STORY: "The Devils Red Hood"

There was a whisper in the village, one that no one dared to speak aloud, for fear of being overheard. It was the story of Little Red Riding Hood, but it wasn’t the tale they told the children in their beds at night—oh no, this was far darker, a twisted thing that curled in the bones of the elders. You see, Little Red wasn’t so little, nor was she kind. She wasn’t a maiden of innocence, roaming the woods with a basket of bread and wine. No, she was a terror, a wicked thing draped in blood and lies.

Her real name was Elowen, but they called her Little Red for the cape she wore, the one made of the finest silken cloth, scarlet as fresh blood, hanging over her slender shoulders. But that wasn’t all. It wasn’t the soft velvet fabric that made her infamous. It was the blood that stained it.

Elowen had silver hair that shimmered like moonlight on a cold winter’s night, and skin so pale it could rival the snow itself. She walked through the woods with the grace of a wolf, her footsteps silent but her presence heavy in the air. Her lips, always painted red, held a secret smile. She’d smile at you and pretend she was sweet, that innocent girl lost in the forest, but there was darkness beneath that smile. There was something in her eyes—something that made the bravest of men tremble.

Most of the young men in the village knew better than to wander too close to the woods, especially after the sun dipped below the horizon. But the temptation was too strong. She knew how to lure them, you see. She knew how to whisper through the trees, how to beg for help in that voice so soft, so pleading, it wrapped itself around the heart like a vine. "My grandmother’s ill," she'd say, her voice lilting like the breeze, "She needs help. Won’t you come with me, kind sir, and aid her?"

They’d never see the lie coming. No, they'd follow her like moths to a flame. How could they resist? The soft wind whispered of her, the moonlight bathed her in its glow, and her silver hair—oh, it sparkled like some enchanted creature.

But by the time they realized their mistake, it was too late.

"You’re so strong," she’d say, leading them deeper into the woods, her head tilting to the side like a curious bird, "So much stronger than the rest. You can help me with anything."

And they would. They’d follow her into the thicket of the trees, and when they were far enough from the village, she'd make her move.

The first one, a strapping lad from the next town over, had been so bold, so eager to win her favor. His face had been flushed with excitement, his heart pounding in his chest, sure that he was about to be the hero of the story. But Little Red had other plans.

With a swift motion, she slipped a silver knife from the folds of her cape, the blade catching the faint light of the stars. One quick motion, and it was over. He never had a chance to scream. She was fast, so fast, like a shadow in the night, and her eyes—her eyes gleamed like a predator’s, cold and merciless.

His blood had stained her once-white cape, just a small spot at first, but enough to make the red stand out in the moonlight. His body was left to rot in the woods, where the trees and the animals would eventually claim it.

Three days later, the villagers spoke of the poor man’s disappearance, but no one dared to speak of the girl in the red cape. No one but the oldest ones, the ones who knew the stories. And still, more men ventured into the forest, drawn by the whisper of her voice, the sweet song of her lies.

One by one, they came. One by one, they vanished. Each time, her cape grew a little darker, a little redder. It wasn’t just the blood of the men she killed—it was the blood of their fear, their broken promises, their misplaced trust. The more men she took, the more her power grew. And she loved it. Loved the feeling of her hands wrapped around the hilt of the knife, loved the way the blood painted her skin, the way the woods seemed to whisper her name.

But she was careful. She never took too many at once. She knew how to keep them coming. How to make them trust her, how to make them believe that this time, they’d be the one to save her grandmother, that they’d be the one to earn her favor. They were so easy to fool. So naïve.

But there were whispers, too. Whispers of the men who’d gone missing, of the body found in the woods with the eyes wide open in terror, staring into the abyss. And though the villagers feared her, they feared the woods more.

 Chapter 2: Whispers in the Wind

The moon hung heavy lighting the clearing where Elowyn stood, her bloodstained cape billowing behind her, her silver hair matted against her face, damp from the wet, sticky warmth of the kill.

It had been quick. Too quick. His scream had been short, a single, strangled note before it was swallowed whole by the vast expanse of the forest. She hadn’t even had to fight him—he’d been so eager, so ready to help, to be the one who would save her and her "ailing grandmother." He had no idea how long she’d been waiting for this moment.

The first drop of blood that splattered against her white cloak had sent a shiver down her spine, like an electric jolt, and with it, something else had stirred within her. Something old, something primal. The taste of it had been like fire on her tongue, her skin tightening with pleasure as she felt the warmth seep into her veins.

She’d killed before. It wasn’t the first time. But this… this was different. This was something more.

For a moment, she had stood there in the quiet aftermath, staring down at the body of the young man, his life already slipping away from him. The blood pooled beneath him, staining the earth around him in dark crimson. And that’s when she’d heard it. A voice. Quiet at first, as if the wind itself had carried it to her ears.

“Elowen…”

It was barely a whisper, like the rustle of leaves. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She’d thought she imagined it - she had to have. But then again, how could she explain the gnawing hunger that lingered, curling deep within her chest, even as she looked at the lifeless body laying before her? How could she ignore the strange pressure building inside her, like a wound that needed to be reopened?

“Don’t stop, Elowen,” the voice whispered again, only this time it was clearer, more urgent. “Don’t stop. You’re not done. Not yet.”

She clenched her fists, her silver eyes narrowing, her lips curling into a grin. The voice had a way of soothing the desire inside of her, a way of quieting the insatiable thirst that became strongercafter every kill.

The hunger. It had always been there, gnawing at the edges of her mind, but now… now it was something else entirely. Something that could not be ignored. She could feel it stirring, an insatiable, wild thing that clawed at her insides. Her body tingled, alive with an unnatural energy.

“I’m not done,” she whispered back, her voice low, almost as though she were speaking to herself, though she knew, deep down, the voice was there.

A low chuckle echoed in the back of her mind, dark and deep. The wind stirred again, ruffling her cloak and hair, as if agreeing with her.

“More. More blood. More.”

Elowen’s heart thudded in her chest, and her hands trembled, but only for a moment. She could feel the warmth of the blood on her skin, and it was calling to her—urging her to take more, to give in to the hunger that was growing inside her. She stared down at the body again, the man’s face frozen in an expression of horror. His blood was already cooling, but there was still so much left to claim.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. The wind picked up again, swirling around her, wrapping itself around her like a lover’s embrace, as she knelt beside the corpse. The knife, slick with crimson, found its way back into her hand, the cool handle fitting perfectly into her grasp.

“Elowen…” the voice purred, louder now. It was no longer a whisper. It was a command. “Kill. Take. Drink.”

And she did.

She tore into him once more, carving out the flesh and pulling the lifeblood from him like it was the sweetest nectar. Each drop that hit her tongue sent another pulse of warmth through her. She could hear the voice in her head, getting louder, growing stronger, pushing her forward, urging her to take more. She knew, deep down, that she couldn’t stop. Not now.

The taste of blood. The power that surged through with every drop that hit her tongue. She couldn’t remember a time when it didn’t feel like this, when it didn’t call to her in the dark, when it didn’t haunt her dreams. But this time, this time the hunger was different.

It was deeper.

“Elowen…” The voice now reverberated through her ears, as though it was not just in her head but in the air around her, pressing down on her. “We are one now. You and I. Drink. Let it fill you. Let it make you stronger. You will never be weak again.”

A shudder ran through her, but it wasn’t fear. No, it was something else. She felt the hunger swell inside her like an explosion, and for a brief, glorious moment, she felt alive. Alive in a way she never had before.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, but still, she could feel the voice, the whisper, urging her on. More. More. More.

“Elowen…”

The words wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, pressing in from all sides. Her vision blurred as the warmth of blood coated her lips, her fingers, the very fabric of her cape. She couldn’t stop.

She stood, her breath uneven, and she turned, searching the shadows for the next victim, already knowing the voice would be pleased. It didn’t matter who they were, it didn’t matter if they had ever known her name or not. They were all the same now, just pawns to feed her hunger.

The voice sang to her, no longer a whisper, but a chorus, its song ringing in her ears. And she sang along with it. Her cape, once as white as the snow, was stained deeper than ever, the crimson fabric shimmering in the moonlight as she stepped back into the forest, her hunger insatiable.

“Don’t stop, Elowen,” the voices urged, curling around her like smoke. “Feed. You must feed.”

And so she did.

Her silver eyes gleamed with an eerie hunger as she disappeared into the darkness of the trees, her soft, silken skin pale against the night sky, her heart racing with the rhythm of her bloodlust.

And as the wind began to howl through the forest, there was nothing left but her: the terror in the woods, the girl in the red cloak. And the whisper. Always the whisper. Hungering for More.

Chapter 3: The King's Decree

In the grand hall of the king’s castle, the heavy air was thick with tension. The king, a tall man with graying hair and a face worn by years of ruling, sat in his high throne. His hands, scarred from years of battle, clenched at the arms of the chair as he listened intently to the messengers who had brought him word of the horrors that plagued the kingdoms forest.

“A curse, Your Majesty,” the first messenger spoke, his voice trembling with fear, his face pale as if he’d seen the very devil himself. “A demoness, they say, cloaked in red, has been taking the lives of the innocent. No one is safe in the woods anymore, Your Majesty. The roads have grown empty, and those brave enough to venture near the forest… none return. Not a single soul. They say she wears a red cloak, but what she really wears, Your Majesty, is death.”

The king’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “What do ye mean, wears death? Speak plainly, man!” he roared, his voice commanding the room.

“Aye, Sire,” the messenger stammered, his voice quaking with the king’s fury. “The villagers say she appears from the trees like a shadow, a wraith, luring men with her beauty, her silver hair and skin as pale as the moon. She requests help—says her grandmother is sick and needs tending—but when the men follow her, they are never seen again. They say she is… she is the devil herself, Sire.”

The king's jaw clenched tight. "And ye bring me this word now, when she's taken how many lives? How many souls lost to this... demoness?"

“Too many, Your Majesty," the second messenger spoke up, his voice low, eyes on the ground. “The bodies have been found, scattered across the forest floor, some torn apart, others drained of blood, their faces frozen in terror. The very earth seems cursed where she walks. The people… they are afraid, Sire. They are fleeing to the towns, barricading themselves in their homes, refusing to venture out.”

The king’s fists slammed against the armrests, his voice a low growl. “Enough! Enough o' this damn talk. A demon, ye say? A witch, or some cursed creature—none will speak of it in my kingdom and live to see the morrow. I’ll have this devil in chains, or by the gods, I’ll burn the very woods she walks in! What fool will step forth to rid me of this beast, this terror?”

The chamber fell silent for a heartbeat, the weight of the king’s words settling like a stone in the chest of those gathered. But then, a voice rang out, strong and bold. It was one of his captains, a seasoned warrior named Borin, known for his steely resolve and his brutal honesty.

“Yer Majesty,” Borin said, bowing deeply, “I would ask ye to be careful. These woods… they’ve swallowed men before. I’ve heard tales from the old ones, of curses and spirits in those trees. I’ll be honest with ye, Sire. If this woman is what the messengers say, she’ll not be easily killed. This is not some bandit or brigand ye can hang for stealing. This is… darker.”

The king’s eyes flashed with anger at the insinuation, but Borin was a man of years, and the king knew better than to disregard the warnings of such a veteran.

“Aye, I’ve heard the tales, Borin. I’ve heard the whispers of the old folk, of witches and demons in the dark. But I’ll tell ye this: I’ve heard of men, strong men, who face death head-on and live to tell the tale. It’s not the fear that holds me, but the justice. And justice will be had,” he said, rising from his throne with a grim finality in his voice.

With a swift movement, the king turned and marched toward the grand table at the far end of the hall. A giant map of the kingdom lay before him, its edges worn with age. His finger ran over the forest, tracing the borders where it stretched like a dark wound in the land. His face hardened as he turned back to his court.

“Enough of this fear! If this creature is so bold, so willing to spill blood, then we shall make her regret it.” The king’s voice was now like steel, unwavering, unyielding. “We’ll put an end to it - now.”

The room fell still as the king stood tall, his eyes blazing. “I’ll offer a bounty—a hundred gold coins to the brave soul who dares to rid me of this demon. A hundred gold pieces to the man who brings me her head, or better yet, brings me her alive.”

He paused, his gaze dark and piercing. “The first to return with proof of her death—or capture - will be handsomely rewarded. But beware,” he said, turning toward the men of his court. “Any who fail will be left to the wolves in the forest. The choice is simple: bring me the head of this devil, or become the next victim.”

A low murmur filled the room as the courtiers exchanged uneasy glances. But no one spoke a word, for fear of angering their king.

The king slammed his fist down onto the table, his face twisted in a mixture of rage and determination.

“This is my kingdom,” he spat. “And no demon, no creature, will take it from me.”

The chamber doors opened, and the king’s personal herald stepped in, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep voice.

“Your Majesty,” the herald said, bowing low. “Word has already spread among the townsfolk. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, and adventurers alike are already gathering in the taverns. They will come for the gold, Your Majesty. They will come for the chance to claim this demon’s blood.”

The king nodded grimly. “Let them come. Let them all come. And may the gods help them if they fail.”

As the herald turned to leave, the king’s eyes lingered on the map of the forest, his gaze dark and fixed. The winds of fate were shifting. And if the beast in the woods had any sense of fear, she would be wise to feel it now.

And so it was that the bounty was set, the challenge made. Gold, power, and a promise of vengeance hung in the air, and soon the forest would find itself crawling with the bravest - or most foolish - men in the kingdom, all hungry for the prize that awaited.

But Elowen, the demon in the red cloak, was not a creature that could be hunted so easily.

The winds whispered her name, as they always did. The hunger was growing, and with it, the voices in her mind. The king had declared war on the forest. But as the breeze stirred the trees, no one could know how much of a mistake it would be to walk into her domain.

And so the hunt begins.

  Chapter 4: The Tavern

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the low-ceilinged tavern. The smell of roasting meat mixed with the stale scent of ale, and the murmur of conversation filled the air like the buzzing of a thousand bees. The crooked beams of the old tavern seemed to lean in on themselves, their wood groaning as the wind outside howled with the chill of the coming night.

It was the kind of place where the thirsty found solace, and the broken found camaraderie. Rough men, women with hands calloused by work, and those of darker professions sat around tables, their voices rising and falling with the clinking of mugs and the occasional laughter that echoed too loudly for comfort.

But tonight, the laughter was less frequent, replaced by a lingering unease. The smell of fear was palpable, hanging in the air like smoke.

A figure stood in the doorway, framed by the flickering firelight. He wore a cloak of deep royal blue, his face obscured by the hood pulled low over his brow. His boots were heavy, and his gait purposeful as he strode into the tavern, causing a sudden silence to fall over the room. The loudest drinkers had quieted, and the card games paused as all eyes turned toward the man.

With a flourish, the herald of the king—a tall man with dark eyes and a sharp jaw—stepped into the room, unfurling a scroll with a snap that rang louder than it should have. He cleared his throat, and the tavern, if not quite silent, was suddenly filled with a tense expectancy.

“Listen well, ye lot,” the herald called out, his voice thick and clear. “By the decree of King Aldric the Fourth, a bounty has been issued for the capture or death of the demoness known as Elowen.”

A low murmur spread across the room like the ripple of a stone thrown into a pond. The name Elowen stirred something in the hearts of the men and women here—something between fear and curiosity, for her legend had already reached their ears.

The herald paused, letting the words settle before continuing, his voice now dropping to a conspiratorial hush, as though he were revealing a secret to each man and woman in the room.

“’Tis true,” he said, “She who walks the woods in a red cloak, with silver hair and pale skin. The one whose hunger drives her to murder, whose beauty deceives even the wisest of men. She has killed many. It is said she lures them in with the cry of a sick grandmother, then… washes the forest in blood.”

The tavern, which had been filled with laughter and drunken shouts moments before, had gone utterly still now. The patrons shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging glances. Some of the older folk knew the tales well, others just nodded at the mention of Elowen, a name spoken with more terror than respect.

The herald unrolled the scroll further, tapping his finger against it for emphasis.

"King Aldric offers 100 gold pieces to the one who brings this devil to justice," the herald bellowed, his voice rising. "A hundred gold pieces to the man or woman who captures her alive, or who sends her back to whatever hell she crawled from! The king’s word is final. Those who seek this bounty will be richly rewarded!"

For a long moment, silence reigned.

Then, from the far corner of the room, a grizzled old man with a long, scraggly beard and a wooden leg spoke up, his voice slurring from too many nights spent with ale.

“Bounty, eh? Hundred gold pieces, ye say?” he chuckled darkly. “I’ve heard the tales, lad. No man, nor woman, will be comin' back from them woods once they set foot in it. Elowen’s got the blood of a hundred men on her hands, and she won’t stop ‘til she’s got the last drop of life drained from this kingdom.”

The herald glared at the old man, his face tight with the sharpness of a soldier. "And yet, the king believes someone will end her reign. Do ye doubt His Majesty’s decree, old man?"

The old man leaned back in his chair, a smirk twisting his lips. "I ain’t sayin' nothin’ ‘bout the king's decree. But I'll tell ye this, lad: anyone who goes into them woods in search o' glory ain't comin' out. It’s no treasure hunt; it’s a funeral march."

A group of younger men at the bar laughed nervously, a couple of them daring to speak up, clearly drunk enough to ignore the older man’s words.

“A hundred gold, aye? For killin' a she-devil?” One of them said with a sneer, his face flushed from drink. “I’ll take it, by the gods! Who’s with me?”

Others mumbled in agreement, emboldened by the thought of riches and glory. A few looked to the herald, as though waiting for his blessing.

The herald, unfazed by the bravado, turned his gaze to the men with cold disdain. “Do not be so quick to boast, for the king's orders are clear. She must be captured or slain. If ye fail, ye will join the others who have already been claimed by the forest.”

The silence fell once more as the weight of the warning settled like a stone upon the room. It was the quiet that came after the howl of a wolf in the distance, when the eyes of the men and women in the tavern turned inward. They knew—perhaps better than anyone else—that Elowen was no mere tale spun in the firelight. She was real. And she was waiting for them.

The young man who had spoken earlier scoffed, standing up from his seat with a drunken swagger. “Ain’t no demon gonna scare me. I’ll have her head, and I’ll have the gold.”

His companions cheered, raising their mugs, but the older folk muttered darkly. Some even stood and began to make their way to the door, making the sign of the gods as they passed the hearth, afraid to say too much in the presence of the herald, yet just as unwilling to risk their lives.

At the bar, a slender woman with sharp eyes and a long, curved blade hanging from her hip leaned toward a man she’d been whispering to for the last hour. She gave him a sideways glance, lips curling into a cold, calculating smile.

“I’ll take the bounty,” she said, her voice low, but sharp as a dagger’s edge. “A hundred gold pieces... sounds like enough to make the risk worthwhile. Don’t it?”

The man, a burly fellow with an iron-gray beard, gave a hesitant nod, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the door.

“Are ye mad?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. “She’s no simple bandit. This Elowen… she’s more. I can feel it in me bones. I’ve seen the bodies she’s left behind, lass. I wouldn’t go near the woods if the king himself offered me the throne.”

The woman leaned closer, her eyes burning with something dark, something dangerous. “That’s why ye ain’t gonna be the one to claim the gold. But if ye want, I’ll leave ye a share… after I bring her head to the king.”

With that, she stood up, her cloak swirling behind her, and made her way toward the door, a swift grace in her steps.

And so it was. The news had been given. The tavern fell into an uneasy buzz of whispers and murmurs, as men and women began to make their plans. Some would take the offer, others would turn their backs to it. But one thing was certain: a hunt was beginning, and not all would return.

The breeze outside howled louder now, as if it, too, was waiting for the chase to begin.

  Chapter 5: The Stranger in the Rain

The rain had started as a light drizzle, tapping softly against the wooden wheels of the wagon. By now, though, it had grown into a steady downpour, the kind that made everything around feel muted and heavy. Klaus, the old man at the reins, squinted through the misty curtain of rain, his hands tightly gripping the reins of the horses as they plodded along the muddy road. The horses’ hooves splashed in the puddles, and the earthy scent of the wet road mixed with the smell of hay in the cart.

Beside him, his daughter, Eliza, huddled under her shawl, her face pale from fatigue. It had been two long days on the road, and she was anxious to reach the kingdom. The chill of the rain seeped through her clothes, and she pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as she glanced out at the gloom surrounding them. The trees, their dark trunks shrouded in mist, loomed close on either side, the forest as silent as the sky above.

Timmy, Klaus’s grandson, sat quietly in the back of the wagon, his small hands clutching a handful of wildflowers he had picked along the way. He was a curious child, asking questions about everything he saw, but today he sat still, staring out at the rain with a thoughtful look on his young face.

“We’re almost there, lass,” Klaus said after a moment, his voice rough and reassuring. “Not far now. We’ll reach the kingdom soon enough.”

Eliza gave a small, tired smile. “I hope so. These roads are too dangerous when the rains come.”

“Aye, they are. But we’ll get there. The kingdom will have what we need.”

The cart creaked and rattled along the road, the rhythm of the wheels blending with the soft pitter-patter of rain. But as they rounded a bend, Klaus suddenly slowed the horses, his hand instinctively tightening on the reins. He had spotted something ahead, a small shape by the side of the road, just out of reach of the trees.

Eliza sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing against the mist. “What’s that?”

At first, Klaus thought it might be some poor animal, stranded by the road, but as they drew closer, he saw that it was a person. A young woman, lying motionless on the side of the road. Her once-white cape was stained dark red, and the sight sent a cold chill down Klaus’s spine.

“She looks injured,” Eliza said softly, her voice filled with concern. “We can’t just leave her.”

Klaus hesitated, his gaze narrowing. “There’s somethin’ not right about this... A lone woman out here in the rain…”

Eliza sighed, her face hardening with determination. “You can’t leave her like that. She needs help.”

Klaus clicked his tongue and reluctantly pulled the horses to a halt, stepping down from the wagon and approaching the figure slowly, his boots sinking into the mud with each step. Eliza stayed in the cart, her eyes watching him warily.

The woman didn’t stir, her body limp and unresponsive, as if she had collapsed from exhaustion or injury. Klaus knelt beside her, his voice gentle as he called out, “Miss? Can ye hear me? Are ye in trouble?”

There was no answer. The only sound was the rain, falling heavily around them. Klaus’s brow furrowed, and he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, gently lifting her hood to see her face.

The woman’s features were delicate, her pale skin almost glowing in the dim light. But what caught Klaus’s eye wasn’t her beauty—it was the stillness of her. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, as if she were asleep. But something about her, something that Klaus couldn’t place, felt off. A coldness that didn’t belong in the warm embrace of the rain.

“Is she alive, Papa?” Eliza called from the cart, her voice tinged with worry.

Klaus hesitated, his fingers lightly brushing the woman’s neck to check for a pulse. It was faint but there. He exhaled in relief.

“She’s alive, lass, but she’s in a bad way,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Help me get her up. We need to bring her with us. She’s too weak to be left alone.”

With some effort, Klaus helped the woman to her feet, supporting her weight as Eliza climbed down from the cart to assist. The woman’s body was frail, and her steps were shaky, as though she had been out in the rain for far too long. The blood on her cape had darkened, soaking into the fabric, but still, she said nothing, her face pale and her lips tight.

Once they had her settled in the back of the wagon, Klaus climbed back to his seat, pulling the reins to start the horses again. The woman didn’t seem to notice the movement of the cart, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow.

Eliza, ever watchful, glanced back at her with concern. “We’ll get her to the kingdom, Papa. They’ll know what to do.”

Klaus said nothing, his eyes darting toward the trees. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, but he couldn’t explain why. Something about the woods, something about the way the woman had appeared… it didn’t sit right with him.

As the rain continued to fall, the world around them seemed to grow colder, darker, and the trees seemed to whisper among themselves. Klaus couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. The road, which had seemed so familiar before, now felt strangely alien, as if the forest itself were reaching out, trying to pull them in.

A distant sound echoed through the air—quiet, like a faint voice on the wind, barely audible over the rainfall. Klaus frowned and strained to listen, but all he could hear was the constant dripping of the rain from the trees.

“Eliza,” he began slowly, “keep an eye on the woman. We don’t know who she is or what’s happened to her.”

Eliza nodded, though her face was pale with unease. She glanced at the woman in the back of the cart, but the figure was silent, her eyes still closed, and her hands resting gently in her lap.

Timmy, from the back of the cart, spoke in a small voice, barely above a whisper. “Grandpapa, did you hear that voice? It sounded like a whisper from the woods."

Klaus stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the trees once again. “Nay, lad. Its just the wind and rain”

But even as he spoke the words, he wasn’t sure he believed them - he thought he had also heard the whisper.

The rain fell harder as the wagon pressed on, the horses trotting steadily down the road, and the woman, still and silent, was a mystery. If she was going to survive, Klaus couldn’t say. But with every passing moment, he felt a sense of dread growing, and the wind—if one could call it that—seemed to whisper once more.

And with that whisper, the faintest trace of movement stirred in the Elowyns body.

To be Continued.....