The tremor grew louder — thump… thump… thump — each one closer than the last.Noah could feel it in his chest, deep and heavy, as if the earth itself were breathing. The roots above their heads creaked. The soil moaned. Something enormous was moving just beyond the vines.
Then came a wet, heavy PLOP that shook the ground. Dirt showered over them, the air filling with the smell of damp moss and rain-soaked leaves. Noah held his breath.
Through a narrow slit in the vines, a shadow slid across the clearing — vast, glistening, alive. It rippled like muscle under water. Light glinted off its slick hide for the briefest moment before darkness swallowed it again.
The ants froze. Then pandemonium erupted.
Their ordered lines shattered into chaos. Soldiers ran, colliding with workers; others vanished into tunnels. A deep, wet croak rolled through the air — low, ancient, and resonant. It wasn't a roar, but it carried the weight of something primeval.
Fern (whispering): "Don't move. Don't even breathe."
The sound that followed was worse — a snapping rush of air, then silence. The ants screeched in their chittering tongue, but their cries were cut short, one after another. Noah couldn't see what took them — only that they were gone. Devoured.
Another croak. Closer this time. A glint like a golden coin flickered in the gloom. An eye, perhaps — round and watching.Noah's heart pounded so loudly he was certain the creature could hear it. Beside him, Sprint's hand trembled over his mouth.
Outside, the unseen predator hunted. Ants vanished mid-stride. Others were crushed into the mud. The ground quivered with each swallow.
Fern's voice came as a breath against his ear.
Fern: "The garden has its own rules. Even hunters are hunted."
The vines above them shuddered as the massive shadow passed. Then came one final croak, long and distant, and the tremors faded into the heartbeat of the soil.
Silence returned — thick, alive, impossible to trust.
For a long while, none of them moved.The only sound was Noah's breathing, ragged and shallow. He pushed aside a few vines, letting in a sliver of pale light.
The clearing was unrecognizable. The ant army was gone — only shattered shells and broken tunnels remained. Wet footprints the size of puddles pressed deep into the soil. The ground steamed faintly, as if still remembering the weight that had stood there.
Sprint (hoarse): "Well… whatever that was, I'm voting we never meet it again."
Noah climbed to his feet, brushing mud off his arms. His legs trembled slightly.
Noah: "It… saved us, didn't it?"
Fern: "Maybe. Or maybe it just wasn't hungry enough to notice."
They exchanged uneasy looks. None of them wanted to stay and find out.
Fern raised her hands, whispering softly to the plants. The vines that had hidden them loosened and slid back into the soil. A few still glowed faintly, like veins fading under skin.
Fern: "Let's move. The garden won't stay quiet for long."
They followed a narrow tunnel between two thick tomato roots. Each step squelched in mud. The smell of crushed ants and wet earth clung to their clothes.
The deeper they went, the calmer it became. Rays of sunlight filtered through leaves above, breaking into shifting patterns of gold and green.But the peace felt thin, fragile — a hush after thunder.
Sprint kicked at a loose pebble, his nerves showing in motion.
Sprint: "First ants, now shadow monsters. What's next? Snakes made of moss?"
Fern (without looking back): "Those exist."
Sprint: "Wait—what?"
Fern: "Be glad they're nocturnal."
Noah (murmuring): "Good to know…"
A faint smile tugged at Fern's lips, but her eyes kept scanning the shadows.
They passed a row of carrot tops, their feathery leaves waving gently. The soil here was softer, the air warmer. Insects buzzed lazily. For the first time since the attack, Noah felt almost safe. He even dared to believe they might reach the other side of the veggie garden without more trouble.
Then he heard the squelch.
Something wet shifted behind them. Noah turned.At first he saw only the soil rippling — and then something crawled out.
It was long and black, with orange-spotted ridges down its back. Six tiny legs clawed at the dirt. Its jaws clicked together, dripping with translucent slime.
Fern (eyes widening): "Larvae. Ladybug larvae. Stay back!"
Two more emerged from beneath the cabbage leaves ahead, their bodies twisting like small serpents. They moved fast — too fast for something so small.
One lunged at Sprint. He swung his thorn blade, catching it across the face, but it barely flinched. It coiled around his arm, jaws snapping.
Sprint: "Get it off! Get it off!"
Noah lunged forward, striking with the flat of his sword. The blow sent the creature flying. It hit a root with a crunch and lay still, twitching.
Fern extended her hands. Roots burst from the soil, wrapping around the second larva's body. It writhed and hissed, thrashing against the bindings. Sprint nocked an arrow and fired — a sharp thorn tipped with resin. The shot pierced its back. The creature let out a shriek before collapsing into the dirt.
But a third came from behind, striking at Noah's leg. He turned, blocking instinctively. The Sword of Roots flashed, slicing clean through the larva's head. The body writhed once and went limp.
The garden fell silent again — except for their breathing.
Sprint wiped slime off his sleeve, grimacing. "That's disgusting."
Fern: "Be grateful they were small."
She crouched beside one of the corpses, studying it with both curiosity and respect. The larva's body was armored, its mandibles curved like scythes.
Fern (softly): "They're savage hunters. They'll eat anything that moves. But when they grow, they become protectors — ladybugs. The guardians of the leaves."
Noah: "So the garden's heroes start out as monsters."
Fern: "Not monsters. Just hungry."She looked up at him, a faint smile playing at her lips. "Every creature changes, Noah. Sometimes for the better."
They cleaned themselves near a shallow puddle, Fern pulling a few large leaves together to wipe away the grime. The air smelled fresher here, filled with the faint scent of mint. A few hoverflies drifted lazily overhead, their wings flashing like glass.
Sprint: "So, ants tried to eat us. Then mystery-beast ate the ants. Then baby bugs tried to eat us."
Noah: "You're keeping score?"
Sprint: "Someone has to. I'd like to know what round we're on."
Fern chuckled quietly. "Hopefully the final one."
Noah glanced up through the canopy. The sunlight filtering through the leaves had changed hue — less yellow, more white. Midday. They'd been traveling since dawn.
Noah: "How much farther through the veggie garden?"
Fern: "Half a day, if we can keep our pace."
Sprint (hesitant): "Actually…"
He trailed off, rummaging through his bag until he found a folded sheet of bark etched with fine lines — a map, drawn in sap ink.
Sprint (brightening): "There's a village not far from here. Greenthorn Borough. Locals live near the bean-stalk groves. We could ask them for directions—or a safer path out."
Fern (frowning): "If the ants haven't expanded that way yet."
Sprint: "Then we'll know soon enough."
He rolled the map closed and tucked it away.
Noah: "A village sounds good. Maybe they can show us a quicker path out."
Sprint: "Or at least one that doesn't include being eaten halfway through."
Fern: "Don't get your hopes up. Greenthorn's small. Mostly farmers and pollen-weavers, not scouts."
Noah (grinning): "Still sounds better than guessing in circles."
They laughed softly. The sound felt strange but good — a reminder that they were still alive.
The path ahead wound through dense lettuce patches and carrot greens that brushed their shoulders. Tiny beetles scurried from their footsteps. Somewhere high above, a butterfly passed overhead, its shadow sweeping across them like a drifting cloud.
Every few steps, Noah found himself glancing back. He couldn't shake the memory of that colossal shadow, the croak that seemed to come from the bones of the earth itself.
Noah (quietly): "Do you think it'll come back?"
Fern: "No. It got what it wanted."
Sprint: "Still. If it does, I vote we feed it something else first."
Noah: "Like what?"
Sprint: "Maybe the map. It keeps getting us into trouble."
The banter eased the tension, but beneath it lingered a shared truth: the garden was vast, alive, and dangerous. Every step forward felt like a negotiation with nature itself.
The terrain began to change. The soil grew firmer, paths more defined. Fern knelt and brushed a faint mark carved into a root — a spiral of leaves and sap dots.
Fern (relieved): "Greenthorn's sign. We're close."
The air smelled faintly of herbs and cooking smoke. A faint rhythm echoed ahead—thock, thock, thock—the sound of wooden hammers.
They exchanged glances, hope flickering for the first time that day.
Sprint (grinning): "Told you I knew where I was going."
Fern: "You were lucky."
Sprint: "Same thing."
Noah smiled, but his eyes lingered on the horizon beyond the bean stalks, where the soil dipped into shadow. The toad's croak still echoed faintly in his memory—slow, deep, patient.