The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

It's happening again.

The scent hits me first—rancid sap, burnt chlorophyll, split bark soaked in rot. Not natural rot. Not the quiet kind that feeds new growth. This rot is wrong. Quick. Violent.

I step into the glade, my feet brushing past curling petals.

Two Treants.

Three Seedkin.

Slain.

Not consumed. Not uprooted in a fair duel. Killed.

The Treants lie crumpled, bark torn in great gouges. One has an arm split down to its inner ring, nerves weeping amber. The other's trunk is shattered. Crushed. As if something took its time. A Seedkin hangs from a branch above, vine-neck twisted tight like a garland. Decorative.

"Lovely," I murmur, voice dry.

I crouch beside the youngest one. Still blooming, soft mint-colored stalks with pastel flowerbuds. There's no face left. Just pulp and ichor where its eyes once glowed.

"Too clean," I whisper. "Too cruel."

Predator, yes. The claw marks are unmistakable—angled, with flexed talon depth. Fast. Ferocious. A beast, surely. But this? This isn't survival.

This is expression.

I glance around. Nothing is feeding. Nothing is nesting. No sign of territorial scarring or instinct-driven damage. The bodies were placed. Exposed. One propped sitting, as if watching the others die. Another bent forward like it was begging.

My leaves bristle. My petals curl inward slightly.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

This wasn't humans. I'd bet my entire bark on it.

Their methods are sloppy—fires, blades, noise. No, this… this had intention. And silence. A flora killer that understood the language of beauty well enough to mock it.

A predator that knows we feel. And chose to hurt anyway.

I rise slowly. Straighten my posture. Even the air here feels different—stilled, not by reverence, but warning. The canopy is hushed. No birdsong, no flutter of pollen wings. Even the breeze is cautious.

Deliberate malice.

That's the part I can't shake. Not just the deaths. Not even the mockery.

It's the feeling that someone's watching how I react to it.

And I hate that.

Then—movement. A familiar slither through the underbrush, deliberate yet elegant. I don't flinch. Her scent reaches me before her form does—honeysuckle and venom.

One of my Alraune.

Vyrithia.

One of the first I nurtured, sharp-minded and dusk-blossomed, with those unsettling dusk-hued eyes that always seem a little too knowing for her age. She's grown well.

"Sister Velith," she says, voice airy, tinged with reverence. "We've confirmed a sighting. One that might match the predator that's been killing our kind."

I tilt my head, petals fluttering slightly. "Is that so, dearest Vyrithia?"

"Yes, Sister Velith. Although it's… strange."

She steps into full view now—slender stem, deep violet blossom hair curling around her shoulders, and bioluminescent veins that pulse like breath beneath her skin.

"It travels in a group," she continues, "with what seems to be… a variant of a Spiky Caterpillar cocoon. And a humanoid monster. One with a Minotaur's leg and a Cockatrice's clawed hand. It's almost as tall as you, Sister Velith."

"Hm."

"And then," she adds with the faintest grin, "there's the suspect in question. What appears to be a Cinder Wolf."

"How interesting, dear Vyrithia," I murmur. "A curious ensemble."

But I don't move yet. I glance down once more at the desecrated glade, at the Seedkin still bent in prayer.

"You think this unusual group would be the culprit?"

She hesitates. "The timing… the proximity…"

"Mm." I rise fully, brushing moss from my thigh. "Cinder Wolves are not subtle. Their claws scorch. Their breath brands the ground they walk on. And these poor ones… they burned with grief, not fire."

My voice softens. "No marks. No ash. No scent of flame. This killer does not burn."

Still, the pieces stir behind my eyes.

"Although it is unlikely they were the culprit… this group has piqued my interest."

I look toward the forest's edge, where sunlight dares not reach. "Gather the others, Vyrithia. I believe it's time I met this strange little trio."

And if they are innocent… then I'll simply have to ask why something ancient follows their scent.

End of Prelude