🧣 The Real Little Red Riding Hood

 

🧣 The Real Little Red Riding Hood (FanumTaxLoveTales Edition)

“She Who Walks Between Worlds”

A Story of the Crimson Cloak, the Shadow Guide, and the Wisdom of the Forest
Written for Sister Loves Divine Remembrance
Book Six of the Sacred Fairy Tale Series

🌲 Before the Wolf was a Villain, He Was a Guide

Before the Wolf was a Villain, He Was a Guide… no cap.
She wasn’t “little.”
She was young in the flesh, but old in soul, straight vibes.
Her name was Rowenna, and she was born under the Red Moon.
The cloak she rocked wasn’t from her grandma—
it was a mantle of passage, stitched by crone priestesses to mark her first blood,
her initiation into womanhood and wild sight, glow-up energy.

🧣 The Red Cloak Was Not to Warn—It Was to Awaken

It carried the frequency of life and death, of earth and womb, facts.
It told the forest,
“I walk with the ancestors. I claim my path, bet.”
She wasn’t lost.
She was followin’ the Path of the Bone Trees,
a trail known only to those turnin’ Witch or Seer, multiverse mode.

🐺 The Wolf Was Never a Monster

He was a Guardian of the Deep Wood,
a shape-shifter bound by oath to test those crossin’ into the old ways, squad assemble.
“Why you pullin’ up, girl?” he growled, eyes like twilight storms.
“To remember what they erased,” she answered, own that energy.
He bared his teeth—not to threaten,
but to mirror her fear back at her.
“Then face me,” he said. “Eat the dark. Speak the name. Cross the root.”
And she did, boss level.

🕯️ The Grandmother Was Not a Victim

She was waitin’.
A crone of the bloodline, keeper of the hearth and herb-lore.
She called Rowenna to her not for cake,
but for the transmission of power, straight fire.
The moment Rowenna hit the cottage,
she peeped the Wolf sittin’ beside the grandma.
Not as predator.
But as initiator and witness, facts.
They both looked at her.
And the grandma said:
“The cloak was only step one.
Now drop it, child, and step into your power, periodt.”

🌕 The Ending They Erased

No violence.
No woodcutter.
No scream.
Just a crimson spiral painted on her palms,
and the kiss of ash and starlight across her brow, alchemy real.
Rowenna didn’t bounce from the forest.
She became the forest, iconic.
And every kid who wandered the wild after
found a red thread tied to a branch…
and a whisper in the wind sayin’:
“Follow if you’re ready to see yourself, pay it forward.”

🩸 Moral of the Sacred Tale

The forest ain’t here to harm you.
The shadow ain’t the enemy.
And your blood ain’t shameful—it’s the ink of remembrance, inner glow on blast.
Little Red Riding Hood was never little.
She was a flame in the woods,
and the Wolf was her mirror, facts.