The stench of cheap perfume and stale sweat adhered to Millie like a second skin. Eighteen years in the Red District, and its sickly-sweet odour was the only scent she recognized. There was no recollection of warmth or loving hands; the only thing that remained was a tattered box lined with faded, crimson flags. It was a makeshift cradle that had been abandoned at the front door of Madam G's brothel.Madam G had stitched those scraps into a jacket for her—a garish, shapeless thing Millie wore dutifully. Over the course of her life, she had accumulated an increasing number of layers and flags, which grew to the point where it flowed behind her like a bloody river. "Little Red Flags Riding Hood," the men sneered at her. A whisper that conjured images of seductive looks and hefty wallets, her name had transformed into Vermillion.But Madam G was her grandmother, for better or worse. Her pimp, her mentor. The one who bathed her tiny, abandoned form and raised her to be the crown jewel of
The dawn painted Bremen in a deceptive glow, casting the grim city in an almost serene light. It was the kind of light that softened edges, that could trick a weary heart into thinking peace was possible, even for just a heartbeat. Yet, for Millie, that glow felt like a lie, a false tranquility that set her nerves on edge, sharpened by years of constant vigilance and endless conflict. Her fingers grazed the rough edge of the dagger sheathed at her side as she recalled Tess’s wide, frightened eyes, haunted by something she hadn’t yet learned to voice.Was it merely a child's nightmare? Or had Tess, with her innocent, curious ways, stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have? Had she unwittingly witnessed a thread of betrayal woven into the very fabric of their desperate fight for survival? Millie could still hear the murmur of Tess’s voice, the tremble of fear she’d tried to hide as she recounted a strange, whispered meeting, a chilling voice in the dark, and the ominous mention of Brem
Bremen, though scarred by war and burdened with loss, had an air of deceptive normalcy. The rhythm of everyday life pulsed through its heart, filling afternoons with the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer as he pounded out makeshift weapons and tools. Around the firepits, the aroma of bread and roasted roots lingered, accompanied by quiet chatter and the rare, timid laughter of children reclaiming slivers of childhood. Yet, beneath this thin veil of routine, an unspoken tension simmered—a coiled readiness, an awareness of the storm that was always just beyond the horizon.Peter and Millie moved through this fragile peace like shadows, bound together by circumstance, shared burdens, and an unspoken bond that neither could entirely put into words. By day, they were strategists, calculating and calm, leading through subtle cues and unspoken plans. Each glance, each nod or frown, was dissected by those around them for any signs of weakness or dissent, the people of Brem
Their entrance into Bremen was no grand procession, no joyous homecoming of a conquering hero. The streets felt heavy, as if each cobblestone braced itself against the weight of the journey Millie, Peter, and the children carried with them. A few townsfolk gathered, watching with eyes that held equal parts awe and fear. Recognition flickered across their faces, spreading quickly through the crowd.Whispers rose in a wave, carried by the breeze and repeated as if testing the truth of it. “The Wolf Slayer… is she our doom or savior?” … “Brings war to our doorstep…” … “Those children… more orphans for our dwindling stores…”The words washed over Millie, each comment a pinprick against her armor. She kept her head high, but the doubt clawed at her resolve. Were they simply bringing ruin? These people had their own lives, their own struggles, and here she was, arriving with a bloody reputation and a band of children who had already seen far too much of war.Yet, beneath the voices laced wi
Bremen loomed ahead, its high walls and watchtowers stark against the dimming sky. To Millie, it looked more like a fortress than the humble refuge she’d once known. The hastily reinforced walls seemed to carry the weight of desperation and distrust, an imposing reminder that Bremen was now bracing for war.Beside her, Peter padded, his eyes fixed on the gates. Millie could feel the tension between them, the silent anticipation before a performance. He had suggested a simple plan: approach with a story of exile and pleading for sanctuary. Behind them, concealed in the tall grass, the children waited, a hidden line of defense should things go wrong.Peter called out, his voice laced with a careful note of desperation. “We come with news of the Witch’s army, and of a kingdom fallen. We’re refugees, looking for safety.”Millie remained a step behind; her face shadowed as she scanned the guards lining the watchtower. She knew all too well that Bremen’s new guardians could just as quickly
The forest was thick with the stench of death, an invisible shroud that clung to Millie’s skin and burned her nose. She moved with heightened urgency, every sound sharpening her senses, every shift of light drawing her eyes to the shadows. Her breaths came shallow and measured, each one a reminder of the bloodshed they’d just left behind.Behind her, Peter followed silently, his eyes darting between the trees, scanning for signs of pursuit. He knew as well as she did that they were leaving a trail that could quickly turn into their undoing. The children trudged ahead of them, silent and pale, the harsh reality of their first battle still weighing on their faces.As the group moved further from the scene of violence, Millie glanced at Peter and rasped, “Those bodies will draw attention soon enough.” She kept her voice low, wary of alarming the children. “The Witch’s hunters, or worse, those bounty men from the Red District. We need to put as much distance between us and that… mess.”Pe
Dawn broke over the forest, casting a sickly gold light that seeped through the trees and painted the leaves in eerie shades. To Millie, the color felt like a mockery, as though the sun was teasing them with a beauty that belied the lurking danger. She tiptoed, eyes scanning every shadow, ears tuned to every sound. Something was wrong. The forest's usual rhythm—its subtle whispers and sighs—was replaced by a heavier, almost sinister silence.A faint, unnatural sound reached her: the scrape of a boot on stone, then the sharp snap of a twig underfoot. Millie halted, signaling to the children with a quick, clenched fist. They froze, eyes wide, clutching their makeshift weapons with trembling hands.After becoming a decoy, Peter finally joined them, caught the signal, and stilled. His hand went to his flute, but this wasn’t a moment for magic or melody. His eyes met Millie’s, and in that split second, they knew—they were no longer alone—different soldiers or wardens of the forest.Two figu
The sound of breaking branches startled Millie awake. She shot up, hand on her blade, her eyes darting through the dark forest. Around her, shadows danced in the dim firelight, flickering with the tension that had settled thick as fog over the camp. The children stirred, too, their faces hidden in blankets, their breathing shallow with a shared fear that sleep had only quieted, not erased.Millie scanned the edges of their clearing, muscles coiled tight, prepared for anything. But it was only Peter, returning from his patrol, slipping back into camp like the ghost he was so skilled at becoming. His face was grave tonight, typically set in an easy, playful grin. He crouched beside her, his voice barely a whisper."They’re closer than I thought," he murmured, glancing at the children. "The Grim's patrols are combing the woods in tighter circles. We’re going to have to move at first light."Millie nodded, her jaw clenched. "Any chance we can slip by them?"Peter shook his head, his eyes s
The forest, alive with whispers and the soft rustle of leaves, seemed to breathe with secrets.Every tree loomed like a silent sentinel, watching as Peter and Millie made their way through familiar paths. Millie moved differently now, her steps lighter, more attuned to the rhythms of the wilderness.She no longer walked with the stiff, rigid posture of someone bracing for an attack. Instead, there was a fluidity to her movements, as if the forest itself had taught her how to blend with the shadows.Her instincts had sharpened. With each step, she subtly shifted, positioning herself between the children they protected and the unseen dangers lurking beyond the trees. The contrast between her former life and the warrior she had become was stark. She was no longer merely surviving—she was protecting, shielding the innocent in ways she had never been shielded.Peter watched her, his gaze steady and thoughtful. He didn’t look at her with desire, as a lover might, but with the careful scrutin
The silence between them was suffocating. It stretched on, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire that flickered weakly, its embers slowly dying as if in sync with the fading warmth of the evening. The forest beyond their small circle of firelight stood still, an audience to the storm brewing between them. The trees, tall and ancient, loomed like silent sentinels, their branches dripping with rain, heavy and slick. The air was damp, cool, and filled with the scent of wet earth and moss. Shadows danced and twisted in the dim light, and the occasional gust of wind sent the dying flames flickering in defiance.Peter’s chest tightened, his breath shallow as he watched Millie absorb the weight of his confession. He had expected many things—anger, disbelief, maybe even derision—but what came was far worse. A quiet, impenetrable stillness took root in her gaze. The light from the fire danced across her face, casting shadows beneath her eyes, sharpening the lines of exhaustion etched d