The fire crackled louder as the wind whispered through the cracks of Freya's hut. Zora shifted closer to Eira, the warmth of their shared presence a small comfort against the chill of the forest night. Freya's eyes glimmered in the orange light, and her hands moved as if shaping invisible shapes in the air, guiding the story not just with words, but with some ancient rhythm the children could almost feel.
"Tonight," Freya began, her voice low and serious, "I will tell you about the night the Red marked my world forever." Her gaze swept across the children, but when it landed on Zora, her voice softened, carrying a weight of warning. "Some of you will understand, some will only remember the story. But Zora… you must remember. Every word, every shadow, every echo of that night is for you."
Zora's stomach twisted with anticipation. She had heard stories before, tales of battles and ghosts, but there was something different now a heaviness in Freya's tone, a trembling that was not fear, but memory. The fire's sparks leapt into the air, landing like stars on the floorboards. It was as if the universe itself leaned in to listen.
"In my youth," Freya continued, "the Scarlet Kingdom was alive with color and chaos. We believed ourselves untouchable. The rivers sang, the skies burned with sunsets that refused to fade, and the streets echoed with laughter. But even laughter carries shadows." She paused, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. "Scott my closest friend he noticed it first. Near the river, the footprint… the red sole. It was not ordinary blood, nor ordinary dirt. It was the mark of something older, something that waited in silence until the right moment."
Zora's eyes widened. She could feel the pull in her chest again, the faint whisper she had heard the night before, growing just slightly louder. "Zora… Zora…" She tried to push the feeling down, but it was impossible. This was no ordinary story. It was a map, a warning, a key.
Freya's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Red watches, my children. It knows who will carry it, who will resist it, and who will be consumed by it. Liam was the heir, marked beneath the blood moon. Jace, loyal to the end, yet burdened by choices he could not see coming. And Scott… dear Scott, whose courage was unmatched, but whose fate… well…" Her voice faltered. Even the children fell silent, sensing the weight of unspoken tragedy.
The hut seemed smaller now, filled with shadows that danced against the walls, shifting with the firelight like memories come to life. Eira glanced nervously at Zora. "Do you… feel that?" she whispered. Zora nodded slightly. She could hear it, the hum beneath the story, like a heartbeat in the walls, calling her name with patient insistence.
Freya's eyes glimmered as she leaned closer to the fire. "I have told you the past, but remember it is not just history. It is prophecy. What happened to Liam, to Jace, to Scott… all of it is a warning. One day, someone like you will face the Red in ways I could never survive." She paused, letting the words sink in. "And that… my little Zora, is why I tell these stories. To prepare you. To sharpen your mind, your courage, your heart."
A small wind gusted through the hut, rattling the wooden walls, as if the forest itself had exhaled. The children shivered, but Zora stared into the flames, seeing not just light and sparks, but visions a river turned to red, a boy screaming as shadows descended, a tall figure with glowing eyes whose footsteps pressed fire into the earth. Her chest tightened. She understood, even if she didn't yet want to. This was her inheritance.
Freya reached into a small satchel beside her and drew out a scrap of leather, worn and faintly glowing in the firelight. She held it out to Zora. "This," she said, voice soft but commanding, "was given to me by my father the night the world changed. Keep it close. One day, it may guide your steps when I cannot. But remember it carries power, yes… but also weight. Never forget that."
Zora took the leather carefully, feeling its strange warmth seep into her fingers. The whispers surged again, louder now, threading through her thoughts: "Zora… Zora… the Red waits... the Red watches…" She swallowed, glancing at Freya, who nodded slightly, as if understanding the fear and determination swirling in Zora's heart.
The children's laughter had faded entirely now, replaced by quiet awe. Some were afraid, some fascinated, but Zora felt something entirely different a spark. The story was alive. The past was alive. And somehow, so was the prophecy. She realized that the Red was not just a story; it was a current flowing beneath the world, under the earth, under the river, through her veins, waiting for the moment she would step fully into it.
Freya's final words of the night drifted into the shadows: "Sleep lightly, my children. But remember, Zora destiny does not wait for dreams. It walks beside you, always."
Zora clutched the leather to her chest, the fire's last sparks reflecting in her wide eyes. Outside, the river whispered. The frogs cried. And somewhere deep, deep within her, the Red stirred.