Feyre was not a child of disobedience. She was not a child of grand adventure. She was a child of burning inquisitiveness but also tempered by a healthy does of fear. It was the way the adults looked out of the side of their eyes into the dark undergrowth that had taught her fear. When the shrill cry of a hawk sent her scampering beneath the cover of a blackberry bush in the early fall weather. She was not yet a year old, still yet small, and already she knew two things. Always be afraid of beyond. Never leave the forest.

The forest was kind to her. It offered berries to munch on once she learned a little of what was edible, thanks to her mother, and many alcoves to hide in. Often she fantasized her own world here, full of magic, and she would curl in the bases of hollowed out trees to dream dreams of grandeur. Adventure was a beautiful imagination but she lacked some of the true desire for it yet. When the ball came around, she had been stunned by the vast array of wolves from everywhere. Molodian seemed a mighty land to her, so large she might never see all the corners, but when she thought of leaving the confines of her pine trees and oak leaves, she grew fearful. So much so that she would hide beneath the legs of her father, panting.

Other children her age had begun to wander, to slip out of the pack, brazen. Not that they were SUPPOSED to, but they were brave. She had only danced at the border of Taviora once before but today she hides beneath bare, spindly stems of a throny bush that had died out come winter. The world seemed hushed and she shivers as a northern gale rips through the empty trees, sending pine needles to carpet the white floor. More snow trickles down in a steady hush with some malevolent intent to grow stronger, if given the chance, but she uses the snow and the bush to keep herself hidden, her dual colored eyes staring across the border in wonder. In the distance the trees thin and open and that is a land unexplored, unknown to her. What was out there?