THE FOX

A FOX WEARING A CROWN MEANT FOR A WOLF

You stand there, in the cold light of dawn, a wet, dewy blanket settled upon the inferno you have brought to life. The bodies of the nobles litter the scene around a toppled caravan, the yellow glow of fire mingling with the blue of the sky in the red of their blood. Your rapier hangs loosely in your hands, hair brushed away from your eye in a rare occurrence. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Your underlings laugh and revel in the warmth of the fire and the glow of their victory, feeling the gold in the coffers sifting through their fingers. The light is blinding, the Architect’s countenance so harsh as it crests the horizon that you think it might burn you away, and perhaps it should. The looming silhouettes of the towering pines frame it so prominently and so well, it cuts straight into the clearing of the road you’re on. It’s as if you’re face to face with it.

“Boss! I think one of ‘em is still alive, we can hear some movement in the last vault car. C’mon, maybe we can have some fun with this.” An underling calls out to you, and his voice briefly shunts you back into awareness of your surroundings. He is trotting up to you, but comes to a sudden and startled halt when he notices your full, unvarnished gaze directly upon him, rather than the usual bored disregard of one half-lidded eye. “Uh, boss? You alright?” he asks.

You open your mouth to answer, but your rapier is already through his throat.

“Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa, everybody back off the cart, something’s going on! Amity, what the hell are you doing!?” calls out your right-hand man. You think his name is … Aran. Maybe. You knew him for years, but his name has slipped your grasp at this moment. You tear the blade out of your choking subordinate’s throat, casting him onto the dirt with the same motion, where he may bleed among the nobility. The ten, twenty mercenaries and brigands come out of the woodwork, emerging from behind the palls of smoke and burning wood to regard you with caution. Aran has begun to draw his blade, and so too does everyone else.

“No one else has to die, alright? Come on. Put the damn sword away and come help us clean up the last of the gold, huh? There’s plenty for all of us, ya’ don’t have to trim the numbers, ha…” Aran gently tries to talk you down, but you are lurching towards the group. You don’t know why, but your legs carry you with an alien sense of purpose. Your eyes are bright, wild, catching the reflection of the Architect. The crowd bows away from you, but you are already within it, and Aran’s blood is already on your clothes.

The morning fog rolls away and the fire begins to taper out. The wreckage still smolders, embers carried on the cold breeze. The scene is empty, silent. The sound of the fire is gone, and the sound of laughter is gone. You are slumped against the vault car, clothes drenched in a cacophony of red and gold. You drag yourself to your feet, coughing, and plant your hand against the heavy metal door of the cart. A startled sound rings out from within, and the metal begins to bow with the motion of your hand, until the locks crack apart and the vault weightily sways open.

Inside is a man, in his late forties. He looks a little worse for the wear, scratched and bruised from the crash of the carts, but otherwise fine. He cowers against the back wall of the cart, among gilded boxes filled with unearned riches. You climb up the cart to face him, no sword in hand.

“Go.”

Without a word, he nods to you, and scrambles out of the vault car. He is staggered by the scene outside, having to fight not to step in pools of blood; the bodies of his coworkers, and his assailants, all strewn about the cart.

You climb back out, and slam the vault shut.

You walk into the forest, away from the wreckage, hands empty but for your rapier.