Welcome to Ridgecliff
The taxi's headlights cut through the creeping darkness, casting fleeting glows over the farmhouses and fields lining the highway. Rain drummed softly against the windshield, a constant murmur beneath the crackling radio. The driver's eyes flickered nervously to the rearview mirror now and then, lingering for a breath longer than usual before snapping back to the road. Brendon noticed. He had been noticing all the way from the station.
Brendon Wolf shifted his gaze from the mirror to the rain-slicked window, where blurred shapes of barns and silos slid by in a dull haze. The glass was cold under his paw, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he looked down, fingers brushing the edges of a folded paper gripped between them. A recommendation letter—creased from hours of turning it over, reading and re-reading the stiff, formal words penned by Jailer Hargrove himself.
His claws grazed the parchment's edges, the neat black ink a stark contrast to the dirtied pads of his paws. A sheriff's post in Ridgecliff. A second chance. Or at least, that was what Hargrove had called it when he handed him the letter on the morning of his release, the iron gates yawning open behind him.
Three years. That was how long it had been since the iron bars first closed behind him—since the day a bloodied knife and a dead body branded him a murderer. Not here, though. Not in Ridgecliff. The charge came from a different town, a different life he'd been so sure he could outrun. A petty thief, yes, but not a killer. The court hadn't cared to listen. To them, a wolf's word meant less than the dirt under their shoes.
His ears flicked, jaw tightening at the memory. He'd spent three years behind bars, caught between the cold suspicion of guards and the eyes of inmates who watched and waited for a crack in his armor. But Hargrove had been different. The old warden didn't believe him—no one did—but he had seen something more. Maybe that was why he had handed Brendon the letter, saying only, "Ridgecliff needs a sheriff. And you need a new start."
---
"That wolf did it, didn't he? Ain't it obvious?"
"He's been trouble since he got here—nothin' but a thug with a grudge."
"Murderer."
---
Brendon's jaw tightened, ears flattening as the words echoed, sneering and cruel. No trial worth the name, no evidence—just the knife and the body. And no one cared to ask why the wolf who made a living off small-time cons and card games would suddenly turn to murder.
The taxi slowed, pulling him from the depths of memory. Through the windshield, the iron-wrought arch marking Ridgecliff's entrance loomed, its letters dripping with rain. The buildings grew taller, narrow windows aglow with lamplight. A flicker of something sour and raw twisted in his chest. He knew nothing of this town—only that it was far enough from the past to maybe start again.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the town hall—its pale facade stretched stark against the gloom, columns lined like soldiers on watch. Brendon pulled a few bills from his pocket, holding them out. The driver's eyes darted to his paw, the fur dark against the paper, and his fingers trembled as he took the money, mumbling something that might have been a thanks.
The look in his eyes stung, but Brendon ignored it. He'd grown used to that kind of fear.
As the taxi sped off, tires splashing through puddles, he inhaled deep, the air damp and cool, tasting of rain and stone. He straightened, tucking the letter into the inside pocket of his coat. For a moment, he stood there, gaze on the heavy oak doors, the shadows slinking long and dark behind the pillars. Then he exhaled, squaring his shoulders, and moved forward.
---
The foyer was lit with hanging lamps, their glow reflecting off polished marble and varnished wood. The reception desk sat at the center, neat stacks of papers and a small brass bell glinting faintly. Behind it, a woman—a serpent, her scales glistening emerald under the lights—peered up, eyes narrowing a fraction.
Brendon approached, footsteps muffled on the rug. He could feel her gaze sweep over him, lingering on the scar slicing through the fur on his left cheek.
"Brendon Wolf," he said, voice steady. "I have an appointment."
The serpent woman's tongue flicked briefly between her teeth, a habit, perhaps, or a subtle show of disdain. But her voice, when she spoke, was smooth, businesslike.
"The mayor is expecting you," she replied, motioning to a door down the hall. "Second on the left."
He nodded, murmuring a thanks she barely acknowledged.
---
Mayor Arnesto Guerio, a human, was not a man to shy from grandeur. His office was proof of that—walls paneled in dark wood, heavy drapes framing the window, and a chandelier hanging overhead, casting fractured light over the room. Behind the mahogany desk sat the mayor himself, fingers drumming a slow, steady rhythm against the polished surface.
Arnesto was a man of middling height and more than middling width, his suit straining slightly at the seams. His eyes—sharp and dark—shifted to Brendon as the door closed behind him. A smile curled the edges of his mouth, all teeth and no warmth.
"Ah, Mr. Wolf," he drawled, gesturing to the seat opposite. "Do sit. I've been eager to meet you."
Brendon obliged, lowering himself into the chair, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. The mayor's gaze dipped briefly to the letter Brendon slid across the desk, the seal unbroken.
Arnesto broke it open with a flick of a letter opener, eyes scanning the page swiftly. His smile grew, but his eyes remained cold.
"A recommendation from Jailer Hargrove," he mused. "Quite the endorsement. And for a sheriff's position, no less."
Brendon met his gaze evenly, though the tips of his claws bit faintly into his palms. "I only want to work, sir."
"Of course," Arnesto replied, though his tone was smooth with amusement. "But work in Ridgecliff requires a certain… finesse. You understand, surely."