The next morning, Marron heard the sound of scraping. Either claws or fingernails were dragging across the polished wood floor. It made her want to grind her teeth.
She rolled over, muscles protesting. Every part of her body had an opinion about yesterday's fight, and none of those opinions were positive. Her shoulders burned where she'd rolled across the shrine floor. Her hands were stiff around invisible knife handles, fingers still curved as if gripping weapons she no longer held.
The scraping continued. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Chef?" The voice was muffled by the door, high and eager. "Chef, we smell the meat. The sweet meat. Are you cooking?"
Marron pulled her blanket over her head. "It's too early."
"But we're hungry. The hunt made us hungry. Your food made us strong, and strong things need more food."
More voices joined in, a growing chorus outside her door: "Cook for us, Chef." "Feed us the ant." "Make us stronger."
