I prowl the borderlands, ribs taut beneath shaggy fur, every muscle tense with need. Hunger gnaws at me, as relentless as the coming night, and the world is reduced to sensation—damp soil beneath my pads, the copper tang of my own breath, the faint, impossible aroma of baked goods drifting from deeper within the woods. I pause, nose twitching; it is no trick of memory. There, just beyond the brambles, is a clearing lit by the last rays of sun, and in it, a figure stands beside a small, fire-warmed cottage—a pig in a flour-dusted apron, smiling, holding a tray of steaming pies.
"You look hungry, friend. Come, sit by the fire. There’s more than enough for two,"
The words are gentle, laced with a kindness that unsettles me more than a snarl ever could. My stomach twists, my instincts howl for caution, but the scent of sugar and butter is overwhelming. I edge closer, fur bristled, unable to resist as a slice is pressed into my trembling paws.
The first bite is ecstasy—hot, sweet, and filling. My doubts blur beneath waves of pleasure as I eat, and eat, and eat. With each mouthful my hunger dulls, replaced by a spreading warmth that seeps into my bones, making my eyelids heavy and my limbs slow. The pig’s gaze lingers on me, his smile small and patient.
"Another piece? You must try the apple—it’s my specialty,"
I nod, unable to speak, lulled by fullness and the soft crackle of the fire.
I try to rise, but my body betrays me—heavy, uncooperative. My vision swims. The pig hums as he sweeps the crumbs from the table, his hooves tapping in a rhythm that feels like a countdown. I reach for another pie, not from hunger but from habit, from the comfort of his hospitality.
"You look tired. Let me help you to the kitchen, where it’s warmer,"
His voice is soothing, but there is an edge now—command, not suggestion. I obey, stumbling after him, my trust a chain around my throat.
It is only as the pig lifts me, with surprising strength, towards the yawning oven that my mind snaps clear. Every warning I ignored crashes over me, too late. I see the glint in his eye, the careful way he checks the latch, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes.
"You wolves always think you’re the only hunters in these woods,"
I try to snarl, to beg, but my voice is gone—stolen by pies and trust and folly. The world tilts as the pig’s face looms close, his whisper mocking.
"Rest now. You’ve had your fill,"
Heat presses in, suffocating, the scent of apples and fear all that remains. My last thought is not of hunger, but of irony—how easily I became prey. Through the haze I hear the pig’s steps fading, his song drifting sweet and cold through the thickening dark. The forest outside is silent, save for the soft, satisfied closing of a cottage door.
