The Wolf squirms, his wrists and ankles tightly bound with rough cooking twine, fur bristling in fear and indignation. Across from him, The Ram, a burly figure with curling horns and an apron smudged with flour, sharpens a straight razor on a leather strop, glancing up with a grim smile. "You can't possibly be serious," he pleads, voice trembling as he strains against the bonds. "You wolves have had your fill for generations. Tonight, it's my turn to feast," the ram replies, his tone as cool as the morning mist.

The wolf winces as the razor scrapes over his pelt, the cold bite of the blade stinging his pride more than his flesh. The ram hums a quiet tune, working with the steady hand of someone who has long awaited this moment. Shorn and shivering, the wolf lies exposed, his yellow eyes wide with disbelief and mounting dread.

Root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and bright orange yams—are arranged artistically around the wolf’s trembling form. Their earthy colors contrast sharply with the wolf’s pallor. The kitchen is silent except for the soft thud of vegetables and the wolf’s ragged breathing. "Please, there must be another way," the wolf whispers, but the ram’s eyes remain fixed on his task.

The wolf’s vision narrows as the world grows darker, the crust sealing him in. He catches the ram’s face one last time—a look of grim satisfaction—before the top crust settles over him, muffling all sound. The wolf’s heart pounds in his chest, echoing in the darkness.

The scent of roasting meat and sweet roots fills the air, blending into an irresistible perfume. Outside, the forest is quiet, as if holding its breath. The ram wipes his brow, a single bead of sweat tracing his woolly cheek, and checks the oven with anticipation.

With a sharp knife, the ram cuts a generous slice, revealing tender root vegetables and a sliver of meat within. He lifts the slice to his plate, savoring the aroma. "At last, a pie fit for a survivor," the ram murmurs, satisfaction blooming across his face as he takes his first bite.