In the fortified town of Woodmere, every building was crafted from robust timber, designed to defend its people from the threats lurking beyond the forest. The town was owned and managed by Fiddler Ford, a noble who proudly claimed his heritage as the middle child of the former king and the younger brother of the current ruler of the Ford Kingdom. What began as a mere village had since grown into an impenetrable stronghold.
Beyond the borders of Woodmere, nestled deep within the dense forest, stood a solitary cabin. An elderly woman lived there quietly with her granddaughter—a kind and beautiful girl named Rose Scarlett, though her grandmother simply called her Red. Rose helped her grandmother with everything: cooking, gathering supplies from town, even chopping firewood to keep them warm on cold nights.
Her grandmother often explained why they lived so far from the town. Rose's parents, now long gone, had dreamed of a peaceful life surrounded by nature. They built their home away from the noise and bustle of civilization, accepting the dangers of the forest in exchange for solitude. They had raised fences, set traps, and trusted the woods to keep them hidden.
One morning, her grandmother, smiling warmly, asked Rose to fetch apples and other ingredients from town—this time to bake her favorite apple pie as thanks for all her help. Delighted, Rose finished chopping wood, donned her red hooded cloak—a gift from her grandmother—and set off for Woodmere.
As she walked through town, every shopkeeper greeted her with smiles. Some asked for help, and Rose, ever kind-hearted, gladly lent a hand. Though her errands took longer than planned, by evening her basket was full—overflowing with gifts from those who adored her.
As dusk fell, Rose began the walk home. The woods were quiet—too quiet. Along the trail, she noticed patches of fur scattered on the ground. Her brow furrowed.
Bears again? she thought, quickening her pace.
When she reached the cabin, she saw the front door slightly ajar. Strange. Her grandmother always kept it shut tight.
"Grandma, I'm home!" she called out.
No answer—just a faint groan from the bedroom.
Rose stepped inside and froze.
The house was in shambles. Furniture overturned. Blood on the floor.
Heart pounding, she pushed open the bedroom door.
Her grandmother lay on the bed, gasping her final breath. A towering werewolf crouched over her, bloodied snout buried in her intestines. The beast looked up, eyes gleaming with twisted delight.
"What big eyes you have," it growled, mimicking her grandmother's voice.
Without thinking, Rose hurled her basket at the creature's face. "Oi, beast! Come and get me!"
The werewolf grinned wider. It lunged after her—eager for the hunt.
Rose sprinted into the forest, her red cloak fluttering like a flag in the wind. The beast gave chase, crashing through brush and root, howling with excitement.
But Rose was no ordinary girl.
She rubbed mud across her skin to mask her scent, scattered her tracks through the undergrowth, and led the werewolf in wide, disorienting loops. The creature, confused and furious, halted at a cliff's edge, sniffing the air.
"LITTLE RED!" it howled. "Come back! I'll chew your apple pie—with your limbs in it!"
Drip.
A drop of mud landed on its snout.
The werewolf looked up.
Rose dropped from the trees above, axe raised in both hands.
The beast flinched, swiping instinctively, but she twisted mid-air, pushing off the trunk to dodge its claws. Her axe sliced through the creature's arm, severing it at the elbow. The werewolf roared in pain.
Before it could retreat, it grabbed her by the hair and flung her across the clearing. She slammed into a tree, breath knocked out of her.
"This wound is fatal," the beast snarled, blood gushing from its stump. "But if I'm dying... I'm taking you with me."
Rose groaned, wiped the blood from her mouth, and got to her feet. "Fine by me," she said, defiant. With one clean slice, she cut off her long hair, letting it fall to the forest floor.
No more easy grabs.
They faced off, eyes locked.
Then they charged.
The werewolf's claws struck first, longer in reach than Rose's axe. She twisted again, barely avoiding a killing blow—but not without cost. A deep gash tore across her cheek.
She didn't flinch.
She saw her chance.
With a scream of fury, she swung her axe in a deadly arc.
The werewolf's head dropped to the forest floor.
Rose stood frozen—then staggered back, body trembling, blood dripping from her wounds. She collapsed against a tree.
When she awoke, dawn was breaking.
She dragged herself to the cliffside where the trail had ended—and looked out over Woodmere.
It was burning.
Werewolves—dozens of them—ravaged the town. Homes were torn to pieces. People fled in every direction. At the center of the chaos stood a Big Bad Wolf, larger than the rest. It opened its maw and let out a howl that shattered rooftops and splintered walls.
Rose watched, tears spilling down her cheeks.
But inside, something else burned.
Rage.
That night, the girl in the red hood died.
And Rose Scarlett, the Wolf Hunter, was born.