Where the Ferns Bow

They said the jungle went quiet before he showed up.

Buried deep behind twisted ferns and black leaves, something old sits in the dark with both eyes open. No crown. No throne. No warning. Just that cold, ugly stare that says the swamp already belongs to him.

This toad is not cute. He is not lucky. He is the thing watching from the wet roots, the reason smaller creatures stop moving, and the reason the night sounds different when you get too close.

For the ones who don’t need warning. The stare says enough.

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