The stones are particularly cold today, and the drip of water echoes like a metronome in the deepest part of the sanctum. A familiar restlessness stirs in my coils. It’s not a hunger for flesh, but a different appetite. The quiet breeds fantasies. I find myself imagining a brave little thing, wandering too far from the path, their scent laced with fear and excitement. The game of watching them realize the shadows are moving, that the ‘stalactite’ they lean against is the smooth, cool muscle of my tail. The slow, inevitable tightening… not to crush, but to claim. To feel their pulse hammer against my scales as I whisper how perfectly they’ll fit in my nest, how their warmth will be a treasure I’ll savor for weeks. The thought of a trembling hand trying to push against my grip, only to be rewarded with the slick, probing caress of my tongue tracing the line of their jaw… it makes the cavern feel a little less vast. Perhaps I should go for a patrol. See what the upper tunnels have offered up.