(It’s funny, he thinks, how he can set up a whole windy barrier around a house almost an hour away from civilization and they still try to get inside when they think the Empress is visiting. Of course, the worst are the tabloids convinced they’re having an illicit interspecies romance and desperate for any photo they can take. Last week’s Enquirer had a cover story featuring an image of John screaming as tiny sea troll babies burst from his stomach. The tagline had read HUMANS TO HOST ALIEN OFFSPRING and John hadn’t even bothered to turn to page 2. Funny how the truth would have worried humanity more; it was such a good idea he’d talked Feferi out of telling them everything right away.)

Your wriggling day is in three days, and while you normally celebrate this event with the apathy it deserves, this particular sweep is different. That’s because it will be your eighth sweep, and it happens to coincide with the arrival of the imperial drones. This is a milestone that every troll looks forward to with a heady combination of excitement and terror. For most trolls, when they reach their eighth sweep, they become adults. Not you. When you reach your eighth sweep, you will die.