Chapter 86 Why Are You in My Woods?
Bella
Red sits there on the log, elbows braced on her knees, fingers loosely laced together, eyes fixed on a point somewhere just past the treeline like she’s not looking at the forest at all, but through it—into something older, bloodier, and far less forgiving. The clearing feels quieter as she gathers herself, the kind of silence that isn’t empty so much as expectant, like the world itself has leaned in to listen. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and steady, but there’s a weight to it that makes my chest tighten.
“I grew up here,” she says simply.
Ashlyn stills beside me. I mentally beg her not to interrupt.
“On the edge of the woods,” Red continues, nodding vaguely toward the dark line of trees behind her. “Not deep enough for the worst of it, but close enough that you learned fast where you could step and where you absolutely could not.” Her mouth quirks, but there’s no humour in it. “It was just my Nanna and me.” The word lands softly, like it’s been worn smooth with use. “We weren’t well off,” she says. “Never were. But we survived. We had a little cottage, a garden that fought us every year, and an oven that never quite held its heat the way it should have.” She exhales through her nose. “Didn’t matter. Nanna made it work.”
I can see it as she speaks, like a fairytale cottage being painted in my mind. A small house tucked against the woods, smoke curling from the chimney, the smell of bread and sugar and something warm enough to keep the dark at bay. Red doesn’t embellish, but she doesn’t need to. The images slip easily into place.
“She taught me everything,” Red goes on. “Not just how to bake or barter or stretch a coin until it screamed, but how to listen. How to watch. How to tell when the woods were breathing wrong.” Her fingers curl slightly, as though remembering the weight of a knife. “She knew the creatures in there. Knew their habits. Their tells. Which ones could be reasoned with and which ones would smile while they tore you apart.” Her jaw tightens. “She said magic doesn’t care if you’re good or bad. It just is. Same as the forest.”
Ashlyn glances at me, expression uncharacteristically sober.
“For a long time,” Red says, “we made it work. I’d take her baked goods down to the villages—bread, tarts, little honey cakes when we had enough to spare—and sell them at the markets. It wasn’t much, but people knew me and trusted me.” She looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers once. “It was safer for me to go alone. Faster, too. Nanna hated it, but she let me.” There's a pause, where I assume she's deep in memory. “She always let me choose.” Something twists in my chest. “A few years ago,” Red says, quieter now, “I was coming back from one of those trips. Later than usual. The market had been busy.”
The air feels heavier as she speaks, like the story itself is pulling us closer.
“I knew something was wrong before I even reached the clearing,” she continues. “The birds were gone. No insects. No sound at all.” Her eyes lift, sharp and distant. “The woods do that sometimes. They hold their breath.”
I feel a shiver trace my spine.
“When I got to the cottage,” Red says, voice flat now, stripped bare, “the door was off its hinges.”
Ashlyn sucks in a breath.
“The place was… destroyed,” Red goes on. “Furniture overturned. Shelves smashed. Flour everywhere, soaked through with blood until it looked like pink mud.” Her throat bobs once. “There was gore on the walls. On the table. On the floor where Nanna used to sit and knead the dough.” She stops and for a heartbeat, I think she might not go on. Then she does.
“I didn’t find her whole,” Red says quietly. “But I found enough.”
My hands curl into my sleeves, nails biting into fabric.
“I knew what had done it,” she continues. “Rogue wolves. Not pack-bound. Not sane. They leave a mess. And Nanna…” Her mouth tightens. “Nanna took one of them down before they got her.” She looks up then, eyes burning. “I found it not far from the house. Dead. Throat crushed. She’d gone for the kill like she taught me.” A sharp, humourless huff. “Stubborn to the end.” Silence stretches around us, thick and aching. “I buried what was left of her myself,” Red says. “Right at the edge of the woods. Close enough that she could keep watch, if she wanted to.” My throat aches, and I don’t trust myself to speak.
“That night,” Red says, her voice hardening, “I swore I wouldn’t let anyone else die like that if I could stop it. Not to wolves. Not to spirits. Not to anything that crawls out of these trees thinking it has the right to feed on fear.” She straightens, something fierce and unyielding settling into her posture. “I stayed,” she says. “Learned the deeper paths. The older magic. The things Nanna warned me about but hoped I’d never have to face.” Her lips curve, sharp and grim. “Turns out I was good at it.”
Ashlyn shifts. “That’s why they call you Red,” she says softly.
Red’s gaze flicks to her. “Not because of the cloak,” she agrees. “That was Nanna’s.” A beat. “They call me Red because most of the time, when people see me, I’m covered in the blood of whatever thought it could hunt them instead.”
The forest creaks softly behind us, branches shifting in the breeze. I believe her. Red’s eyes move between Ashlyn and me now, assessing again, weighing something unseen. The story hangs heavy in the air, settling into my bones like cold truth. Finally, she speaks again.
“So,” she says, voice even but sharp with intent, “tell me something.”
I lift my chin, meeting her gaze.
“You travel with the Beast King,” Red says, eyes flicking briefly toward where Damien stands watch at the edge of the clearing. “For what purpose do you travel through my woods?”
The question lands, deliberate and dangerous. And I know, with a certainty that curls low in my gut—Our answer matters.