Chapter One
Marked by the Moon
The highlands of Sautee Nacoochee were always covered in mist. Red Fern Hollow lay hidden like a secret between tall mountains and a river that sang softly as it ran. No kings ruled here, but Chief Kaelin guided the village with care and strength. He was not alone. Young warriors, trained from childhood, patrolled the forests and guarded the village. They ran fast, moved silently, and learned every secret of the land. Smoke curled from stone chimneys, mixing with the smell of wet earth and the forest. Trees stood tall all around, their branches creaking and swaying in the wind. Life was quiet and simple but simple did not mean safe. Other villages watched Red Fern Hollow, waiting for a chance to strike. Their fields, their children, and their homes could all be taken if the village was weak.
Lydia was born under a blood red moon. The villagers whispered that she was marked by the spirits. Some were afraid of her. Others believed she was chosen by the gods. Her parents, Eliah and Mara, loved her as their daughter but they also knew the world outside the hollow was cruel. They trained her to survive. From the time she could walk, Lydia learned to watch everything. She followed the river path, noticed birds, and listened to every sound the forest made. She learned to sense danger long before it came. Her father, Eliah, taught her how to fight. He made her practice early in the morning, even when the wind was cold. "A warrior sees what others do not," he said. He showed her how to move silently over rocks and leaves, to block and strike with a staff, and to protect herself in every way. "Think first, act second," he reminded her. Her mother, Mara, taught her to be smart and patient. She showed Lydia how to read the stars, follow the river, and know what the wind meant. "The forest speaks if you listen," she said. Mara helped her understand quietness, attention, and focus. Lydia learned to see shadows where others saw none and to hear whispers of the forest that others ignored.
Every day, Lydia practiced. She climbed rocks, ran through the forest, split wood, and aimed her bow at targets her parents set up. She sparred with wooden dummies, rolling, striking, and dodging. "Strength without control is useless," her father said. "Courage without wisdom brings danger," her mother added. By the time she could move alone in the forest, she was strong, smart, and ready. But Lydia was more than just a fighter. Her hair was dark and silky, her eyes bright and curious, and her smile could warm even the coldest heart. Yet at night, she felt a hollow ache. She wished for a sibling, someone to share laughter and secrets, run through the meadows, and braid wildflowers into her hair. Watching other children play, she felt the weight of being alone. But there was little time to dwell on longing. The forest, river, and mountains demanded her full attention.
The village was always busy. Blacksmiths hammered iron, cooks stirred herbs, and children practiced hunting and woodcraft. The youth warriors ran along the forest edge, tested their skills, and learned from older warriors. Lydia often watched them train. She learned how they moved, how they listened to the wind, and how they spotted hidden dangers. Sometimes, she joined in, practicing alongside the warriors. They respected her courage and skill even though she was still young. Stories of raids on nearby villages were never far from the villagers' lips. Families destroyed, fields burned, men dragged away by invaders. Red Fern Hollow had been safe so far but Lydia knew the peace could not last. The blood-red moon that had shone at her birth seemed to warn her still.
One evening, Lydia went to the riverbank. The mist clung to her skin, and the forest seemed alive, listening. She knelt to watch her reflection in the water. Then a twig snapped behind her. Instantly, her hand went to her bow. Was it a deer or something else? She froze. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying a single word: so Shadows deepened around her. Lydia felt eyes on her not the curious gaze of forest animals, but a heavy, patient presence. She scanned the treeline, bowstring tight, muscles ready. Nothing moved but the feeling lingered, like the calm before a storm.
Her heart raced, but she did not flinch. She was the Savage Daughter, the villagers' warning and their pride. Not because she was cruel, but because her courage, skill, and spirit were unmatched. She slipped silently into the forest, every step careful, every sense alert. The trees seemed to close behind her, accepting her as one of their own. Hours passed as she patrolled, staff in hand, eyes scanning every shadow. She imagined what raiders might be planning, rehearsed her moves silently, and remembered every lesson her parents had taught her. The youth warriors she watched and learned from were ready, too. Together with the chief, they would defend the hollow but Lydia knew that when danger came, her own skill might make the difference between life and death.
When she returned to the village, the moon peeked from behind clouds, casting a silver glow over the hollow. Smoke drifted from chimneys, lanterns glimmered in windows, and the village seemed peaceful. But Lydia knew better. The calm would not last. Danger whispered from the forest, and when it came, she would be ready. Her parents' love and training had made her strong and wise. The warriors' guidance had sharpened her instincts. The forest had tested her. The mountains had trained her. And the red moon had marked her. Lydia the Savage Daughter stood ready to face the storm.