The Boar stands just inside his doorway, thick bristles glistening with sweat and anticipation. His sharp eyes scan the gloom, catching the furtive movements of a lean, ravenous wolf pressed against the porch, nose twitching at the wind. The storm rattles the shutters, amplifying the tension that crackles between predator and prey.
"Such a dreadful night to be out in the cold, my friend," the boar murmurs, voice syrupy and low, eyes gleaming. The Wolf hesitates, hunger overpowering caution, his gaze fixed on a platter of steaming meat pies perched on the windowsill.
"Why not come closer? I have plenty to share—a feast fit for a king, and warmth to soothe your weary bones," The wolf's belly growls, claws scraping the porch, as he inches forward.
"Your generosity is...unusual," the wolf mutters between mouthfuls, but his suspicion fades with every bite. The boar presses him gently, pouring rich wine and spinning tales of lonely nights and endless banquets. Steam fogs the panes as drowsiness creeps over the wolf, his eyelids drooping, his body sinking into the chair.
The Boar glances at the wolf, calculating every step—he slides the bolt across the door, wipes muddy prints from the floor, and regards his sleeping guest with cold, appraising eyes. Lightning flashes reveal the gleam of sharp knives and well-worn rolling pins atop the counter.
The wolf’s body is heavy, limp, easy to maneuver. The boar hums under his breath, slicing and seasoning with practiced hands. The oven roars to life, its glow washing the walls in hellish orange. Outside, the storm has faded, but inside, the tension mounts—every sound exaggerated, every smell intoxicating.
"A feast fit for a king," he whispers, savoring every mouthful. Outside, the woods are silent. The boar’s cunning has been rewarded; hunger has been sated, and the storm has passed. In the darkness, only the echo of his satisfaction remains.
