Served Cold: A Dark Wolf Retelling of Red Riding Hood

Hunger was a monster all its own, gnawing at his ribs, twisting inside him until every breath felt like an ache. When was the last time he had eaten? Three days? Four? Perhaps longer, though the days had begun to blur, stretching endlessly under the cold grey sky. He wondered how long it would take to starve completely, how many days it would take before the hunger was gone forever. Sometimes he wanted that. Sometimes he clung to the fragile hope of surviving, of tasting warm blood again. But wishes were for fools, and he was no fool.

He shifted on the damp earth, the grass flattened beneath his weight, offering no comfort against the biting chill that seeped into his bones. A small creek murmured nearby, but he ignored it; water no longer dulled the edge of starvation that carved through him. All around him, the forest stood lush and alive, a cruel contrast to the emptiness inside him. Yesterday, desperation had driven him to chew on bitter leaves, trying to imitate the deer he once hunted with ease, but the taste had made him retch, and he had spat it out, his jaws aching with hunger.

He closed his yellow eyes and let his thoughts drift back to when the world was whole, back when the forest was a home, not a graveyard. Back to Luna.

Luna had been alive then, before the men came with their torches and axes, tearing down the ancient trees, frightening away the game, trampling the earth with their heavy boots. She had begged him to wait, to watch, to avoid a fight, her soft eyes filled with dreams of a peaceful life, of cubs playing beneath the moonlight. He had listened, against the snarl in his blood, against the instincts that told him to strike. Now Luna was gone, buried beneath the ashes of their den, and the men had multiplied like weeds, choking out everything that was good and green.

He should have killed them all when he had the chance.

A sound, sweet and sharp, broke the silence—a voice, singing. A human voice. A happy tune, clear as a bell, slicing through the forest, mocking him with its brightness.

His ears twitched. His muscles tensed, the hunger sharpening his senses, clearing the fog from his mind. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, paws sinking into the cold mud as he crept toward the sound, every step silent, controlled.

Peering through the thicket, he found the source. A girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, skipping down the path with a basket in hand, her red cloak fluttering like a wound against the green. She was alone. Arrogantly alone, her song ringing out as if she had nothing to fear, as if the forest still belonged to her kind.

A low growl rumbled in his throat, a sound he barely remembered how to make, and he felt his lips curl into a wolfish grin.

Before the sun set, it would be more than that cloak that was stained red.

The girl paused, sniffing the air, the song dying on her lips as she glanced around. Her eyes were bright, curious, unafraid—how like Luna, before she learned what the world could do. He felt a moment of hesitation, a memory of warm fur pressed against his side beneath the moon, a memory of soft voices and soft dreams.

But hunger was louder than memory.

He stepped forward, the leaves crunching beneath his paws. The girl turned, her eyes widening, the basket slipping from her hand, apples spilling onto the dirt.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You’re beautiful.”

It was not the reaction he expected. No scream, no panic, just wonder in her gaze as she stared at his gaunt frame, at the matted fur that still caught the light in streaks of silver.

He froze.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, kneeling to pick up an apple, her small hand extending toward him.

He could smell the sweetness of the fruit, but it was nothing compared to the iron scent of blood beneath her skin, the warm pulse that beat softly in her neck. She was trembling, just a little, but she held her ground.

His jaw opened, a low growl building as he stepped closer.

“Luna,” he thought, but it was a word without meaning now.

The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she held the apple out, and for a moment, he saw Luna again, saw the family they were supposed to have, the forest they were supposed to protect.

He closed his jaws around the apple.

It crunched in his teeth, the sweet juice flooding his mouth, and for a heartbeat, the hunger eased.

The girl let out a shaky breath, and her lips curved into a small, sad smile.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He turned, padding back into the forest, the apple core falling from his mouth as he vanished into the shadows.

Tomorrow, the hunger would return, fiercer than ever, and the forest would not forgive weakness.

But for today, the cloak would remain red, and the girl’s song would continue.

And for today, that was enough.

Moral of the Story:

Revenge may feed your rage, but mercy feeds your soul.