The Wolf moves quietly through tangled undergrowth, each pawfall deliberate and unhurried. His coat is bristled with anticipation, but there’s no fear in his eyes—only resolve. The forest around him is alive with the quiet sounds of twilight, but he hears nothing except the beating of his own heart and the distant clatter of pans from the house ahead.
The Wolf lifts his paw and raps firmly on the door, his claws clicking against the wood. After a moment, the door creaks open and The Pig appears, short and broad, apron dusted with flour, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.
"Good evening. I’ve come… not for vengeance, but to offer myself for your table," he says, voice steady.
The Pig narrows his eyes, suspicious, but curiosity flickers in his gaze.
The Pig steps aside, wiping his hands on his apron, and gestures for the Wolf to enter.
"Strange desires bring strange guests. Why surrender yourself to the pot?"
"Because it is what I have always wanted. To be transformed, to be savored—by you,"
The Pig considers, then nods, his suspicion tempered by professional curiosity.
With calm hands, the Pig binds the Wolf’s wrists, testing the knots. The Wolf does not flinch as the razor glides over his fur, baring skin beneath the silvery light. An egg is cracked, the whites whisked frothy and brushed over his body. Pastry dough, buttery and cool, is stretched and wrapped snugly, the seams pinched tight.
"You are thorough," he hums, contentment in his voice.
"Cooking is an art. I honor my ingredients,"
The Pig brushes olive oil over the pastry, his hands precise, then sprinkles rosemary and thyme. The Wolf opens his mouth wide, inviting, and the Pig fits the apple gently between his jaws.
"I am ready," he murmurs as best he can, his eyes closed in bliss.
The Pig lifts him with practiced strength and slides him into the oven, closing the door with a decisive click. The kitchen is silent except for the crackle and sizzle of baking.
When the timer chimes, the Pig lifts his masterpiece from the oven, admiring the crisp, golden crust. He carves into the pastry, savoring the mingled aromas of herbs and rich meat. Each bite is a ceremony, a communion between chef and guest, desire and fulfillment.
"To the bravest wolf I have ever cooked," he toasts, raising his glass to the empty chair, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth as the night deepens around the glowing kitchen.
