The Fox

You stand in the cold light of dawn. A blanket of glimmering dew has settled over the forest, dazzling in the glare of the Architect. The rising sun casts an unremitting light on the carnage you have brought to pass, the Architect’s countenance so harsh as it crests the horizon that you wonder if its judgment might burn you all away. At the end of the road, the looming silhouettes of the pines frame it perfectly, as though you are face to face with it.

Your rapier hangs loose in your hand, your hair brushed from your left eye in rare form, wide and wild gaze taking in not the scene, but the sunrise. The dancing light of the roaring flames and the sunset glower are swallowed alike into dim pools of gore beneath bodies, of nobles, guards, and bandits, strewn about a toppled and torched caravan. Your underlings clamor and revel in the glow of their victory, their merry steps leaving tracks of blood as they sift through the gold still in its coffers and admire the weight of their plunder.

“Hey, boss!” A shrill voice shunts you back into reality, as you watch an underling run toward you, his shadow long against the fire. “We need ya’ to crack the last vault! Looks like some poor sucker’s still in there, ha… the surprise he’s gonna-”

The moment you turn to properly look at him, he stops in his tracks. He has never seen both of your eyes.

“Boss? You alri-”

You open your mouth to cut him off, but your rapier is already through his throat.

“Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa, hey, something’s going on!” One of your other underlings comes out of the burning woodwork, a concerned look on his face. You think you recognize him. His name is… Aran, maybe. You’ve known him for years, but in this moment, his name slips your grasp. “Amity, what in the hell is going on?”

You tear the blade from your choking subordinate’s throat, in the same motion casting him into the dirt where he may bleed among the nobility. More of your underlings begin to emerge in deathly silence, brigands and mercenaries and bandits, all drawing their blades hesitantly.

“Come on, bud… no one else has to die. Put the damn sword away and come help us divide the loot! There’s plenty of gold for the lot of us, no need to trim the numbers, huh…?” He lets out a nervous laugh, but that comment only seems to set you off. Before he can react, you are lurching forward, eyes catching in the light like those of a wild animal.

The crowd bows away from you, but you are already among them, and Aran’s blood already soaks your clothes.

. . .

The morning fog rolls away, and the fire has subsided into embers and ash, scattered in a thick pall on the breeze. The sound of fire and merriment have been quelled into hollow silence, and you’re left slumped against the last intact vault car, wearing the blood of your kin and the wounds to be expected of your betrayal. Gently coughing, you drag yourself up to your feet, looking out one last time over the scene. More bodies than you care to count.

You slam your hand against the dense metal door of the vault with a thud that clearly alarms someone inside. Beneath your palm, it begins to shudder and groan, deforming steadily until the locks inside crack apart, and the door swings open.

Your half-lidded gaze greets a startled man, backed into the corner of the gleaming vault among chests and lockboxes replete with unearned wealth. As he begins to speak, surely to plead for his life, you cut him off with a sharp order:

“Go.”

Without a word, he hurriedly nods to you, scrambling out of the vault car. As soon as his feet touch the ground he’s struck by the death around him, fighting not to mar his lovely shoes in pools of blood. As soon as he finishes dancing awkwardly through the warzone, he’s off.

You slam the door to the vault shut, and leave the scene behind.

You disappear into the trees, empty-handed but for your soul.