The sun rose slowly over Red Fern Hollow, spilling golden light across the village nestled between ancient forests and towering mountains. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of woodsmoke mixed with fresh herbs and damp earth. Children ran between the huts, laughing and chasing each other, their bare feet kicking up dust. Women spread grains to dry on woven mats, and men repaired tools or carried water from the river. Everything seemed peaceful, almost too peaceful for a place that had survived countless threats. But Lydia knew better.
At the edge of the forest, she paused, her basket of herbs hanging from her arm. Her sharp eyes scanned the horizon, tracing the jagged peaks of the Sentinel Mountains. The wind carried an unusual scent smoke, but not from the village. Her chest tightened. Danger was coming, and she felt it deep in her bones, like a thread of tension pulled taut. She walked past the training ground where the youth warriors practiced with wooden staffs. Their movements were precise, taught by the elder warriors, but their faces were tense, and their hands trembled. Lydia's eyes narrowed. These young men had strength, yes, but courage? That would be tested soon enough.
"Morning, Lydia," one called out, bowing slightly. She nodded, keeping her face calm. Some respected her; others whispered that a girl could never be a warrior and they all laughed. Let them whisper. She had faced more in the forest than most would ever know wolves, storms, and shadows that moved like living darkness. Lydia's parents were waiting outside their hut. Her mother, Mara, knelt by the fire, arranging medicinal herbs to dry. Her father, Eliah, sharpened a hunting knife with steady, practiced strokes.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"Am sorry, I was gathering herbs and checking the forest," Lydia replied.
"And?" he asked, lifting his gaze.
"Nothing… but the wind was strange," she said. "I feel something coming and I don't think is a good thing."
Her mother's hands froze. "Stay alert, my daughter," Mara said softly. "The forests grow restless. Listen to the whispers of the wind they warn us."
Eliah stood, gripping a long staff. "Time to train," he said.
Lydia followed him to the open space behind their hut. This training ground had been their classroom, their battlefield, their sanctuary. Here, she had learned every skill: how to move silently through the forest, strike with precision, and survive when all else failed. Memories of her earliest lessons flashed in her mind: the day she had fallen, scraped and bruised, with her father's voice echoing in the clearing, "Rise, Lydia. A warrior doesn't fall."
"Ready?" Eliah asked.
Lydia planted her feet firmly, the dew cooling her bare soles. Her father swung his staff. She blocked with hers. He struck at her feet; she leapt, twirled, and returned the attack. Their staffs clashed, each blow ringing sharply. Every strike pushed her to move faster, think quicker, anticipate.
"You're getting too strong for your father," Mara called from the doorway, smiling.
They both laughed, sweat beading Eliah forehead. "If you keep this up, you'll surpass me."
Pride swelled in Lydia's chest. Everything she was every skill, every strength came from the lessons of her parents.
Suddenly, a horn sounded across the valley three short, urgent blasts. The village alarm.
Her stomach clenched. The youth warriors dropped their staffs and ran. Women grabbed children. Hunters reached for bows.
"Stay behind me," her father said, grabbing her arm.
"No," Lydia said, shaking her head. "I can fight."
Eliah's jaw tightened. "I know you can. But wait here while I see what's happening."
Despite his warning, she followed silently.
The main square was already crowded. Chief Kaelin stood tall, flanked by elder warriors whose faces were grim. A scout from the northern trail had returned with news: more than twenty armed men were moving near the valley. Fires burned in distant villages. The threat was real.
Chief Kaelin's voice rose over the murmurs. "We must be ready. The warriors will strengthen the gates. The young will continue training. And no one goes into the forest alone." Lydia clenched her fists. The elders hesitated. The warriors looked afraid. If they failed, the village would fall.
Stepping forward, Lydia spoke. "Chief Kaelin, I have an idea to protect the village. I can lead the warriors and set traps in the forest." The chief froze. His eyes scanned her from head to toe. "You? A girl? This is not hunting. The village tradition says men lead in battle. You are skilled, yes but the risk is too great."
Her cheeks flushed. "I've trained all my life! You've seen me in the forest. I know the traps, the paths, the ambushes!"
Her father stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He is right, Lydia. Your plan is clever, but the men need leadership. I will lead the warriors this time."
He gently hold Lydia shoulder and whispers,
"Is not the right time, you need to train more before you lead the warriors"
Her chest tightened. She had prepared to fight, to protect her village, and now she was denied. She glanced at the youth warriors fear mirrored in their eyes they can only murmuring with themselves, she can see their hidden fears. If only I had demanded to fight, she thought.
Chief Kaelin addressed the village. "We have a plan. We will fortify the gates, prepare for the worst, and hope these men do not find our weaknesses."
Later, Lydia walked to the river to clear her mind. Her reflection in the water looked strong but restless. She whispered to herself, "I will not fail again." The forest whispered back: soon.
A twig snapped. She spun, hand on her dagger. A small, hooded figure emerged: Kiran, the village's youngest hunter.
"Lydia," he whispered, "I saw something. A path in the forest. It leads straight to the invaders' camp. I didn't tell the chief. I thought… you should know."
Lydia's heart raced. "Show me."