The night was alive. The river whispered its endless song, and the frogs cried in mournful symphonies, echoing through the dark forest like the memories of a thousand forgotten nights. Zora clutched a burning piece of wood in her small hands, its orange flame flickering against the shadows of the trees. She was always the last to arrive at her grandmother's hut, and though the firelight promised warmth, the path through the woods demanded courage. Her mother's words lingered in her mind: "I will stand here until you arrive, my daughter." But Zora needed no guard. Bravery had to be earned, step by step, flame by flame.
The hut appeared at last, a fragile structure of thatched roof and wooden walls. Smoke curled from its chimney like the sigh of an old man, curling lazily into the night sky. As she approached, the children inside erupted with shouts: "Zora! Zora!" Their laughter and cheers lifted her heart, and for a moment, the fear of the dark forest melted away. They were ten in all, the same age, yet each with their own spirit, their own fire. Eira waved at her, eyes bright, and Zora returned a timid smile.
Grandmother Freya sat near the hearth, her back straight despite age, her hands folded in her lap. The firelight danced across her lined face, revealing the scars of long-buried memories. When she smiled, it was as if the past itself leaned forward, curious to see if her lessons had been heard. Zora knew her grandmother's smile was never idle; it spoke of secrets, warnings, and stories that could shape or shatter a life.
"Ah, my children," Freya said, her voice low and melodic, carrying over the crackle of fire. "Tonight, we travel far… not with our feet, but with our hearts. Are you ready?"
The children nodded, some nervously, some with bold excitement. Zora sank beside Freya, drawing her knees close. The fire sparkled, sending sparks like miniature stars into the darkened room, and Freya's eyes caught them with a glimmer of something unreadable.
She cleared her throat, and a sound like gravel rolling over stone filled the hut. The children flinched; some giggled, but Zora felt a chill crawl up her spine. Freya laughed suddenly, long and bright, only to stop mid-laugh, letting silence claim the room. The effect was disorienting, thrilling, and frightening all at once.
"In the land of reds," Freya began, her tone now a blend of sadness and fire, "nothing was ever still. The skies bled with sunsets that refused to fade. Rivers carried whispers of forgotten battles. Every face bore the mark of fire whether in spirit or in scar. It was a kingdom where passion was law, where love burned too fiercely, and where betrayal was written in crimson."
Zora shivered. She didn't yet understand why the story felt like it was reaching into her very chest, pulling at her heartbeat. Freya continued, her voice steady now, weaving the tale of her youth: the Scarlet Kingdom, her childhood friend Scott, the cursed heir with the red soles of their feet, and the warning whispered by the gods themselves.
"Where the heir walked," Freya said, eyes glimmering, "legends followed. And so did fear. Every step pressed a crimson curse into the earth. And though some called it a blessing… it was a warning. A warning that the Red never forgets. It watches. It waits. And one day, my child," she looked at Zora now, her gaze piercing but tender, "you will understand why these stories matter. Why every scar, every river, every whisper matters."
The children murmured among themselves, trying to lighten the weight of the tale, but Zora did not. She could feel it, deep in her chest, the pull of something older than the fire, older than the forest, older than her own small life. A whisper faint at first called her name. "Zora… Zora…"
Her heart beat faster. The sparks from the fire danced before her eyes, like the red soles pressed into the earth in Freya's story, leaving a mark she could not yet see but somehow felt. She realized then that this was not just a story. It was a preparation, a warning, and perhaps a calling.
Grandmother Freya leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that only Zora seemed to hear. "The Red runs through the land, through time, through blood. Remember, Zora, the Red never sleeps. But neither does courage… nor love. One day, you will step where I could not. One day, you will face what I survived. And you… my child.. must be ready."
The fire crackled, and Zora stared into the flames, imagining the world of reds, the cursed heir, the blood-soaked rivers. Somewhere in the distance, the river continued its endless song, and the frogs cried as they always did. But now, Zora knew, nothing would ever feel ordinary again.