The night had settled like a velvet cloak over the forest, yet the hut glowed with warmth and life. The other children clustered near the fire, their faces lit by dancing sparks, wide eyes reflecting both curiosity and fear. Eira leaned toward Zora, whispering, "Do you think the Red is real?"
Zora shook her head, though her heart beat with a strange rhythm, a pattern she could not name. "I… I don't know," she admitted, clutching the leather scrap Freya had given her. Its faint warmth seemed alive, pulsing gently against her palm. The whispers were stronger now, like a soft hum that threaded through the crackle of the fire: "Zora… Zora… the Red watches…"
Freya's voice broke into the night, soft yet commanding. "The Red is never simply real or imagined. It is both, and it is eternal. Every heartbeat, every step, every choice leaves its mark. You will see it one day, Zora, not in shadows alone, but in the paths you walk and the lives you touch."
The children shifted uncomfortably. Many had grown used to Freya's terrifying tones and sudden silences, but tonight, the words carried a weight that pressed against the walls themselves. A boy named Darion, bold and curious, leaned forward. "Grandmother Freya… did it really happen? The massacre? The red footprints?"
Freya's gaze swept over him, then rested on Zora. "Yes, Darion. It happened. And it is not the past you must fear, but the patterns that repeat themselves. History does not merely end; it waits for those who dare step into its cycle."
Zora's mind raced. The stories of Liam, Jace, and Scott were vivid in her imagination rivers of blood, a kingdom swallowed by fire, shadows that moved like living creatures. Yet she realized, for the first time, that the story was not just memory. It was instruction. A lesson about courage, vigilance, and the weight of choice.
Another child, Liora, shy and quiet, hugged her knees and whispered, "Do you think it will… come for us?"
Freya leaned forward, eyes reflecting the firelight like molten gold. "The Red does not come for everyone. It seeks those it has chosen. But the chosen must learn, must prepare, must endure. That is why I tell these stories. You, Zora, are listening not as a child, but as someone who will one day carry the weight of decisions that could change the world."
The fire spat sparks into the air, and Zora thought she saw the flicker of red footprints dancing across the walls, as though the story itself had come alive. Her ears filled with whispers that no one else could hear: "Zora… the line continues… the Red waits…"
Freya's voice softened, almost like a lullaby, though the words carried power: "When I was your age, I saw the Red for the first time. I did not understand its meaning, nor could I prevent the tragedies that followed. But the lessons remain, etched into the earth and into those who survive. Liam, the heir… Jace, loyal to the end… Scott, brave beyond his years… all carried pieces of what the Red demanded. And one day, my child, it will be your turn to bear these pieces, to carry them forward, and to decide what becomes of them."
The children leaned closer, their fear mingling with fascination. Zora's eyes drifted to the window, where moonlight shimmered over the forest. She imagined the Scarlet Kingdom in flames, Liam standing tall beneath a blood-red moon, Jace at his side, and Scott caught in the chaos. The whispers pulsed stronger now, almost urgent: "Zora… prepare… your path begins…"
Freya reached under the blanket draped across her lap and produced a small, carved wooden token, etched with swirling red lines. "This belonged to my father," she said. "It is a map, though not of land. It is a map of the Red of the choices you will face, the burdens you may inherit. It will guide you when words are not enough."
Zora held it carefully, feeling warmth spread through her fingers. The whispers mingled with the crackle of the fire, creating a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. She realized, with both awe and fear, that the story was no longer just Freya's. It had begun to entwine with her own life, threading the past and future into a single tapestry she could not yet unravel.
"Remember," Freya said softly, eyes fixed on Zora, "courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to act despite it. And love… love is the force that will carry you through the darkest of times. Keep these truths close, my children. One day, the Red will call, and only those who are prepared will survive its gaze."
Outside, the river murmured its eternal song. The frogs cried their plaintive chorus. But inside, around the fire, Zora sat wide-eyed, clutching the token, listening to her grandmother's voice and the whispers that were beginning to feel like a heartbeat of their own. She understood, in that moment, that the story had begun not with Freya, but with her.