I swear, if it weren’t for me, she’d still be gnawing on charred rabbit bones or chewing raw roots like a wild dog.

But does she ever thank me? No. Not once.

Red trudges up her favorite hill. Again. She says that every time. She doesn’t realize it’s a different hill every week. But who am I to correct her? I’m just the voice in her head, the unseen hand keeping her from poisoning herself every other meal.

The sky is a soft lilac hue, gears hidden behind clouds whirring faintly as the clockwork sun makes its slow descent. Copper birds chirp mechanical songs, while a brass-winged butterfly flutters past Red’s scarred face. It should all be beautiful. Whimsical. A fairy tale.

But the shine is a lie. The gears beneath the surface are rusted. The towns reek of oil and smoke. Princes still charm, but their teeth are sharpened behind those smiles. Magic hums through pipes and steam, but there is no good or evil to it—just power, and those who wield it.

I see you now. You’re watching, aren’t you? Finally, someone sees our story. Oh, how I’ve waited for this! Welcome! You’re in for something special.

Red frowns, her eyes flicking to the side. “Who are you talking to?”

I beam, even though she can’t see it. “The reader! Someone is here! Watching!”

She squints at nothing, muttering, “Great. You’ve finally lost it.”

“You talk to me all the time,” I point out.

“Yeah, but you’re real. In a really annoying, disembodied way.”

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I choose not to argue. Today is a good day. You are here.

Red presses forward, boots crunching over brittle grass. Her hand drifts to the axe at her hip. Always close. Always ready. The polished handle is worn smooth from years of holding on too tightly. The blade has been cleaned, but rust still stains the edges. Blood leaves marks that never quite wash away.

The sound reaches us first. A shout. A scream. The kind Red never ignores. The kind that pulls her back to that day—fur, teeth, the wet heat of a belly not meant to hold the living. Granny’s voice fading to nothing. The smell of digestion.

She grips the axe, knuckles white.

Bandits. Four of them, circling a family—a mother, a boy, a little girl. The mother holds her children close, trembling. One of the men grabs the girl by the wrist, a grin splitting his face. The kind of grin Red hates.

A wolf’s grin.

Her vision shifts. Fur replaces skin. Snarling muzzles instead of human faces. Clawed hands dragging the child away. The world narrows to that grin, and the sound of her own ragged breath.

I try to say something—to warn, or maybe calm her—but it’s too late. The axe is already swinging.

The first head comes off cleanly. The second bandit barely registers his friend’s death before the blade bites into his chest, splitting ribs like dry branches. The third screams, trying to run. Red catches his leg, cleaving through muscle and bone. He collapses, clutching the stump where his foot used to be.

The last man—the one holding the girl—freezes. He lets go, raises his hands. His lips tremble, forming a plea. Red doesn’t hear it. She only sees a wolf baring its teeth. She swings. His head rolls down the hill. Something else follows—something important to men but unnecessary to corpses.

The girl cries. The mother gasps, pulling her children back. They look at Red like she is a monster.

She wipes her axe on a dead man’s coat, not meeting their eyes. Her heart still pounds. Her hands tremble. But the wolves are gone.

Good job, I say softly.

She doesn’t answer me. She never does.

The family stares in horror as Red walks past them, up another hill. Another favorite hill.

I watch her go, my chest tightening with something I am still learning to name. I care for her. I do. But I am a storyteller, and she is my story. I cannot change her path. I can only follow it.

I hope you will too.