It doesn't take long for her to realize the paths of her sisters are not for her. That the Green Word is not for her. That the blindness of the Warders is not for her. That a life trapped within the curving, intersecting paths of the Wood that lead everywhere and nowhere are not for her.
She leaves, abandoning sisters and Word and past.
The Plains of the garif rise before her, orange and vast, and her breath catches—but the land does not sing. Her ears twitch, but hear only monsters and wind and her own heartbeat.
This land is not hers, fear surges through her veins and she thinks about turning back.
But she does not because, someday, someday, she will find a place that is for her.
Someday, she will find a home.
By foot, she travels, through Dalmasca and Nabradia and the Salikawood, and the viera smile at her and welcome her with outstretched arms. Their Mother is not so strict about wandering, but this place is not for Fran either. Fran travels to Landis and Archadia.
She finds nothing that fits.
When she reaches Balfonheim, wild and free, she looks up and—
It is for her.