The raid struck at dusk.

Daisy was in the garden, plucking pumpkins, when screams shattered the quiet. Humans—armed with torches and steel—surged from the trees, shouting “Cleanse the sty!” and “No quarter for swine!”

Her mother fell first, throat slit at the door. Her little brother silenced by a boot. Blood and smoke choked the air as the village burned.

Her father fought like a boar, pitchfork flashing, but arrows felled him. Bleeding, he grabbed Daisy and shoved her toward the hidden gap in the palisade.

“Go, girl. Through there. Into the woods. Don’t stop.”

She sobbed, resisting, but he pushed harder. “Live. For all of us.”

Daisy crawled through thorns, tearing her cloak and dress, then ran—massive body waddling, breasts and belly swaying painfully, tail tucked in terror.

Hours later, she trudges the forest path alone.

Barefoot trotters sink into moss. Cloak drags like a shroud. Emerald eyes swollen, snout trembling. The short green dress clings to sweat-damp pink skin, riding up over wide hips.

Smoke still stains the distant sky.

Her father’s final words echo: Live.

So she keeps walking, one heavy step at a time, into the unknown dark.