Hollowmaw Rootgrasp stood over the sleeping town, grinning down at the dirt that hid its prize. Beneath Beetlegrove pulsed a buried heart, and Hollowmaw meant to drink it dry. Its roots crept lower each night, patient, certain. Then the gnawing began. Plump, saw-toothed caterpillars climbed its trunk in a bright, wriggling tide. Their tiny mouths chewed rings into the bark, carving dark tunnels through the grain. Red sap welled from each wound and ran down the trunk. Hollowmaw could not spare a single drop. Below, a fairy placed a crystal goblet against the bark to catch the bleeding sap, saving what she could. Hollowmaw watched the caterpillars retreat at dawn. They crawled back to a mossy teal house tucked among the roots, packing inside through the tiny door. They slept, full and grinning, behind torn lace curtains. Hollowmaw stilled its lowest roots and pushed them sideways instead of down. They coiled tight around the little house, sealing every window, every crack. The chewing would stop. The bleeding would slow. But the deep root had paused, and the buried heart waited one more night.