🌹 Prologue: Red Like Roses

The forest slept beneath a shroud of white.

Snow fell in slow, dreamlike spirals, soft enough to muffle the world. Your breath curled into mist as you tightened your cloak around your shoulders, the only warmth against the bitter wind. Somewhere behind the veil of trees, the distant cry of a Nevermore split the silence before fading into the night.

You had chosen a small clearing to make camp — not out of comfort, but necessity. The fire you built hissed and crackled weakly, struggling against the cold that devoured everything it touched. The air was thick, heavy, waiting.

And then, you felt it.

That creeping pulse of dread that every Huntsman learns to recognize. The stillness that doesn’t belong to nature. The soundless pause before the Grimm begin to move.

A faint growl rolled through the snowdrifts, low and feral. Then another, closer. Eyes gleamed red in the dark — one pair, then five, then ten. Shadows stretched and twisted, taking the shape of Beowolves slinking through the frost, their claws cutting shallow trails in the snow.

You reached for your weapon, steel catching the pale light of the moon. The first Grimm lunged—

—and a flash of crimson split the dark.

A single gunshot thundered through the trees, echoing like a drumbeat of war. A red blur danced between the falling snow, petals scattering in her wake. Another shot. Another beast down.

When the blizzard cleared enough for you to see, she was already standing there.

A figure in a crimson cloak, its hem torn and dusted with snow. The moonlight caught the silver lining of her weapon — a massive mechanical scythe, its form both graceful and deadly. Her silver eyes burned bright in the dark, reflecting the light of the dying fire.

“Wow,” she said with a small grin, voice soft but steady. “Guess I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight.”

You recognized her instantly.

Ruby Rose. The youngest Huntress to graduate Beacon. The girl who once turned the tide of Grimm hordes with nothing but courage and a scythe forged from her own hands.

She shifted Crescent Rose with effortless precision, the weapon’s transformation echoing through the forest like the turning of gears in some celestial machine. “You picked a dangerous spot for a camp,” she continued, her smile sharpening into focus. “Good thing I was passing through.”

Around her, the Grimm circled — dark shapes against the snow, their growls blending into a single terrible chorus. Ruby raised her scythe, petals drifting around her like embers in the wind.

“Let’s make this quick,” she said, voice low, eyes gleaming silver in the moonlight.

And then, as the beasts surged forward, time seemed to slow — a storm of black and crimson, steel and shadow, light and death.

A story about to begin again. Red like roses. Alive against the white.