Un Loup dans les Bois de la Rouge – Part II

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in

A Wolf in Red’s Woods – Part II

Story Written & Told by
Red Valois, Élode Valois,
Madeline Valois, & Sylvie Châtillon

Visuals & Imagery Created by
Red Valois, Élode Valois, Madeline Valois, Sylvie Châtillon, Faylinn Willowshade,
Rowena Brightmoor, & Scott Bryant

With care and reverence, their story is shared by
Scott Bryant at the request of Red Valois, Élode Valois, Madeline Valois, & Sylvie Châtillon

❦
Grandmother Madeleine’s Cottage

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE: A cinematic, photorealistic moment capturing Red’s arrival at the edge of her grandmother’s forest clearing at twilight. The atmosphere is hushed, thick with tension despite the outward peace of the scene. The ancient forest parts slightly to reveal Grandmother Madeleine’s two-story stone fairy tale cottage—a majestic, timeworn structure with ivy climbing its walls, a moss-covered roof, and tall, arched windows glowing faintly with hearthlight. The cottage sits nestled at the edge of the woods like a secret waiting to be told. Dried herbs dangle from the eaves, wood is stacked neatly by the door, and smoke curls gently from the chimney, curling into the cool evening air. Wildflowers and untamed grasses surround the clearing in soft earth tones, blending civilization and wilderness. In the foreground, Red stands just at the tree line, half-shadowed beneath the canopy. Her red cloak flows gently in the forest breeze, its color striking against the green and stone. She holds a wicker basket in one hand and a dagger strapped at her side—the dual image of domestic tradition and readiness for battle. Her eyes are locked on the house, her expression tense and watchful, as if she senses what’s coming even if she can’t yet see it. The lighting is chiaroscuro: the golden glow of the cottage windows contrasts sharply with the deepening forest shadows behind Red. Dust motes float in the air, and a faint breeze stirs the tall grass, giving the stillness an eerie anticipation. Though everything looks calm, the moment is loaded—like a held breath before a storm. This is not a peaceful homecoming. It’s the calm before a reckoning.

I finally reached the clearing where my grandmother’s house stood. The two-story stone cottage looked just as it always did—warm, inviting, peaceful against the forest’s edge. But the tension bubbling inside me told a different story.

I sighed, relieved to have made it this far without any real trouble. The plan was still on track. Adjusting the basket in my hand, I stepped onto the porch, the creak of the wooden boards louder than I expected.

“Okay, so far, so good. No wolf to mess this up.”

I raised my hand to knock on the door, my knuckles hovering just above the wood. My pulse quickened—not from fear, of course, but from the anticipation of what came next.

And then, just as I was about to knock, I heard it.

The rustle.

A low growl, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against dirt.

Before I could turn, a dark blur lunged from the side of the house.

(Fenris’ Voice, mockingly)
“Surprise!”

I stumbled back, my heart leaping into my throat. His teeth gleamed in the dim light, his eyes alight with malicious glee.

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE: A cinematic, photorealistic, gorgeously shot twilight scene unfolds outside a grand, two-story stone fairy tale cottage nestled in a deep forest. The moment captures a sudden, terrifying ambush. In the immediate foreground, a young woman—Red Valois—stands frozen mid-motion, having just stumbled backward in shock. Her red cloak is caught in the air, partially slipped from her head, revealing wild, dark curls in motion. Her eyes are wide with alarm, her hand raised in instinctive defense. From the left edge of the frame, an enormous dark-furred wolf—Fenris—lunges into the scene from the shadows, claws skimming the dirt, mouth open mid-snarl. His gleaming teeth and cold, intelligent amber eyes convey both ferocity and twisted amusement, as if he's toying with his prey. Debris flies—pebbles, twigs, a puff of mist—as the ambush disrupts the stillness. Behind them, the stone cottage stands solemn and silent, tall arched windows glowing faintly with warm orange firelight. The surrounding trees and creeping mist are cast in eerie blue twilight, framing the explosive motion in contrasting light. The composition is dramatic and tense, with a low-angle perspective emphasizing the size difference between Fenris and Red. The scene is frozen at the split-second of impact: danger imminent, the forest breathless, and the outcome uncertain.

“Oh, Fenris. What a delightful surprise. Just what I needed today.”

He tilted his head, that sinister grin widening.

(Fenris’ Voice, low and menacing)
“Did I scare you, little girl? You should be more careful. These woods are dangerous.”

“Little girl? I’m a woman, you overgrown dog. And no, you didn’t scare me. I just didn’t expect you to stoop to a jump scare. Classy.”

His chuckle was a low, rumbling sound, as if the forest itself were laughing with him.

(Fenris’ Voice)
“Brave words, Red. But let’s see how brave you really are.”

He leaned in, his breath hot and foul, and for a moment, I was struck by the sheer arrogance of him.

Honestly, I’ve seen scarier men at the village market.

But I couldn’t let my guard down—not yet. My mind raced as I steadied my breathing, my fingers tightening around the basket handle.

“Well, as much as I’d love to chat, I have somewhere to be. Excuse me.”

I turned back to the door, raising my hand to knock again, this time louder.

“Grandmother, it’s me, Red! Open the door!”

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE: Inside a dimly lit, two-story stone fairy tale mansion-cottage, an elderly French woman sits alone in near-silence. The camera frames her in profile from across the hearth-lit room. She is seated in a sturdy wooden chair, her posture perfectly still, back straight. Her face is mostly hidden in shadow, but her silver hair catches the firelight, and her weathered hands are clearly visible, gripping an antique French flintlock rifle across her lap. The rifle’s long wooden stock and exposed mechanism gleam subtly in the warm, flickering light. To her left, a stone fireplace crackles, casting golden light across the wooden floor and textured stone walls. To her right, a tall arched window lets in a soft, pale blue twilight glow, filtering in from the misty forest outside. The cool light contrasts the firelight, creating a natural tension in the room. Above, bundles of dried herbs hang from the rafters, swaying slightly in the still air. The wooden staircase in the background curls up into shadow, hinting at the second floor of the home. The space is rich with the textures of old wood, stone, and timeworn objects—this is a house of generations, fiercely kept and quietly defended. There is no visible threat, no motion—just Madeleine’s steady hands, the weight of her presence, and the rifle across her lap. Her silence speaks of decades of protection, endurance, and warning. She is the guardian of this place, and the stillness itself feels like part of her will.

From inside, my grandmother’s voice came, calm and steady as always.

(Madeleine’s Voice, perfectly unbothered)
“Come in, dear. I’ve been expecting you.”

I pushed the door open, stepping inside quickly. Fenris followed, his claws clicking on the wooden floor as he entered behind me, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

The Grove answers once per house—
and only when our blood stands together.

The air seemed to tighten, as if the forest itself paused to listen.

Little does he know…

❦
The Confrontation

I barely had time to steady myself when the sharp click of a rifle split the air. I turned just in time to see Grandmother Madeleine rise from her chair, rifle leveled at Fenris, posture as calm as if she were pouring tea.

A cinematic, photorealistic horizontal image (16:9), showing a tense, mythic standoff inside a rustic two-story French stone cottage. The camera captures an over-the-shoulder view of Madeleine Valois, a silver-haired French woman in her late 60s, standing firmly with her antique flintlock rifle raised and aimed directly at Fenris, a massive gray wolf framed in the open doorway ahead. The foreground shows Madeleine’s back, coat, and rifle barrel gleaming faintly in warm firelight. Her stance is solid and deliberate, every line of her body conveying decades of endurance and readiness. Her silver hair catches the light, and the wooden texture of the rifle shows clear, tactile realism. To the left foreground, Red Valois, a young French woman in a weathered red cloak, crouches in tense focus. Her cloak flows around her like captured motion, the edges catching the amber light from a nearby hearth. Her eyes are wide, caught between fear and admiration as she watches her grandmother take aim. Fenris, a towering gray wolf with glistening amber eyes, stands low and snarling in the open doorway. His fur shimmers with both cold blue moonlight and the faint orange flicker of interior firelight. Mist from the forest behind him seeps inward through the door, diffusing the cold, spectral glow of the outside world. The setting feels grounded and cinematic — weathered stone walls, a rough wooden floor, exposed beams, and bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters. A staircase recedes into shadow at the edge of the frame. The lighting contrasts warm hearthlight with icy blue moonlight, creating chiaroscuro depth and emotional intensity. Atmosphere: Dust and smoke hang suspended in the air. The mood is quiet yet electrified — a single breath before violence. The visual tension forms a perfect triangle between Madeleine, Red, and Fenris, embodying generations of defiance and mythic confrontation.

(Madeleine’s Voice, cold and steady)
“Lay a filthy claw on my Red, and I’ll end you where you’re standing, you son of a bastard wolf.”

(Fenris’ Voice, taunting)
“Brave words from an old woman. Think that little toy will stop me?”

(Madeleine’s Voice, cold and steady)
“Shut it, Fenris. Oh I know your name. You’re about to learn mine.”

That’s Grandmother Madeleine for you—never one to mince words, especially with a rifle in hand. Fenris snarled, his lip curling in a mocking grin.

But Grandmother didn’t flinch. Her finger rested firmly on the trigger, her eyes locked on the wolf.

(Madeleine’s Voice, sharp)
“You want a war? You’ve got one. Bienvenue en enfer, Fenris — Welcome to Hell. You’re in my house now. J’ai amené des renforts — I brought reinforcements.”

Before he could lunge, the door burst open, and in strode my mother, Élodie, with Sylvie close behind. Élodie’s knife glinted in the dim light, and Sylvie’s axe looked ready to split Fenris in two.

A cinematic, photorealistic horizontal image inside a dimly lit, two-story French stone cottage. The heavy wooden door has just burst open, letting in cold blue twilight from a misty forest outside. Élodie Valois, a French woman in her late 40s with gray-streaked hair pinned back and a dark green cloak, steps forward with quiet intensity, holding a curved knife low but steady. Her expression is calm, resolute, and natural—confident but not exaggerated. Behind her, Sylvie Châtillon, a strong French woman in her 30s with an axe on her shoulder, enters with grounded strength and protective focus. Both women move with purpose, framed by the misty forest light behind them and a faint, warm hearth glow to the side. The mood is still, powerful, and quietly heroic—two women stepping into destiny, not posing for it. Style & atmosphere details: Lighting: Chiaroscuro contrast between the cold blue-gray twilight from the open door and the soft golden warmth from a hidden hearth. The light spills naturally across stone walls, aged wood, and the women’s cloaks. Composition: Horizontal, cinematic framing with a slight low angle to give grounded realism and subtle gravitas. Élodie is mid-step, Sylvie a pace behind, both caught mid-motion. Texture realism: Fine detail on wool, leather, weathered hands, and the stone walls of the cottage; faint mist creeping inside near the door. Tone: Gritty, mythic, intimate — evoking the sense of a moment between myth and history. Color palette: Deep greens, muted browns, cold misty blues, and touches of gold-orange light for visual tension. Expression and posture: Natural, unposed, with the emotional realism of women who’ve fought for survival, not glory.

(Élodie’s Voice, calm but lethal)
“Fais-lui goûter à l’enfer,” Make him taste hell. Hello, Fenris. Thought we’d join the party. Time to put an end to your little reign of terror.”

(Sylvie’s Voice, with fiery intensity)
“Remember me? I’ve got a thing about wolves overstaying their welcome.”

(Fenris’ Voice, a low, furious rumble)
“You think four women change fate? I am older than your names.”

(Madeleine’s Voice, with slow, absolute certainty)
“Older doesn’t mean wiser. It means tired. And we are finished being tired.”

❦
The Battle is On

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE: A photorealistic, gorgeously shot, high-tension image of Fenris, the massive gray wolf, standing at the edge of a shadowed stone cottage interior. He snarls as he backs toward the darker corners of the room, amber eyes wide and darting. His fur bristles with sweat and tension, and his muzzle curls in a mixture of rage and desperation. The firelight from the hearth glints off his damp coat, casting shifting shadows across the floor. His posture is no longer graceful—his movements have become erratic, uneven, as he realizes he is surrounded. Behind him, the corner of the cottage looms, cloaked in deep shadow and dust. Flecks of ash and faint embers drift in the charged air, caught in the golden glow. The image should feel cinematic and immersive—frozen in a moment of primal fear and unraveling control.

Fenris snarled, backing toward the shadows, his eyes darting between us, rage and desperation brewing beneath his bravado. His movements, once fluid, became erratic as he realized he was surrounded.

(Fenris’ Voice, venomous)
“You think this is over? You’ve only delayed your doom. I’ll tear through this village, one family at a time.”

(Madeleine’s Voice, ice-cold)
“Not in my woods, you bastard wolf.”

Grandmother stepped forward, rifle steady—raising the old iron-barrel rifle passed down from the female marshland hunters—cold, worn, and still fatal.

Then Madeleine’s voice rang out, steady as ever.

(Madeleine’s Voice, commanding)
“Red, Sylvie, move into position. Élodie, distract him.”

Fenris lunged.

The rifle cracked.

The bullet sang past his ear. A graze. Blood. A snarl—then a stumble.

Hunger gone. Calculation. Fear.

A cinematic, photorealistic horizontal still frame from a dark French Gothic fairy tale, set inside a storm-lit, two-story stone cottage at night. The atmosphere is charged with motion, heat, and tension — flickering orange firelight from a hearth contrasts against cold moonlight seeping through an upper window, casting long, broken shadows across the stone walls and wooden floorboards. In the left of the frame, Fenris, a massive gray wolf, dominates the composition. His form is captured mid-lunge downward, claws outstretched, fangs bared, and his glowing amber eyes locked on his prey. His fur ripples with motion blur, as if caught between frames of movement, and his body feels too large, too fast — unnatural, almost humanoid in its vertical leap. Dust, shattered wood, and embers burst into the air around him as he crashes through the confined space. On the right, Madeleine Valois, a silver-haired French matriarch clad in a dark wool coat, reacts in a heartbeat. Her body twists upward as she aims her long antique flintlock rifle directly toward the lunging wolf. The rifle is beautifully rendered — a polished walnut stock, brass fittings, and a fine barrel catching the firelight — exhaling a plume of smoke and muzzle flash that bathes her determined face in amber glow. Her expression is fierce, focused, and unflinching, embodying instinct and defiance. Her coat flares outward with her motion, the folds catching both orange and blue light. Beside her and slightly lower in the frame, Red Valois, a young French woman in a vivid red hooded cloak, crouches low, dagger in hand. Her cloak whips around her in motion, mirroring the wolf’s energy. Her expression burns with resolve — not fear — as she prepares to strike when the moment comes. The lighting is natural yet mythic — practical firelight glows from the hearth, reflecting in brass and steel, while pale moonlight pours through a shattered upstairs window, painting cold hues on Fenris’s fur. The air is thick with fog, smoke, drifting embers, and particles, giving depth and grit to the scene. The cinematography evokes the look of a real film still from an atmospheric French fantasy: Shot on a virtual 50mm lens for intimacy and cinematic compression. Shallow depth of field keeps Madeleine, Red, and Fenris razor-sharp while the background blurs into smoky abstraction. Subtle film grain, chromatic aberration, and lens halation mimic 35mm analog texture. Directional motion blur trails along Fenris’s hind limbs and Madeleine’s coat hem, creating authentic kinetic realism. The overall tone conveys urgency, defiance, and ancestral courage — a grandmother and granddaughter standing shoulder to shoulder against a myth reborn, in the heart of their home turned battlefield.

I tightened my grip on my dagger, the weight of the moment thrumming through my veins.

This was it—our plan, our fight. Not fear. Resolve.

This isn’t about the curse. It’s about who he’s always been—a coward who thrives on control, on fear. Not today.

Without hesitation, I moved into position, dagger at the ready. My mother circled Fenris, her movements deliberate and precise, her knife catching the faint light.

❦
Élodie Conjures Something Old

Élodie quickly conjured a salt circle and stepped forward—calm as ever. But the air changed the moment her foot crossed the threshold. She moved like she wasn’t entirely herself anymore—like the forest had threaded its will through her spine and whispered, “Speak now.”

She didn’t start in French.
No.
She opened her mouth—
and something older came through.
It was Occitan.

(Élodie’s Voice, chanting)
“Raïtz de tèrra, leva-te, estaca lo mal.
Vent de bòsc, vira, trenca la carn.
Aigas de luna, encèrcla, sòrta.
Per la fòrça vièlha, que lo lop càiga!”
(“Roots of the earth, rise and bind,
Winds of the forest, twist and grind,
Moonlit waters, shield and flow,
By ancient power, lay the beast low!”)

A cinematic, photorealistic horizontal still frame from a French historical fantasy film. The setting is a two-story stone cottage in the deep woods of Occatain — its rustic interior lit by a roaring hearth and a few flickering lanterns. The atmosphere is dense with fog, glowing embers, and suspended dust, evoking both age and enchantment. The air feels alive with ancient energy and breathless tension. Primary Characters: Élodie Valois, the elder conjurer, stands centered in the frame, her dark green wool cloak billowing slightly from unseen magical wind. Her silver-streaked hair glows faintly with the reflected hues of her incantation. Her posture is calm but commanding — one hand extended mid-chant, the other clutching a ceremonial dagger whose blade emits ribbons of gold and blue energy. Her stance embodies discipline and ancestral ritual: both grounded and fluid. She channels power through centuries of whispered Occatain tradition — not as spectacle, but as control. Red Valois stands slightly behind and to the left, half-crouched, ready to strike. Her red cloak trails dynamically, catching the light of the spell and hearth. Her expression is tense yet resolute; she’s prepared to defend, her dagger glinting near her side. Red’s positioning visually aligns her as Élodie’s successor — poised within the magic’s protection but ready to break through it if needed. Magical Action: Élodie is in the midst of casting the ancient ward of protection, an Occatain elemental spell that manifests as a circular field of rotating light. The barrier is made up of threads of wind, soil, mist, and emberlight, spiraling outward from her chest and hands. The ward creates visible refraction — bending the air around it like heat shimmer. Within the circular energy field, faint glyphs and symbols pulse and fade, echoing the language of old magic. The color palette of the magic glows in blues, golds, and faint greens, matching Élodie’s Occatain lineage and forest connection. Antagonist Presence: Beyond the glowing ward stands Fenris, the massive wolf. His body is partially distorted by the barrier’s energy, giving him a phantom-like edge where his form meets the ward. His fur bristles, and his eyes burn amber, filled with primal fury. His fangs glint in the firelight, but the ward prevents him from advancing — he’s suspended mid-motion, snarling in frustration as the magic ripples against him. The magical distortion subtly makes his size feel greater — as though he’s barely contained within the visible world. Lighting & Mood: Primary warm light: the hearth casts an amber-orange glow across the stone walls and wooden beams. Secondary cool light: moonlight filters faintly through a high window, mixing with the golden spelllight for a painterly contrast. The lighting balance captures the emotional duality — hearth warmth versus arcane power. The overall tone is holy tension — stillness and fury coexisting within the frame. Visual Atmosphere: Subtle fog and dust particles drift in the light, illuminated by the spell’s glow. The motion blur is minimal but effective: Elodie’s cloak hem, Red’s trailing hood, and faint particle trails from the spell. Film grain and soft halation create an authentic cinematic texture — evoking 35mm or vintage anamorphic film stock. Lens flare glances off the barrier’s edge, grounding the magic in physical realism. Emotional Tone: This moment feels suspended between faith and ferocity — the matriarch and the heir, confronting myth itself. The composition symbolizes lineage: Élodie as ancestral wisdom, Red as embodied defiance — both framed against the wolf’s violent, encroaching darkness.

The air shimmered.
A faint glow rose—soft, pulsing, not light exactly.
Her words had become a barrier, weaving between us and the wolf like thread made of wind and breath.

My breath caught.

I didn’t know the words.
But I felt them.

Felt the roots stir underfoot.
Felt the air fold in on itself like it had decided it was done being neutral.
Felt the candles gutter and hold.
Felt the forest listening.

I took a step forward, dagger steady, every nerve in my body humming with something new. Not just adrenaline—something more. Power. Purpose.

And then I caught it—the way my mother’s gaze flicked toward me, just for a second.

The air was thick with tension, but I saw it. The way she looked at me. Not with worry, not with hesitation—with certainty.

Élodie Valois, my mother, the woman who spent my entire life preparing me for moments like this, knew I was ready.

She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to.

And that? That meant everything.

(Élodie’s Voice, louder)
Give up, Fenris. This ends here.

And for the first time, I didn’t just believe her. I knew it, too.

I circled, dagger in hand, my eyes scanning for an opening.

❦
Fenris Runs…Upstairs

A photorealistic, horizontal cinematic image set inside a storm-lit, two-story French stone mansion at night. A colossal gray wolf, Fenris, is captured mid-leap—its soaked fur bristling, amber eyes glowing with fury and intelligence, body twisting between beast and something almost human, hind legs lifting in an unnatural, half-bipedal motion. Below him, two French women stand defiant: Red Valois in a drenched red hooded cloak, gripping a dagger, and her silver-haired grandmother Madeleine in a heavy wool coat, raising an antique flintlock rifle, her eyes fixed with cold determination. Lightning flashes through tall arched windows, blue light slicing across rain-mist and smoke, while warm firelight from the hearth flickers against wet stone walls and wood beams. Their faces are illuminated in a chiaroscuro mix of stormlight and ember glow. Fine motion blur trails Fenris’s leap and the swirl of cloaks; the air glimmers with suspended droplets, sparks, and fog. Textures of cloth, fur, and metal are tactile and true to life. The moment feels like the frozen heartbeat before impact—cinematic, mythic, and unmistakably French Gothic, blending realism, magical tension, and ancestral fury.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, Fenris moved.

“There he goes—up the stairs!”

A blur of fur and claws. Fast. Unnervingly fast.

“Did Fenris just run on two legs?”

For a moment, he looked human. But not for long.

Grandmother and I locked eyes. The world went quiet.
No words. Just understanding.

A cinematic, photorealistic horizontal image set inside a rustic, two-story French stone cottage at night. The camera captures four women in dynamic mid-motion — they have just chased Fenris the wolf and come to an abrupt stop at the base of a wooden staircase, their focus drawn sharply upward toward the unseen threat. The composition conveys momentum and breathless intensity, like a film still frozen in a moment of pursuit. Madeleine Valois, a strong older woman with silver hair tied loosely back, stands at the forefront. She wears a long dark brown coat over practical hunting clothes and grips an antique musket-style rifle tightly, angled upward as her expression hardens into fierce, maternal determination. Her coat flares slightly from recent motion, the hem catching warm firelight. Next to her, Red Valois — a younger woman in a deep red cloak over a rough-spun linen dress — crouches slightly, dagger raised, her cloak caught in mid-swing as though she’s just lunged forward. Her eyes are locked upward with fearless intensity, curls disheveled, expression alive with purpose. Behind them, Élodie stands half in shadow, wearing a dark green cloak. One of her hands glows faintly with a golden magical aura that softly illuminates her calm, vigilant face — the glow flickering like candlelight across the stone wall. Sylvie, the axe-wielder, is mid-step, one foot planted forward, her axe raised defensively, body poised between readiness and reaction. She wears a simple linen shirt and brown trousers, her jaw tense, gaze focused on the threat above. The lighting creates a stark visual contrast — warm orange firelight flickers from the hearth below, casting textured shadows across the stone walls and stair banister, while cool bluish moonlight filters from an unseen upstairs window, bathing the upper staircase in a ghostly glow. Wisps of fog and drifting dust particles fill the air, catching both sources of light. Subtle motion blur trails the women’s cloaks and limbs, conveying the aftermath of motion and readiness to strike. Fine film grain, lens halation around the lights, and shallow depth of field create the texture of an authentic 35mm film still from a French historical fantasy epic. The tone is raw, urgent, and grounded — four women united in defiance and resolve, standing on the edge of confrontation.

(Madeleine’s Voice, growling with certainty)
This is what I expected from a coward. That wolf’s not getting out of this house. Not on my watch.

She tightened her grip on her rifle, her expression set like stone.

(Madeleine’s Voice, commanding)
Red, we take the stairs. We’ll draw him out. Let’s move!

From downstairs, Sylvie’s voice called out, her axe ready.

(Sylvie’s Voice, calling up)
Élodie and I will hold things down here. Fenris doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. We’ve got this.

I nodded, adrenaline surging as I followed Grandmother toward the stairs. Fenris might think he could outlast us, but he had no idea who he was up against.

Grandmother turned to Sylvie, Élodie, and me, her voice firm and unshakable.

(Madeleine’s Voice, with fierce determination)
“Be ready. We strike fast and hard—no hesitation. Draw him out. When I give the signal, give him hell and finish him. Tear this house down from roof to cellar if you must. Show him who’s boss in these woods. He crossed the line; he walked into his own execution.”

Fenris’s growls swelled from upstairs, a low warning that shook the rafters.

The sharp click of Grandmother’s rifle cut clean through the tension—final as her words.

(Madeleine’s Voice, almost smiling)
“And they say women can’t fight. Let’s go, Red. Time to send this wolf to Hell.”

Then, she shouted—louder than Fenris’s rage:

(Madeleine’s Voice, calling out)
“You hear that, Fenris? The woods won’t save you this time!”

❦
Moving Upstairs

A horizontal, cinematic, photorealistic film still from a French historical fantasy drama, rendered with authentic lens realism and natural analog imperfection. The scene takes place inside a shadowy, stone-walled staircase within a two-story fairy-tale cottage, lit only by firelight below and moonlight behind. The camera is positioned slightly above the staircase, angled downward to capture Madeleine Valois and Red Valois ascending toward the viewer with fierce determination and unity of motion. Characters Madeleine Valois — a striking, silver-haired French woman in her late 60s — charges upward with controlled ferocity. She wears a dark wool coat and trousers, practical and period-accurate, her coat hem caught mid-motion in a faint directional motion blur, giving her stride energy and realism. Her antique French flintlock rifle is gripped tightly, angled forward as if ready to aim. Her expression is focused and resolute, no longer angry but fiercely composed — her eyes lifted slightly upward, as if locking on an unseen Fenris just beyond the frame. The subtle upward gaze adds narrative direction and psychological weight to the shot. Red Valois, her granddaughter, ascends beside her, her vivid crimson cloak trailing behind her in soft, believable blur. Her dagger is drawn, reflecting firelight along the blade. Her expression is fearless, brows furrowed, jaw set — the embodiment of courage learned through lineage. Her movement mirrors Madeleine’s, giving a sense of generational synchronicity — a united front climbing toward destiny. Lighting & Environment Firelight from the floor below casts warm orange tones up the stairwell, flickering along the rough stone walls and the wooden stair treads, which show visible wear and scuffing from years of use. Cold blue moonlight filters through a tall arched window behind them, creating a visual counterpoint — warmth below, coldness above, home meeting the wild. Fog and dust motes drift through the stairwell, catching the light and softening the atmosphere. Environmental details include a wall-mounted candle, the faint shadows of hanging herbs, and smoke haze blending into the cool light from the window. Cinematography & Realism Depth of field: true photographic separation, with both women’s faces in crisp focus while the background (window, wall edges, stair rail) softens into blur. This creates lens falloff realism akin to a 35mm focal depth. Film texture: subtle 35mm grain, lens halation around light sources, and natural color bounce between orange firelight and blue moonlight. Motion blur: faint trailing movement on Madeleine’s coat hem and Red’s cloak, adding fluidity and photographic believability. Color grading: earthy amber and deep teal palette reminiscent of films like The Revenant or Portrait of a Lady on Fire, maintaining historical authenticity with a mythic undertone. Composition: diagonal energy created by the rising stairs and flowing garments draws the eye upward — reinforcing the visual metaphor of ascent, defiance, and readiness for battle. Mood & Theme The scene feels like the moment before war — two generations of women united against encroaching darkness. The tone is mythic yet grounded, blending the emotional intensity of a historical epic with the tactile intimacy of a domestic space turned battlefield. It evokes strength through legacy, resilience through womanhood, and the sacred power of defiance. The final result is indistinguishable from a real film still, capturing not fantasy spectacle but the cinematic truth of movement, breath, and resolve.

We moved cautiously upstairs, Grandmother and I, our senses razor-sharp. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of shadow felt alive, brimming with danger.

I caught the way Grandmother’s grip tightened on her rifle—not in fear, but in something else.

Then, she exhaled. A slow, measured breath.

I know that look. That’s the “remembering old battles” look. The “this isn’t the first monster I’ve hunted, and it won’t be the last” look.

She’s been here before. Not in this house, not against Fenris, but in the fight.

Maybe it was the Shadow Vultures she once outwitted in the Northern Peaks.

Maybe it was that time she single-handedly fended off the Dune Stalkers—a ruthless pack of desert raiders who could cross the dunes faster than the wind.

No one else had ever escaped them alive. Madeleine did. And she left them running.

Or maybe—just maybe—she was seeing herself in me.

I wasn’t the little girl she used to tell stories to anymore. I wasn’t just Red, the one who inherited the family fire.

I was standing beside her, holding my own.

(Madeleine’s Voice, in a low, commanding whisper)
“You take that side of the hallway; I’ll take this one. Do not hesitate to strike.”

I nodded, mirroring her stance. Just before she turned, she hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.

In the dim glow of the lantern light, I caught it. A flicker of something in her eyes—not worry, not hesitation, but pride. The kind that wasn’t loud or boastful, but steady, certain. Like she’d always known this moment would come.

Then, she exhaled, tightening her grip on her rifle.

The hallway stretched out before us, the dim light throwing long, jagged shadows on the walls.

(Madeleine’s Voice, sharp and urgent)
“Red, look out!”

We drop. Slide. Rise. His swipe splits air.

A snarl. Frustration.

A photorealistic, cinematic horizontal image that captures the climactic battle in a shadowed upstairs hallway of an ancient French stone mansion-cottage. The scene is lit by flickering orange firelight and smoky blue ambient tones, creating a haunting chiaroscuro atmosphere. Smoke, floating embers, and drifting dust hang suspended in the air, illuminated by shafts of fractured light that cut through the chaos. The tone evokes an operatic realism — as if this were a key frame from an award-winning fantasy drama. The setting feels intimate yet perilous: rough stone walls, warped wooden floorboards, and a narrow passage lined with flickering iron sconces and fallen lanterns. The surfaces glisten faintly with moisture and heat distortion from the fires below, suggesting that the battle has already spread through the cottage. In the distance, faint sparks and a warm haze pour from a stairwell, emphasizing depth and perspective. At the center of the frame, Red — a young French woman in her early twenties with tousled dark hair and a weathered red wool cloak — dives to the right, dagger gripped tightly in her hand. Her face is fierce and focused, brow furrowed, her expression one of both terror and resolve. The movement of her cloak arcs like liquid flame, trailing behind her mid-air, lit from below by the warm flare of a fire or magical glow. Her linen dress and leather boots show mud and wear, grounding her in tactile realism. Opposite her, Madeleine Valois, an older French woman with silver hair swept back and a long brown wool coat, steps back with calculated precision. She holds her antique flintlock rifle at the ready, bracing the butt against her shoulder as the barrel flashes with the faint glow of powder about to ignite. Her eyes are steely, her expression grim and protective. Her coat flares at the motion, revealing hints of layered wool and leather — battle-worn but dignified. Her figure embodies the calm fury of a matriarch who has survived everything the world could throw at her. Between them, the wolf Fenris dominates the visual space — a massive, dew-dampened gray beast lunging from the center of the corridor. His body twists mid-motion, caught in a supernatural blur of muscle and motion. His eyes glow faint amber in the firelight, his fangs bared and fur bristling as if electrified by magic. His front claws rake the floor, scattering splinters and debris. The mist curling around his form gives him an ethereal, otherworldly presence — a creature both real and mythic. Around them, the air itself seems alive: embers drift, wood groans, a shattered lantern leaks light across the floorboards, and the faint outline of an arcane sigil flickers against a wall, barely visible in the haze. Every surface — the grain of the wood, the fabric of their clothing, the fur of the wolf — is rendered with precise textural realism, as though this were a still from a 70mm epic. The composition follows classic cinematic framing: A triangular layout anchoring Red, Madeleine, and Fenris as the three vertices of conflict. A low, forward camera angle, slightly off-center, capturing the illusion of depth and motion — as if the viewer is caught in the middle of the chaos. Dynamic lighting split between warm (firelight) and cool (smoke-filtered window light), creating a perfect balance of emotional tone: fear, power, unity, defiance. The mood is primal and mythic — a generational standoff between human will and monstrous instinct. The interplay of flame and fog makes the scene pulse with both realism and allegory. It is not merely a fight but an act of inheritance — a moment where bloodline, memory, and vengeance converge in motion. The overall aesthetic draws inspiration from cinematic realism found in films like The Northman, The Witch, Brotherhood of the Wolf, and The Revenant, but seen through a French fairy tale lens — every texture, breath, and glint of light serving the story of women reclaiming power in the face of the ancient and predatory.

“Nice try, Fenris! You’ll have to do better than that.”

Grandmother glanced at me, her expression a mix of concern and pride.

(Madeleine’s Voice, steady)
“You good, Red?”

“Better than ever. Not a scratch.”

A fierce grin spread across her face as she raised her rifle.

(Madeleine’s Voice, determined)
“That’s my Red. Let’s finish this damn wolf.”

We pressed forward, relentless. Fenris backed away, his growls rumbling like thunder. Grandmother’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade.

(Madeleine’s Voice, mocking)
“Where are you going, Fenris? We’re just getting started. What’s the matter? Scared of me? You damn well should be!”

Her rifle clicked, the sound echoing through the hallway as she aimed with unshakable resolve.

(Madeleine’s Voice, louder, her voice dripping with venom)
“Tick-tock, Fenris. You’re in my house now. Run, run, little wolf, your time is up! Not so tough, are we?”

❦
All-Out War

A cinematic, photorealistic horizontal film still from a dark French Gothic fairy tale set inside a storm-lit, two-story stone cottage. The scene captures the exact instant of violent confrontation between Fenris, a massive gray wolf, and the two women who stand against him — Madeleine Valois and Red Valois. Fenris lunges from the left side of the frame toward the women, his enormous form a blur of fur and fury. His claws rake forward, hind legs pushing off the shattered wooden floor, sending embers, dust, and debris flying into the air. His eyes glow an unnatural amber, and his open jaws reveal glistening teeth mid-snarl, frozen in the split second before contact. His fur is slick with dew and stormlight, subtly reflecting the orange from the nearby hearth and the pale blue-gray moonlight filtering through a high arched window. In the foreground, Madeleine Valois, an older French woman with silver hair pulled back and fire in her eyes, braces her body as she fires her antique flintlock rifle. The muzzle flash illuminates her stern, battle-hardened face in an amber glow, while a faint reflection of the flash dances across her coat. Smoke curls upward from the rifle, mingling with the foggy air. Beside her, Red Valois, a young French woman in a red cloak that flares dramatically behind her, stands poised and defiant. Her expression is fierce, dagger raised defensively as a glint of reflected light flashes along the blade — mirroring Fenris’s glowing eyes. Her stance conveys both tension and control, as if she’s ready to strike the moment Fenris breaks through. The lighting is a masterful blend of warm and cool tones — the firelight from the hearth casting orange and gold hues across the lower frame, while cold moonlight from the window highlights the upper parts of the room and Fenris’s back. The depth of field is shallow and cinematic, focusing tightly on the three figures while the background (wooden beams, storm-lit window, falling dust) fades into a soft, dreamlike blur. Subtle motion blur trails along Fenris’s fur and limbs, giving the sense of raw speed and imminent impact. The atmosphere is alive with fog, embers, and smoke, suggesting both the mystical and the primal. This moment feels like a frame lifted directly from a French historical fantasy film — one of mythic realism, raw emotion, and feminine defiance at its core.

The chase was chaos—a blur of motion, noise, and fury as Fenris darted down the hallway and back to the stairs. Grandmother and I followed, relentless. The house felt alive with the energy of the fight, every creak of wood and burst of sound feeding the fire within me.

Grandmother charged after him, her boots thundering against the stairs.

(Madeleine’s Voice, fierce)
“Heads up! Wolf incoming! He’s not leaving this house.”

Fenris, desperate now, made a break for the main level. But as he hit the bottom of the stairs, he froze, his claws skidding on the wooden floor.

We had him surrounded.

Fenris skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs—cornered.

Sylvie and Mother stood firm, weapons gleaming.

(Sylvie’s Voice)
“Going somewhere, wolf?”

(Élodie’s Voice)
“You’ve run out of forest, Fenris.”

He snarled, but the flicker of doubt gave him away.

(Fenris’ Voice)
“I’ll tear you apart before—”

(Sylvie’s Voice)
“Try it. You’ll fail.”

I raised my dagger at the top of the stairs.

“You’re surrounded, Fenris. This ends now.”

(Fenris’ Voice)
“You underestimate me.”

❦
All Fairy Tale Hell Breaks Loose

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE: A cinematic, photorealistic moment inside a dimly lit, two-story stone cottage just before an epic battle. The atmosphere is thick with smoke, dust, and anticipation. At the center stands Grandmother Madeleine, silver hair pulled back, long coat hanging open, her antique rifle leveled and gleaming in the lanternlight. Her eyes are cold steel, jaw set, mouth open mid-command—she is the unbreakable matriarch, rallying her family for war. To her left stands Sylvie, axe gripped tightly, body coiled and ready to launch. To her right, Élodie, her hands already crackling faintly with golden magical light, eyes fierce and focused. Slightly behind, Red Valois, her red cloak catching the hearthlight, stands tall and defiant, dagger ready, lips parted as if catching her grandmother’s final words. From above, the low ceiling groans under the weight of something moving—Fenris’s growls echo from the second floor, deep and monstrous, rattling dust from the rafters. The house feels like it’s holding its breath before shattering apart. The golden firelight mixes with cold blue moonlight spilling through a tall window, illuminating the worn wood floors, stone walls, and shadows crawling like tension. This is not a still scene—it’s a frozen moment of impending war. The family is unified, fierce, and resolute. Madeleine's voice practically echoes from the frame as she declares war on the wolf.

Grandmother cocked her rifle, the sound like a final bell.

(Madeleine’s Voice)
“Time’s up, Fenris. Justice is being served.”

We all met eyes—united.

(Madeleine’s Voice)
“NOW!”

And all hell broke loose.

We moved as one, striking from all sides. Élodie conjured a blinding surge of light, her magic crackling through the air like a storm.

(Élodie’s Voice, chanting)
“De fòrça naissa lo freg,
Mon vam l’espaventa, l’escura e l’bleg!”
“Out of might, make him fright,
Compel my power, drive him from sight!”

The spell struck Fenris, sending him stumbling back with a furious howl.

(Madeleine’s Voice, shouting)
Positions!

Chairs flew, tables overturned, wood splinters scattered like sparks.

Fenris roared, his rage boiling over.

❦
Sylvie Strikes

(Madeleine’s Voice, sharply)
“Sylvie, counter left! Red, take the rear! Let’s move!”

(Élodie’s Voice, irritated)
“He just ruined my favorite chair.”

(Madeleine’s Voice, sharply)
“Forget the chair, Élodie!”

And then—
Sylvie struck.
Like the guardian of the woods she is.

A hyper-realistic, cinematic still frame from a French dark fantasy film, set inside a storm-lit, two-story stone cottage. The atmosphere is tense and electrified, illuminated by the flicker of a roaring hearth and the pale flashes of lightning through narrow windows. At the center of the frame, Sylvie Valois—a short-haired French woman dressed in a weathered brown linen shirt and wool trousers—swings her axe with ferocious precision. Both of her hands grip the wood handle naturally, with visible strain in her forearms and tight knuckle tension that conveys the full physicality of the strike. Her posture is coiled and powerful, her body twisted mid-swing like a gladiator in combat. Her expression is fierce but controlled: jaw clenched, brows knit, eyes locked on her enemy. Facing her is Fenris, a massive gray wolf rendered with lifelike anatomical realism. His fur bristles with static and tension, catching both the warm orange light from the hearth and the cold blue tones from the storm outside. He’s lunging forward, one massive paw outstretched like a tiger striking at prey, his muscles rippling, fangs bared, amber eyes burning with fury and intelligence. The surrounding environment is alive with chaos — flying debris, embers, dust, and shattered wood hang in the air, caught in the dynamic interplay of light and shadow. The camera captures the instant before contact, when time feels suspended. The cinematography mimics a shallow depth of field shot on a 50mm lens — Sylvie and Fenris are sharply in focus, while the background (stone walls, stair railings, and hanging herbs) falls into a soft, painterly blur. The lighting blends practical sources: firelight glowing in amber tones and lightning flashes bleeding in cool blue hues. Subtle film grain, lens flare, and motion blur on the axe and Fenris’s fur convey tangible movement and cinematic realism. The overall tone is raw, mythic, and grounded — a fusion of French Gothic naturalism and modern epic cinematography, evoking the emotional charge of a woman defending the sacred heart of her home from an ancient evil.

She moved like a storm in human form—swift, precise, furious.
Her movements were fast, in sync, and awe-inspiring.

Her axe flashed through the air, catching Fenris across the shoulder in a blur of silver and bone.

Left. Then right.

Fenris snarled, striking the air in a blind fury—
but Sylvie countered, her blade cutting through his chaos like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

(Sylvie’s Voice, roaring):
“For the woods!”

Another strike—clean, brutal, righteous.

(Sylvie)
“For my sisters!”

She pivoted on instinct.

(Sylvie, one final cry):
“For every girl you thought wouldn’t fight back!
And for those you’ve harmed!”

Then—

(Sylvie, bellowing in French, blade high):
“Pour toutes celles qu’il a sous-estimées… et pour celles qu’il ne fera plus jamais saigner!”
(“For every one he underestimated… and for those he will never make bleed again!“)

I ducked under a flying table, the world a blur of fury and wood smoke.
Every nerve lit. Every breath sacred.
Sylvie was a force of nature—not the soft kind.
The kind that tears trees in half and leaves the air smelling like warning.

I gripped my dagger and surged forward, the words falling from my mouth like a vow:

“For all women.”

❦
The Kitchen

Fenris then darted into the kitchen.

(Sylvie)
“There he goes!”

Madeleine didn’t flinch. She hurled the cast-iron cocotte. Chipped. Blackened. An heirloom with aim.

It hit stone inches from his skull. Stone dented. Wolf flinched.

(Madeline’s voice)
“That belonged to my great-grandmother,” she growled, “swung it during the bread riots of 1789. Seems it’s still good for breaking tyrants.”

Fenris staggered, caught off guard by the sheer force of her throw—and by the history that backed it.

Élodie stepped forward, her voice sharp as steel:

(Elodie’s voice)
“Pour les filles perdues—et celles qui ne le seront jamais !”
For the lost girls—and those who never will be!

Behind her, the wind cracked through the broken shutters like it heard her rage and responded.

Madeleine didn’t miss a beat.

(Madeleine’s Voice, commanding)
Red! Pots and pans—
“Fais-lui goûter à l’enfer !”
Make him taste hell!

I grabbed the iron skillet, heart pounding. Fenris lunged.

But before his claws could reach me—
Élodie raised one hand. No chant this time. No salt circle.
Just a guttural, ancient snap of the tongue. A reflex older than thought:

(Élodie, under her breath, fierce and fast):
“Fòcs vièlhs, frapa ara!”
Ancient fire—strike now!

The kitchen flared.

Every flame in the hearth leapt toward Fenris as if yanked by strings. Smoke curled with purpose. The cast iron stove groaned. The sigils she’d etched into the corners of the room days before ignited—invisible until this moment.

I hurled whatever I could grab. Even the kitchen sink – with the assistance of Élodie.

(Élodie, under her breath, fierce and fast):
“Heads up, Sylvie!”

In a single, breathless instant, Fenris was flung from the kitchen like a broken myth, crashing into the heart of the cottage.

“Sorry about the sink, Grandmother.”

(Madeleine’s Voice, chuckling)
“Later, Red. We got a wolf to destroy!”

❦
Take Him Down!

Fenris staggered, his movements frantic and wild. Élodie’s knife flashed as she struck with precision.

(Élodie’s Voice)
“This is for everyone you’ve harmed, Fenris.”

Grandmother’s voice rang out, commanding and fierce.

(Madeleine’s Voice, with finality)
“Red! Take him down!—for all of us!”

I stopped. Just for a breath. A heartbeat.

My grip on the dagger was steady, but for the first time, I felt the weight of it. The weight of all of it—this fight, my mother’s legacy, my grandmother’s history, everything that led to this moment.

And then I heard it—not in words, but in feeling.

The rustle of leaves outside, the hush of the floor beneath my boots. The forest was listening. And I was, at last, listening back.

“The forest will always tell you what it needs.” My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, not as memory—but as truth.

I wasn’t just ready. I had arrived.

Fenris was wounded, snarling, but he still grinned—like he knew something I didn’t.

(Fenris’ Voice, low and knowing)
“You think this makes you free? I’ve seen that gaze once—long ago. A girl who wore the Grove like a cloak. She laughed at me. The woods laughed with her.”

My breath caught.

The flicker in his eyes wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

But not of me. Of something he had chosen. A darkness that shaped him, that consumed him.

His grin faltered, just slightly, when he saw it wasn’t in me.

“Not today,” I whispered.

The sound of my mother whispering spells into the wind. The way my grandmother held her rifle steady, never doubting for a second. Sylvie’s axe, raised in defiance.

I wasn’t alone. I never was.

My grip tightened. The dagger flashed.

Fenris began to lunge toward me.

“Je n’ai pas besoin de protection—j’ai ma revanche!” (“I don’t need protection—I have my revenge!”)

My blade struck true. Time seemed to freeze as Fenris’s eyes widened—not in shock, but in a strange, almost knowing acceptance. His final breath came with a low, rattling exhale, as if whispering something too quiet to hear.

And then, he was gone.

And never would be. He died knowing I was free.

And I lived knowing I had ended him.

The house fell silent, save for the sound of our heavy breathing. Sunlight broke through the windows, casting golden rays over us.

We did it.

❦
The Wolf Defeated

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing. My chest heaved from the effort of the fight, my fingers trembling as I wiped the sweat from my brow. For a moment, everything was still. Fenris lay motionless at our feet, his once-terrifying presence reduced to a fading shadow.

“Is it over?”

I wanted the answer to be yes, but my pulse still thundered in my ears. Relief began to seep in, tempered by the raw intensity of what we’d just faced. My hands still shook, a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion coursing through me.

(Madeleine’s Voice, matter-of-fact)
“I haven’t moved that fast since the Northern Peaks chase 5 years ago.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her unflappable tone, even now.

(Élodie’s Voice, calmly wiping her blade)
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in action like that, Mother.”

(Madeleine’s Voice)
“You’re telling me. I didn’t think my heart could beat that fast.”

And it all went according to plan. Despite the improvising, we got it done. Mission accomplished, ladies. Fenris is finished. Good riddance.”

I exhaled, the weight of the battle settling over me. Months of planning, tracking, and strategizing had led to this moment. And now? It was done.

We did it. He followed me here, just like we knew he would, and we were ready. But even with all the preparation… it still feels surreal.

I glanced around the wrecked room, the signs of our hard-fought victory etched into every broken piece of furniture and splintered wood.

(Sylvie’s Voice, nodding)
“We weren’t just fighting a wolf. We were fighting for each other. For everything we stand for.”

I looked to my mother and grandmother, standing firm amidst the chaos. The bond between us—strengthened by fire and fury—felt unshakable.

This wasn’t just my victory. It was ours.

(Madeleine’s Voice, with quiet pride)
“Houses can be rebuilt, but family? Family is what matters. And today, we showed exactly who we are.”

(Élodie’s Voice, softly)
“And we did it together. No one of us could have done this alone.”

I nodded, their words sinking in. For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged among them—not just as their daughter or granddaughter, but as their equal.

The weight of what we had achieved settled over me, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like pride.

“Now what do we do about him?”

(Madeleine’s Voice, practical and unbothered)
“His burial’s all planned out. The trash collection’s coming any minute now. That’s his funeral—straight to the compost heap. Let the worms sort him out.”

I blinked, her words catching me off guard, before letting out a short laugh.

“Trash collection? Really?”

(Madeleine’s Voice)
“Red, I’ve been ten steps ahead of this whole thing. You’d better believe the fairy tale trash folks already got my message. This is their problem now.”

It was such a Madeleine thing to say that I couldn’t help but grin.

Only Grandmother could defeat a monster and schedule his disposal in the same breath.

❦
The Story Grows

In the days that followed, the village quickly heard of what we’d done. Our story spread like wildfire—a tale of courage and unity that inspired everyone who heard it.

“It’s not every day a family of fierce women takes down a monster like Fenris.”

And it wasn’t.

But for me, the victory wasn’t just about defeating Fenris. It was about defeating the doubts and fears that had once held me back.

It’s funny how facing a wolf can make everything else seem smaller.

I reflected on the battle often, replaying every strike, every moment of trust and unity. The doubts that had once plagued me—the nagging question of whether I could ever truly stand beside my mother and grandmother—were gone.

“I used to wonder if I belonged in their story. But now I know—I do.

With each passing day, I felt a new confidence building within me. I hadn’t just survived the forest’s darkest threat; I had become something more because of it.

I didn’t just join their legacy. I became part of it.

I glanced toward the Sacred Grove one morning, the wind whispering through the trees like a promise. A smile tugged at my lips.

“I’m not just part of their story anymore—I’m writing my own.”

And as the forest swayed around me, its shadows no longer felt as ominous.

This is just the beginning.

❦
Epilogue

Months had passed since Fenris’s defeat, and the forest had grown quiet. Too quiet. At first, the silence felt like a blessing—a reprieve after the chaos. But as the days stretched on, it began to feel… wrong.

There was something unsettling about the way the forest seemed to hold its breath. Even as we carried on with our work, the weight of the silence pressed down on us, heavier with each passing day.

Mother felt it, too.

(Élodie’s Voice, thoughtful)
“The balance here feels… off.”

I watched her as she walked through the Sacred Grove, her steps careful, her brow furrowed. The respect she commanded in the village had only grown after Fenris’s fall, but I could see the unease in her eyes.

She wasn’t wrong.

The shadows in the trees seemed darker now, as if the light didn’t dare touch them. The creatures that usually flitted through the woods were quieter, more restless. Even the wind felt different, carrying whispers I couldn’t quite understand.

The forest isn’t at peace. It’s waiting.

I stood at the edge of the woods one evening, my fingers brushing the cool bark of a tree. The air was heavy, charged with something I couldn’t name.

But this time, I wasn’t afraid.

The woods still whispered—in French. Not the crisp tongue of the village, but something older. Rounder. The dialect of witches who never forgot their names. The voice of grandmothers who whispered over boiling pots, of girls who disappeared into stories and came back louder.

As I stepped into the trees, I murmured the tune that had always lived in my bones:

“Promenons-nous dans les bois, pendant que le loup n’y est pas…”
(Let’s walk in the woods, while the wolf isn’t there…)

But the wolf had been there.
And he was never coming back.

The roots stirred beneath my boots. The wind curled around my shoulders, warm as a shawl.

The forest had always been watching. But now? It spoke my name.

Fenris was just the beginning.

I let out a slow sigh, the realization settling over me like a weight.

“He wasn’t the only monster hiding in these woods.”

Beneath the roots, Noxmar stirs. I see it now—sigils like Fenris’s etched into the stone of forgotten altars. A new pattern. A warning. A map.

Last night, I dreamed of a girl with silver eyes and a voice like a blade. She whispered one word:

“Draemora.”

I don’t know who she is yet. But I will.

The forest still watches. The silence still waits.

“I’ll be here. I’ll be ready. Not today. Not ever.”

And as the trees swayed around me and the roots humming beneath my feet again, I felt no fear—only resolve.

❦
The End? Not Yet!

(Red’s Voiceover)
“Hold on. You’ve seen how it ended. But did you really think we’d stop there? Happily ever after? Not on my watch.

Some will doubt this story — they always do.
So let me show you the night before: the plan, the fire, the trap.

Madeleine, Mother, and Sylvie wanted this part earlier.
But give away our big moment? Please.
My idea won. Of course it did.

And if this doesn’t convince you how ready we were… well, that’s on you.”

❦

Flashback:
“The Night Before the Trap“

(Red’s Voiceover)
I wanted to call this scene Planning for the Kill.
Madeleine, Mother, and Sylvie said it sounded too Fenris.

Fair—but fairy tales are brutal. Just ask Snow White and Cinderella. Not the glittered-up versions—the originals, where blood pooled in glass slippers and girls were sold off like property.
But anyway, the moment you’ve been waiting for…”

Setting: A small, stone cottage at the edge of the Sacred Grove. Shadows flicker across the walls. A heavy storm rolls in outside. Inside, a fire crackles. Four women sit around a battered table—maps, sigils, knives, herbs, and an old rifle between them.

(Red’s Voiceover)
Before the blood. Before the forest called my name. Before I ended Fenris—There was this.

The night we stopped being just family—and became a force.

Some wolves are born. Others are fed.

A cinematic, hyper-realistic digital painting in a dark fairy-tale style. The setting is a small, stone cottage at the edge of an ancient Sacred Grove during a thunderstorm. Rain lashes against the window while firelight and candlelight cast shifting golden shadows across rough stone walls. At the center, four women sit around a battered wooden table covered in maps, herbs, sigils drawn in salt, knives, and an old hunting rifle. The atmosphere is heavy with tension, resolve, and ancestral magic. Red, a young woman with curly dark hair and expressive eyes, wears a weathered red cloak and earth-toned dress. She sits forward, hands clasped, her face lit by the flicker of the fire—determined but slightly fearful. Madeleine, an older woman with silver hair tied back neatly, sits at the table’s head holding the rifle with quiet authority. She wears a dark brown wool coat and practical clothes. Her face is lined with strength and wisdom—this is the matriarch, calm before battle. Élodie, a serene woman in a deep green cloak, traces a rune in salt near the candles. She glows softly in the firelight, her expression peaceful yet powerful—an earth-bound mystic connected to the Grove’s ancient energy. Sylvie, strong and vigilant, sits opposite with an axe across her lap. She wears simple forest-brown clothes, her short dark hair tousled, her gaze steady and fierce—she’s the pragmatic hunter ready to strike. Each woman’s posture shows resolve and unity: a sisterhood preparing for confrontation. Outside, lightning faintly illuminates moss-covered trees through the window. Inside, warm amber candlelight contrasts against the cold blue tones of the storm, creating a chiaroscuro balance of fire and rain, humanity and wilderness. Cinematic lighting, 2.39:1 aspect ratio, realistic depth of field, subtle texture of candle smoke in the air, painterly yet photo-realistic style reminiscent of The Witch (2015) or Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019). Keywords: dark fairy tale realism, feminist mythic atmosphere, sacred forest, firelight and storm contrast, cinematic composition, emotional gravity, sisterhood, courage before the hunt.

(Madeleine, steadying the rifle)
“Then it’s settled. If all goes to plan, we’ll be rid of Fenris for good.
But don’t get overconfident—let him be the one who underestimates us.
It’ll only hasten his downfall. Just as planned.”

(Élodie, lighting candles in a deliberate triangle)
“Like any man, he follows the scent of power. The moment Red sets foot in that house, he’ll come inside. Uninvited. And our time to act.The Grove’s been humming strange lately. Something…old. Watching. Hungry.”

(Sylvie, sharpening her axe)
“We make him think it’s his idea. A lone girl in the woods. An easy target to manipulate and take advantage of. A legacy waiting to be broken. But swiftly deny him what he craves. Control. Terror. Over all women and girls.”

(Madeleine, steadying the rifle)
“And we don’t break. We don’t back down. Not this line. Not this time.
Red, Sylvie, and I have tracked his every move—from cave to village—for months. His weaknesses are evident.

But first rule of survival: stay alert, adapt fast. Élodie, Sylvie—when I say the words, ‘I brought some friends too’—that’s your cue. You come in hard. No hesitation. Give it all you got – your way. He won’t see it coming.

And if it comes to it…
(Madeleine cocks her rifle)
Do what you must.
And quick. So he suffers the pain he’s inflicted on everyone.”

(Red, quietly)
“And what if he’s stronger than we thought? This is Fenris—not a dragon, or some old fairy tale giant.

He’s something worse.
Worse than any man.
Something not human.

What if we’ve underestimated the depths of his sadistic depravity?”

They all look at Red.

(Madeleine, calm but fierce)
“We’re stronger than he ever imagined. Four women against one wolf.
We have the upper hand at every turn. He’ll find out soon enough who he’s dealing with. Every inch of that house—from the front door to the roof—is ours.”

(Sylvie, quiet)
“And what if he sees through it? I’ve faced villains. I’ve faced monsters.
So have you, Madeleine. And you too, Élodie.
But Fenris…He’s different. Unpredictable. A new kind of threat. One we’ve never faced before.”

(Madeleine)
“Then we do what we’ve always done. Adapt. Survive. Strike back harder. He may be something new— but so are we.
And that hasn’t stopped us before. And Red? She’s more than ready.”

(Élodie, tracing a rune in salt across the table’s surface)
“I’ve warded every threshold, Mother.
If he steps foot inside that house, the forest will know.
With the Sacred Grove’s aid, I’ve conjured incantations—old ones.
They should slow him down long enough for us to strike.”

(Madeleine, calm but firm)
“Do whatever’s needed, Élodie. Every edge we have—use it.”

(Sylvie, nodding)
“Élodie and I will cover the exits. If he runs, he won’t get far.
And my axe? It never misses. Fenris knows that well.”

(Madeleine)
“And if it comes to it, Sylvie—strike him down. Fast. Your way.
By any means necessary.”

Red looks at the three of them. Her voice shakes slightly—but not from fear.

(Red)
“So I’m the bait? Alone in the woods with a basket of goodies and a knife. What if things go really bad and Fenris gains the upper hand—
what’s the backup plan then? I vanish into thin air with my red cape?
Or just cry wolf and hope Goldilocks and the Three Bears kick in the door?”

(Madeleine)
“No, Red. We don’t need Goldilocks, bears—or magic capes.
You’re the blade. The executioner, the final judgment to his downfall.
Show him no mercy—just as he’s shown none to others.

Red, know this. If we didn’t believe you were ready, we never would’ve put you in danger. You’ve been more than ready since you were a little girl. All we needed was the right moment.

Your moment has finally come.”

Silence.

(Élodie)
“Grandmother’s right, Red. You’re not alone in this fight. It takes more than magic and strength to kill a monster. It’s love and trust. Something Fenris never will have. We’re all in this together. Remember—we lure him with the myth.”

(Sylvie)
“And end him with the truth. The sharp truth—like the edge of my axe.
If we can be the spark…maybe it saves the lives of women and girls everywhere.”

They each place their hands atop the rifle. It’s not a weapon now. It’s a ritual object. The storm outside swells.

(Madeleine)
“When the moment comes, Red—don’t hesitate. Remember what we’ve taught you. And what the forest has shown you. You’re ready. You’ll know what to do.”

(Red, after a long breath)
“I won’t hesitate. I’m scared… but I’ve learned from the best. From all of you. Fenris isn’t walking out of that house alive. Not with us standing in it. For the woods. For all women and girls.”

(Red’s Voiceover)
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the trap was set. And the four of us waited with ancient fire in our bones. The forest never forgot that night.

❦
Fin.