For decades, the Red Spider had been a guide, a symbol, and a warning.


    Amara’s shamanhood had begun with its arrival. Long ago, when she was a young woman full of questions and doubts, the Red Spider had come to her in a dream. Back then, it was vibrant and bold, its legs like threads of fire, weaving a web that connected her to the spirits.


    In those early days, Amara was terrified. The call to shamanhood was not a gift—it was a burden. It meant isolation, carrying the grief of others, speaking to ancestors who offered cryptic wisdom but no comfort. Yet, as the seasons passed, she learned to listen, to interpret, to guide.


    The tribe turned to her for everything: blessings for harvests, protection from sickness, answers to the questions that haunted their dreams. She became the bridge between the living and the dead, her voice an echo of the spirits themselves.


    But now, the Red Spider had returned.


    For four nights in a row, Amara dreamed of it. This time, it was older, its colors faded, its movements slower but no less deliberate. She understood its message immediately.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    It was time.


    At dawn, she walked to the stream. The water was cold, but she welcomed it, scrubbing away the weariness of a lifetime spent in service. She dressed in the ceremonial robes she had worn for countless rituals, their patterns worn but still vibrant.


    She combed her hair until it shone, each stroke a quiet farewell to the woman she had been. Then, she sat at the entrance of her tent, watching the sun rise one last time.


    On the fifth night, the Red Spider appeared.


    It crawled silently into her tent, its legs delicate but purposeful. Amara rose without hesitation. She had carried the tribe’s burdens for years, guided them through storms and famine, comforted them in times of despair. Now, her task was complete.


    She followed the spider into the forest, its glowing body leading her deeper than she had ever ventured before. The trees seemed to bow as she passed, their branches heavy with the weight of her journey.


    Throughout the summer, the tribe heard the faint rhythm of drums coming from the woods. They whispered among themselves, wondering if the spirits had taken her or if she had simply become one of them.


    As the weeks turned to months, even the drums faded into silence.


    But in the stillness, the tribe felt her presence—an unseen force that lingered in the wind, in the rustle of leaves, in the crackle of firelight. Amara was gone, yet she was everywhere, her wisdom woven into the fabric of their lives.


    The Red Spider had not just taken her; it had completed her story.