The Girl in Crimson
1186 Words
Morning came to Ashmoor on the tolling of bells.
Their deep, solemn chime rolled over the valley, stirring the village awake before the sun had fully climbed above the eastern hills. Smoke curled from stone chimneys, carrying with it the comforting scent of fresh bread and burning cedar. Market stalls creaked open one by one as merchants arranged baskets of apples, dried herbs, woven blankets, and carved trinkets beneath striped awnings. Chickens wandered lazily between muddy lanes while children, still rubbing sleep from their eyes, chased one another with sticks fashioned into wooden swords.
From a distance, Ashmoor looked peaceful.
The sort of village artists painted onto parchment beside smiling shepherds and golden fields.
The sort of place mothers promised existed at the end of every fairy tale.
But peace, Rowan had learned, was often just another word for people who had forgotten how close danger truly lived.
The forest never let them forget.
Blackwood loomed beyond the northern hills like a storm that had chosen to become trees instead of clouds. Its towering pines formed a dark wall against the bright morning sky, swallowing sunlight so completely that even at noon its depths remained cloaked in twilight.
The villagers rarely looked toward it.
And when they did, they made the sign of the moon with trembling fingers before turning away.
Superstition had become as ordinary as breathing.
Children were taught never to whistle after sunset lest the wolves mistake it for an invitation.
No laundry was left outside overnight, for fear wandering spirits would weave curses into the fabric.
Every doorway bore a small bundle of dried rowan berries tied with red thread, believed to keep beasts from crossing the threshold.
Every home displayed the silver crest of Saint Alaric—the patron saint of hunters—above its hearth.
And every year, when autumn painted the hills in crimson and gold, the village gathered to celebrate the Night of Deliverance.
A festival dedicated to a lie.
Rowan knew that because lies always required celebration.
Truth never did.
She stood beneath the old oak at the edge of the village cemetery, a bucket of fresh water balanced against her hip.
The morning breeze tugged gently at the hood of her crimson cloak, lifting strands of dark auburn hair that refused to stay neatly braided. At nineteen, she had grown tall and lean from years of work, her hands calloused despite the noble blood that flowed through her veins. The scar that crossed the inside of her left wrist—thin and pale as moonlight—peeked from beneath her sleeve whenever she reached forward.
She knelt before a weathered gravestone.
The name carved into the granite had softened with time, but she could still trace every letter with her fingertips.
Elias Red
Beloved husband.
Faithful father.
Gone too soon.
Beside it rested another.
Lillian Red
She was only twenty-eight.
Too young to have become a memory.
Rowan poured fresh water into the small vase beside the stones before replacing the wilted white lilies with new ones she had gathered before dawn.
Her movements were careful.
Almost ritualistic.
"I brought lilies today," she murmured.
"They were Mother's favorite."
Silence answered.
She had long since stopped expecting anything else.
For a while she simply sat there, knees tucked beneath her cloak, watching sunlight creep across the grass until it reached the edge of the graves.
It never seemed warm enough.
"You're late."
The voice startled her.
Rowan turned to find Father Aldren making his slow way between the rows of headstones. His black robes swayed around his boots, silver embroidery glinting softly in the morning light. Though age had bent his shoulders, his blue eyes remained sharp beneath bushy white brows.
"I know," Rowan said quietly.
"The market needed help before sunrise."
"You work too much."
"I like being busy."
"No," he said gently.
"You like not having time to think."
Her smile faltered.
Father Aldren sighed.
"I've known you since you fit inside your father's arms, child."
"You don't have to pretend with me."
Pretending.
That was another thing Ashmoor excelled at.
Pretending the screams hadn't echoed through the valley sixteen years ago.
Pretending the ashes scattered across Blackwood's edge belonged only to trees.
Pretending that little Rowan Red hadn't wandered from the ruins of her family estate covered in soot, clutching her mother's crimson cloak with blood beneath her fingernails.
People remembered the fire.
They simply refused to speak of it.
The official story had been repeated so often it no longer sounded like a story at all.
A pack of wolves had descended from Blackwood.
The Red estate had been overrun before the hunters arrived.
Everyone had died.
Everyone...
Except the youngest daughter.
A miracle, they called it.
Rowan called it something else.
A question.
Because she remembered things that made no sense.
She remembered smoke.
She remembered shouting.
She remembered men in silver armor.
She remembered her father arguing with someone whose face she could never quite recall.
She remembered her mother pushing her beneath the floorboards.
"No matter what happens," Lillian had whispered, tears shining in her eyes.
"Do not come out until the sun rises."
There had been no wolves beneath the house.
Only silence.
Then flames.
Then screams.
By the time Rowan crawled free the next morning, the estate had already collapsed into blackened ruins.
She had searched desperately for her parents.
Instead, she found only ashes.
The hunters had arrived hours later.
Too late to save anyone.
Just in time to tell everyone what had happened.
She had been six years old.
Children were expected to believe adults.
Even when adults lied.
Father Aldren placed a weathered hand on her shoulder.
"The anniversary is tomorrow."
She nodded.
"I know."
"Will you attend the blessing?"
"I have to."
"You don't."
"I wear this cloak."
Her fingers brushed the crimson fabric draped around her shoulders.
"As long as I wear it... I have to."
The priest looked toward Blackwood.
"There are old wounds in this kingdom."
"Some should remain buried."
Rowan followed his gaze.
The forest stood motionless beneath the morning sun.
Watching.
Waiting.
For just a heartbeat...
She could have sworn something moved between the distant trees.
A shadow.
Too tall to be human.
Gone before she could blink.
She frowned.
"Did you see—"
"What?"
She looked again.
Nothing.
Only endless pines disappearing into darkness.
Father Aldren smiled, though it never reached his eyes.
"The forest enjoys making people doubt themselves."
He turned back toward the village.
"Come."
"The market will be full by now."
Rowan lingered one moment longer.
The breeze carried the scent of pine.
Strange.
Blackwood lay miles away.
Yet the smell was unmistakable.
Fresh rain.
Moss.
Ancient cedar.
Wild.
As if the forest itself had exhaled.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and followed the priest down the hill, unaware that deep within Blackwood, where sunlight had not touched the earth in centuries, a pair of golden eyes opened once more.
Not with hunger.
With recognition.
Something had awakened.
And for the first time in a hundred years...
The Wolf King smiled.
- Writer
