The forest was alive with the sound of footsteps—soft, uncertain, and many. Alice led the way through the tangled undergrowth, her crimson eyes fixed on the path ahead. Behind her, the women and girls she had freed from the noble's house followed in silence, their faces etched with exhaustion, fear, and a flicker of hope.
Dawn crept through the trees, painting the world in pale gold. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the scent of earth and dew. For the first time in years, Alice felt the open sky above her, unbroken by stone walls or iron bars. She breathed deeply, letting the cold air fill her lungs, and tried to ignore the ache in her chest.
They walked until the sun was high, stopping at a stream to drink and rest. The women huddled together, whispering in low voices. Some glanced at Alice with awe, others with uncertainty. She was younger than most of them, but there was something about her—an aura of power and purpose—that made them trust her.
Alice knelt by the water, washing the dirt from her hands. She watched her reflection ripple in the current: pale skin, high cheekbones, and those unmistakable red eyes. She barely recognized herself.
A woman approached—older, with silver streaks in her hair and a scar running down her cheek. She knelt beside Alice, her voice gentle but firm.
"You saved us," she said. "We owe you our lives."
Alice shook her head. "You don't owe me anything. I did what I had to do."
The woman studied her for a moment, then nodded. "What now?"
Alice looked up at the sky, watching a hawk circle overhead. "We find a place to rest. Then we plan. There are others like us, suffering in silence. We can't save everyone, but we can fight. We can make them afraid."
The woman smiled—a small, sad smile. "You're not alone anymore."
For a moment, Alice felt a warmth she hadn't known in years. It flickered, fragile and uncertain, but it was there.
The First Night of Freedom
That night, they made camp in a small clearing. The women built a fire and shared what little food they had scavenged. Some wept quietly, mourning lost families and stolen years. Others simply stared into the flames, too numb for tears.
Alice sat apart, her back against a tree, watching the shadows dance. The goddess's voice was silent tonight, but Alice felt her presence—a cold comfort at the edge of her thoughts.
One of the younger girls, no more than ten, crept over and sat beside her. She didn't speak, just leaned against Alice's shoulder. Alice hesitated, then put an arm around the girl, holding her close as she fell asleep.
For the first time in a long while, Alice allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she could be more than a weapon.
Far Away: The Weight of Guilt
In the mountains, Alex trained beneath the open sky, sweat pouring down his face as he swung his makeshift sword. Each strike was a prayer, each movement a plea for forgiveness. He remembered Alice's laughter, her small hand in his, the promise he had made to protect her.
He had failed.
Liora watched him from the doorway, her heart breaking for her son. She saw the pain he carried—the guilt, the longing—and wished she could take it from him. But she, too, was haunted by loss.
That night, as they sat by the fire, Liora sang the old lullaby. Alex closed his eyes, letting the melody wash over him. For a moment, he imagined Alice was there, listening with them, safe and whole.
He opened his eyes to find Liora watching him, tears glistening in her eyes.
"We'll find her," she whispered, her voice trembling. "One day, we'll find her."
Alex nodded, but in his heart, he wondered if it was already too late.
The Birth of a Legend
As the days passed, Alice and her companions moved deeper into the forest, avoiding roads and villages. Word of the nobleman's death spread quickly—rumors of a red-eyed demon, a vengeful spirit haunting the night.
Alice heard the whispers when they passed through small settlements: "Did you hear? Lord Marrow is dead. They say it was a girl—a witch with eyes like blood."
"Some say she freed the slaves. Others say she killed them all."
Alice said nothing, letting the stories grow. Fear, she realized, was a weapon as sharp as any blade.
The women began to look to her for guidance, for strength. They called her the Crimson Reaper, and she did not correct them. The name fit—the girl she had been was gone, replaced by something colder, harder, and infinitely more dangerous.
But in the quiet moments, when the others slept and the fire burned low, Alice remembered her brother's promise: I'll always protect you.
She wondered if he still remembered her. She wondered if he would recognize the person she had become.
Closing
The forest grew darker as night fell, the shadows deepening around their camp. Alice stood watch, her eyes scanning the darkness for threats. She felt the goddess's presence, a constant whisper at the edge of her mind.
You are my chosen. You are the storm that will sweep this world clean.
Alice clenched her fists, feeling the power surge through her veins. She was no longer a victim. She was a force to be reckoned with—a reaper in the night, born of pain and vengeance.
And somewhere, far away, her brother dreamed of her, whispering her name to the stars.
The storm was gathering. The world would never be the same.