Her pulse hamred so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. It was too late to run away now--the battle was here, and the patrol blocked every escape route.
She had to at least try. Marron rolled until she got close enough to the ant and stabbed one of her knives onto its leg. As she expected, it didn’t even affect the monster--just angered it. The ant tried to stomp on her, and she barely managed to dodge.
Think Marron, think! I already lost one knife, and the other isn’t gonna be much help. I don’t want to die under these crushing mandibles.
Unless...
She slipped a hand into her apron pocket, fingers finding the secret weight of the salted rice ball she’d prepared days ago. It was simple, but vicious. She’d mixed it with enough salt to make her eyes water, packed tight as a stone.
It wasn’t made for eating--but she knew ants hated the stuff. If she could get the ant to eat it...
"I’m going to try sothing--cover !" Marron cried as the hunters distracted the ant. They had sharper weapons and faster reflexes.
The ant lunged with terrifying speed. Marron threw herself sideways, rolling across stone slick with moss and centuries of dampness. Mid-roll, she hurled the rice ball directly under its snapping mandibles.
The rice ball was a flavor bomb, but luckily--it didn’t explode when it hit stone. Instead, it sat neatly, waiting for the ant to consu it.
At a loss, Marron reached into her pack for anything to throw at it--and saw a half-finished bottle of vinegar. She threw the glass bottle against the stone, the sll exploding into pungent tang that filled the air with its brine.
The creature reared back, antennae twitching frantically. Its mandibles clicked in confusion, tasting the sudden assault of salt and acid. Then, with frenzied hunger, it snapped down on the rice ball, devouring it in a single, satisfying crunch.
Its body jerked. The concentrated salt stung from the inside, and for the first ti it faltered, scraping its limbs wildly against stone as if trying to escape its own mouth.
"Now," Marron whispered.
She darted forward, her last inadequate knife raised.
The diner set felt clumsy, not ant for battle, but knives were knives, and she had spent her entire adult life cutting. She slashed across a joint where she’d spotted weakness, slipping the blade under the hard carapace edge where shell t vulnerable muscle.
Warm, amber-colored fluid sprayed across her hands. It slled like roasted garlic oil.
The creature shrieked—a sound like steam escaping a pressure cooker.
It struck downward, mandibles slamming shut with a crack where her head had been half a second before. Stone chips flew. Marron rolled beneath its thrashing body, stabbing upward into the softer folds of its thorax with both blades, sawing back and forth like she was breaking down a tough roast.
The mimics cheered, their voices blending into that unsettling harmony.
The ant thrashed, legs kicking wildly. Marron clung on, ripping her blades free as ichor splattered her apron. The creature crashed onto its side with a sound like a dropped pot. She scrambled out from under it, gasping, and flung her second knife at one of its compound eyes.
The dull blade buried itself to the hilt with a wet thunk. The ant convulsed once, legs scratching futilely at stone, then sagged with a long, rattling breath that slled like honey going bad.
Silence, except for her own ragged gasps and the steady drip of golden ichor.
She stood there, sared with the creature’s blood, both hands empty now, her heart trying to climb out through her throat. The borrowed knives had done their job, but she felt their absence like phantom limbs.
One hunter broke the quiet with slow, deliberate applause. "Our Chef bleeds her ingredients before she roasts them. A talent."
The others laughed—that awful mimic sound like broken bells ringing. Since they hadn’t sustained much injuries, the mimics decided to help her slice into the ant’s corpse. Her bone charm glistened in the light as Marron knelt, hiding her shaking hands. A mimic handed her his dagger, and it was sharper than the diner’s set, by far.
"Your kill. You harvest."
Marron sliced thick slabs of ant at from the creature’s belly. Its flesh was pale and pearlescent, with the roasted garlic scent dripping off of it. If she had been presented with this and not told where it ca from, she wouldn’t have thought of ants.
She wrapped it carefully in oil cloth, tucked it into her storage box next to the Phantasm Moss samples.
It would be her proof.
And since the mimic hunters had seen her, she’d need it.
Hopefully the Lieutenant could see her value despite escaping without his knowledge.
The patrol crowded around the massive corpse, retrieving chunks of at while marveling at her cunning.
"Using salt to take it down! What a terrifying weapon!"
"Lieutenant should give her better knives. So dull. I thought she was going to die."
Marron forced a smirk through her exhaustion, though her legs threatened to give out. "Thanks to you all, the Lieutenant will have sothing worth eating. I will ask if I can cook so for everyone too."
She felt the mimicry skill tremble and pulse, adding the necessary changes to her face to be convincing. Voicing out her promise made them act faster, more eager to help. The bone charm felt a little lighter, and definitely warr. Like she was doing sothing right.
Helping mimics. The Guildmaster would probably have flayed if he knew.
But they weren’t here, and she was all alone--what else could she do?
They dragged the carcass back with them, giddy in their inhuman way—half-ford people with too many teeth showing through their stolen smiles.
The Lieutenant waited in the mimic camp like a statue carved from winter itself, arms crossed, every line of him sharp with controlled nace. His pale eyes swept over the returning patrol with cool assessnt.
The hunters shoved Marron forward, grinning as they dropped the ant’s carcass at his feet with a wet thud that echoed through the chamber.
"She fought, Lieutenant," the lead mimic said eagerly, words tumbling over each other. "Baited the beast with her food, struck its weak points, carved the choicest cuts. Your Chef is no re pet—she is a hunter."
The Lieutenant’s gaze moved from the corpse to Marron with glacial slowness. His eyes were winter-pale, unreadable as ice. "You were ant to cook," he said, each word precise as a blade cut. "Not to roam the dungeon as though you belonged to yourself."
Marron wiped her bloodied knife clean on a rag, forcing her voice to stay level despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "I wanted fresher ingredients. Dried moss and stale roots only make peasant stew. You said you wanted food worth fighting for. That takes proper at."
His expression didn’t shift, but the silence stretched until even the confident hunters began to fidget. Finally: "And what proof do you offer that this excuse isn’t another attempt at deception?"
Marron reached into her storage box and drew out the cloth-wrapped slab. She peeled back just enough fabric for the garlic-honey scent to rise like incense. "I hoped the patrol and I could take down sothing worthwhile together. Here—fresh enough for your standards?"
The Lieutenant’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. His gaze swept the hunters, asuring their reactions, then returned to fix on her like a pinned insect. "Next ti, you ask permission. You are not here to wander freely. You are here to feed us."
Marron dipped her head just enough to seem properly obedient, though rebellion simred in her chest. "Then let do it properly. Give the freedom to hunt what flavors this dungeon hides. I’ll bring everything back to your table."
The hunters murmured approval, but the Lieutenant’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He turned away, gesturing sharply for the carcass to be removed.
"Clean yourself," he ordered without looking back. "Tonight, you will serve us proof of your claims."
Marron clutched the cloth-wrapped at tighter, hiding her small, fierce smile behind exhausted relief.
Proof was exactly what she had—and so much more than he realized.
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