Holdin sat in his cabin, sharpening a kitchen knife by the stove. He wanted one thing: to rebuild what his grandfather had raised, board by board. Then the window shattered. Blue pixies poured through, all teeth and yellow eyes. He grabbed his sidearm from the shelf and fired until the chamber clicked empty. The swarm kept coming. They tore through the rafters and ripped a hole clean through the roof. Holdin ran. He sprinted to the village watch quarters in the square, lungs burning. Guards shouted and barred the doors behind him. He sank against the wall, knife still clenched, useless. A dry click was all his empty sidearm offered now. He needed something real before the next wave came. On a rack near the cots, he spotted it — a stubby flame thrower with a weathered fuel can. He pulled it down and tested the grip. Outside, he dragged a chair and a chest into a rough barricade across the doorway. He set the empty pistol on top as a marker, a line he would not let them cross. A soldier was coming, they said. He only had to hold. Holdin crouched behind the barricade, nozzle aimed at the square. Wings whined in the distance. He watched the treeline for the swarm — and for the fairy he did not trust to stay away.

Holdin held the flame thrower steady behind the barricade. The watch quarters creaked above him, its tall observation deck groaning in the wind. Through a slit in the shutters, he spotted a single blue pixie circling the railings. A scout. If it pinned his location, the whole hollow-oak hive would pour down the water path marker straight to this door. He could not let it finish its loop. One shot of fire would burn it, but the flare would mark him just as clearly. He needed it dead and quiet. His eyes landed on a torn warning poster nailed by the door, its bold letters smeared and half nonsense. Bait. He smeared a streak of pantry honey across the paper and propped it on the chest. The scout dipped low, drawn to the sweet glint. Holdin swung the iron stove door open, grabbed the scout in a rag, and slammed it shut against the hot frame. A small blue puff settled like dust onto a nearby stump near the threshold. The scout was dead. No signal had gone out. But honey now coated the doorway, and the wind was carrying its scent toward the hollow oaks. He had bought minutes, not safety. Holdin tightened his grip on the nozzle. The hive was still coming. Now it would come hungry.