Lonely fox (part 1)

—The Slavers—

"Did you hear that?"

"What, the wind?"

"No. There. Again. In the trees."

Six slavers loitered near the wagons, five of them standing guard and the sixth leaning lazily against the largest cage. The forest around them was still—unnaturally so. The kind of stillness that made men nervous, even drunk ones.

"Stop twitching," one muttered, shifting his grip on a rusted spear. "Ain't nothing out there but wolves."

"Exactly," another grunted. "Wolves don't kill for gold. They kill for sport."

A sour laugh followed. "Relax. No one's out here but beasts. And we've already got the prize catch."

He jerked a thumb toward the cage—the one holding the black-furred fox girl.

Golden eyes stared back at them. Hollow. Burning. Unbroken.

"She hasn't screamed in days," one slaver muttered.

"That's worse," another replied.

Then—

Snap.

A slaver turned toward the treeline.

Too late.

A blade flashed through the dark, slicing his throat in a clean arc. His body crumpled soundlessly to the ground.

"Shit!"

The others scrambled, shouting into the shadows.

One never finished drawing his sword. An arrow buried itself in his chest. Another was yanked backward into the trees with a strangled cry, the silence swallowing him whole.

"WHO'S THERE!?" the leader roared.

No answer. Just a flicker of motion—then pain.

A trap snapped shut on a leg. Screams.

Then he appeared.

A blur in black. Cloaked. Bloodied. Silent.

Steel flashed, too fast for drunken eyes to track.

A spear shattered. A wrist snapped. Two slavers dropped before they could react. The fifth managed a wild swing—and received a boot to the temple for his trouble.

The last man turned and fled.

"Shit shit shit what's happening—"

He tripped as Arman's blade pierced him through the back.

Then—silence again.

Thick. Final.

—Arman—

Ten bodies. Ten souls he would not grieve.

Each one had cost him more effort than the last. His arms burned. His ribs ached. His lungs pulled air through clenched teeth. He leaned against a tree briefly, blood dripping down his fingers.

But he was alive.

And they were dead.

He limped through the clearing, past shattered blades and twitching limbs, until he reached the main wagon—the cage made of real steel.

Dozens stared back at him from behind the bars. Faces sunken from hunger, eyes wide with disbelief.

He found the key on a corpse and slid it into the lock. It clicked. The bar lifted.

"I'm not saving you because I'm noble," he said flatly. "I just hate their kind more than most."

One by one, the captives stumbled out. Some cried. Others ran. A few whispered thanks as they vanished into the trees.

But one did not move.

She stayed pressed against the back of the cage, golden eyes locked on him. Black fur. Shackles at her wrists. Ears twitching low.

Kyra.

"You're Kyra, right?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

He crouched, slowly, so she could see his hands.

"I get it. Covered in blood, sword in hand—doesn't exactly scream 'trustworthy stranger,' does it?"

He dropped the blade, letting it clatter to the dirt. Held his hands up. "Not here to hurt you."

Still, she didn't move. Her eyes didn't blink.

So he softened.

"If you come with me," he said quietly, "I'll help you become strong enough that no one—no one—will ever cage you again."

She didn't trust humans. She couldn't. Not after what they'd done.

But…

Something shifted in her gaze. Not trust. Not yet. But… curiosity.

She nodded, once.

He tossed her a ring of keys. "Free the rest."

She caught them, hesitated only a moment, then turned and moved with grace honed by survival. She worked quickly, unlocking cages and guiding the others out with steady, silent hands.

She told herself she'd run as soon as she could. He was probably like the rest of them.

But her hands moved. Her legs carried her to every lock. Her heart beat too loud in her ears.

Arman turned to retrieve his sword—

WHAM.

The blow hit him like a boulder.

He slammed into a tree, the air punched from his lungs. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

A shadow stepped from the woods.

Massive. Armored in scavenged steel. A giant of a man with a cruel grin and a double-headed axe resting across his shoulder.

"Well, well," he rumbled. "I leave for five minutes to take a piss—and I come back to this mess?"

His eyes found Kyra. His grin widened.

"Ah. At least our prime possession is still here."

—Kyra—

Her knees nearly gave out when Arman hit the tree. The sound of it made her flinch, her hand tightening on the keys.

She stared, stunned, as the giant slaver stepped into the firelight like a nightmare given flesh.

"Wait!" she wanted to shout. But her throat seized.

Arman was coughing blood, his sword just out of reach.

The man advanced, steps heavy, eyes cold.

The other freed captives scattered in terror. Some vanished into the trees, others too frozen to move.

Kyra's heart thudded so loud it hurt.

He would die. The stranger—the only one who had looked at her like a person—would die.

It's fine, she told herself. This is your chance. While he's distracted, run.

She turned to go—

"Kyra! Run! I'll buy you some time!"

His voice tore through the night.

She froze.

He was looking at her. Not the others. Her.

Wide-eyed, she stared back. He didn't have to say her name. He *remembered* it.

Her breath caught.

Then, she ran.

But not far.

She ducked behind the nearest tree, heart hammering. She peeked out just enough to see the clearing.

She couldn't explain it. She should have kept running.

But her legs wouldn't carry her away.

So she watched.