky, and her first sight was of stars glimmering through the canopy, like distant guardians keeping vigil. She lay upon a bed of soft moss, and when she cried, the leaves above rustled gently, as though the forest were sighing a lullaby to calm her. Each leaf shimmered in its place, while cicadas hummed their steady song. It was a melody that would follow her through all her days, so familiar that it would forever feel like home.

  Soon, the creatures of the forest began to take notice of her, too. From the smallest mouse to the great stag in the shadows, they all came. Some crept from the ferns, others peered from the hollow trees, and then some glided down from the high branches to see the tiny newcomer.

  She was unlike anything they had ever seen … a creature so odd, so delicate, and so alone.

  Yet, instead of fear, they felt a quiet curiosity, even a strange pull in their hearts. When had they last seen something so fragile, so new, so full of quiet wonder? Perhaps never. Still, one by one, they crept closer, drawn by the same ancient instinct that binds all living things—to protect what is small and to marvel at what is new. That had been woven deep into the hearts of the forest’s creatures.

  Not long after, the fey spirits took notice of her, too. They drifted between the trees as they observed her, with laughter as soft as the rustle of leaves, and they claimed the child as one of their own.

  The youngling’s first steps were taken among roots and bark, over grass so tender and lush that it felt like walking on clouds. Nature cradled her with a mother’s care, wrapping her in its green arms. Gentle deer brushed against her with their velvet noses and curled around her to share their warmth during the chill of the night. Birds settled above her, with songs so sweet that they carried her into dreams. Playful squirrels brought her tiny treasures to leave near her as offerings to the odd little being who belonged to the forest as much as they did.

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  As the seasons turned, she grew strong and bright beneath the canopy, knowing only the tenderness of her woodland kin. They were the only family she had ever known. If one wandered deep enough into that forest, they could still find the faint marks of her tiny footprints in the soft earth, alongside the tracks of foxes and deer.

  Her first words were not meant for people, nor were they the words one might hear from a cottage on the edge of a village. They were whispered into the wind, carried far and wide between the trees. They were the names of plants, rivers, and creatures who had been her companions since her first breath. Long before she ever spoke a language to talk with others, she had learned to echo the songs of birds, the murmur of streams, and the sighing of branches in the wind.

  At some point, as the days and seasons passed, and her powers slowly began to come to life, the fey realized that the little one needed a name—a word that would belong only to her. They watched her tumble and laugh among the long trails of ivy that wound endlessly through the forest, twining around roots, trunks, and stones like green ribbons of life. The sight made them smile, and the name came to them as naturally as sunlight through leaves.

  Ivyara Fernsong, they called her. But to them, and soon to the forest itself, she would be known as Ivy.

  Ivy grew quickly, and with every passing day, she became more a part of the forest’s rhythm. The fey and the spirits who had claimed her looked upon her with pride. She learned to know the trees by touch alone—to trace her small fingers across the grooves of their bark and recognize each one as a friend. She pressed her ear against their trunks and listened to the slow hum of life flowing through them and the whisper of sap moving beneath their skin.

  From the animals, she learned the ways of survival. She watched the foxes dig and the birds forage, and she mimicked their movements until they became her own. She discovered which berries were sweet and safe, which roots could ease hunger, and how to follow the soft prints of deer to hidden pools of water. Every leaf, every trail, and every breeze became a teacher, and she was the forest’s most devoted student.

  In time, Ivy began to notice how she, too, was changing. Her limbs grew longer, her hair tangled with leaves, and her reflection in the river seemed a little less like the child she once was. She realized she would need coverings to keep her warm and sheltered. So she set to work, clever and patient, weaving leaves and blades of grass into soft garments. She draped herself in moss and coated her skin with cool mud, both to guard against the rain and to blend into her surroundings.

  If the forest could have felt pride, it surely did then. Ivy was everything it had hoped for; she was a daughter of the wild, molded by its care and guided by its wisdom. And when the time came for her to wander beyond the forest’s deep green borders, the trees did not hold her back. They, after all, were certain of one truth.

  Ivyara Fernsong had been born of the forest, but she was meant for far greater things beyond it.