Foxtale

Dawn did not come for kids in cages. Staring past the bars, counting breaths like currency. The world outside his cage was dark, torches stripped, burned. Flickers of ash glowing, the legacy of their flames. He leaned against the cold iron, bars digging into his cheeks. Muffled words poured through the cloth partition; voices wrapped in woven lies and warm fabric. It was like this every day.

Cael leaned back in his cell, collapsing into a heap on the rusted floor. He held his tail close, thoughts wandering to the days before, wondering if there would be days ahead. He flinched into himself, shaking. A booming voice rose above the others like beating drums, yet dripping with silken molasses. Steps approached, tangled voices blurring, growing near.

Cael lurched back in his cage, watching the partition waver with movement. “I think you’ll like what we got for ya this time, boss man.” A hand crept along the heavy cloth, a tall Weasely man punching his way through the opening. He stepped aside, allowing the curtain to fall behind him, catching upon the steeled fist of a much larger figure. Cael inched back, watching the hulking man emerge from the doorway. “Badger kid with a mouth, but I don’t think that’s where your wallet is.” The weasel dropped onto all fours, scurrying towards the child’s cage.

Like a serpent, he circled around Cael’s cage, eyes gleaming in the dying firelight, razor-sharp teeth creeping through a smile. An ebon claw glided across his silver whiskers, like a razor on wire. The cage shook, stomping footfalls of boots drawing his gaze past the otter’s grin. He was not like them. His coat hung with immaculate pristine, an extension of his form met out through gloves, boots and cobalt. Every part of him had sharpness to it, pointed edges, presence fanned in daggers.

The noodle of a creature snapped towards him in attention, shirking away into shadows. Cael hid his face, his chest tightened, the rest of him balled up, rolling away. The heavy stomps came to a halt, dirt kicked at the boy’s backside. He looked to the otter, his lack of expression sending a shiver down his winding spine. With no words exchanged, the smaller one coiled away, giving the two space. The hulking figure lowered himself, peering into the boy’s cage, searching, not a flinch of muscle.

“Look at me.” His voice was gruff; it carried with it a lifetime of strain. Age. Exhaustion. Command. He pushed against the top of the cage with his hand, tilting the cage and Cael in a tumbling sprawl. The boy scrambled to reorient himself in the slanted prison. Hurried breaths, his vision blurred, grasping for stability. Rust scraped his palms, fingers wrapped in distress. “Look. At. Me.”

The command unneeded, Cael’s wide-eyed fear caught in the dimming smolders. For the first time, the man showed something resembling humanity, a lift of his chin, a smile hidden from eyes cast down. The purple of Cael’s eyes was all he needed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Weaselton.”

“W-Westleton, Sir.” He peeped, winding in a circle as he looked to the kid.

“I was suspicious of your claims after… last time.”

“You must understand that wasn’t me, B—”

“You must understand that I do not care for excuses.” He let his hand slip from the cage, towering over Westleton, Cael’s world crashing down as he tumbled into bars. “You earn praise, and you over-reach again.” His beady eyes narrowed. “Know your place.”

“Y-yes, sir.” The husk of a man cowered in the shadow of a titan, his eyes refusing to look past their chin.

“I will have payment arranged by sundown; but I will be taking him with me.”

“Now? Wait, wait, wait, you know I gotta do money up front on this kinda sale.”

“Westle,” his voice cracked like a whip, the otter straightened up, shoulders tensed. “What did I just say about overreaching?” He could feel his chest tighten, heart pounding. Cael lay with bloodied palms clenched against his gut, half-lidded eyes staring past two monsters discussing his future like he was a commodity. The rattle of chains and low rumble of the camp stirred outside. Soon, the sun would rise. “Have this one loaded with the others.”

“Yeah,” he said in response. An empty reflex. The behemoth of a man strode toward the tent’s wall. Voices blended into the backdrop, buried in darkness. A clamoring chorus made clear as he pressed through the veil, silenced as the cloth settled. Neither of them spoke, nor moved. The tension did not leave with the brute; it hung in the air like electricity in a storm. Cael felt it. Westleton felt it. He really felt it. He spat, tail slapping the cage with the coiled tension of a spring.

The rusted box scraped across the ground, Cael falling onto his back again, crawling away from the otter. “Stiff me on cinders.” The otter muttered under his breath; his lip twisted, too late to take back what slipped out. Their eyes met. One curled in fury; the other dulled by dread. The cage rattled, a flailing kick striking its side. “What are you lookin’ at?”

“You.”

Westle sneered, whiskers twinged with violent rage. His boot struck rusted metal; specks of rust peppered Cael’s cheek. He seethed through gritted teeth, toes throbbing in pain. Lips raised, and whiskers pointed, sneering with a huff. His tail flicked, raking the bars. With his back turned, the otter tightened his leather spaulder. “Know your place,” Westleton mumbled before passing through the same exit as the boss.

Silent again. At last. Save for the flickering reminder of who owned him. The clatter of chains drowned the voices of the men who carried them. Cael folded in on himself, face buried between legs. His cheeks were numb, taut, eyes lazing over the canvas of his imprisonment. He sighed, posture slacking more. This was it. He cringed at the thought. Not of where he was going, but who abandoned him on this path.

Each one of them bought and sold his future, yet he clung to the slivers of light they had. Knowing if the fires simmered before dawn, someone else would be watching over, too. Safety in a sense. Now he was in a decaying cell, beyond the reach of physical harm. Beatings prevented. Bruises denied. Safety in a… different sense. Cael wondered what tomorrow looked like, the leash handed to another.

Teeth dug into his lip, biting back the thought. He jostled up, the cage squeaking as the bars settled. Cael tried to calm his pounding heart, leaning back against the bars, groaning again. His eyes fixed on the door, hanging crooked upon a broken hinge. It wasn’t like that before, was it? The badger leaned over himself, stumbling towards the latch. He pushed as hard as he could on an empty stomach for days.

The cage whined as more of his weight pressed on a single rusted bolt. The ancient iron groaned and twisted, snapping under pressure as shrapnel scattered across the tent. Just outside, a horse whinnied, a commotion stirred, voices grew louder. Cael lay on the broken door, his gut churning, arms burning with strain. His head spun, the tan partition blurring with the dirt and the tent’s canopy. He climbed to his knees, stumbling a few footfalls closer to the way Westley and the imperialist came.

With hurried breaths and unsteady footing, Cael crawled through the silken partition. It smelled of honey and vinegar, softer than any touch he had known, and even more repulsive. He shielded his eyes from braziers that burned brighter than the sun he had not seen in days. It was all a blur. A map splayed across mahogany. Chairs left vacant in a hurry, bags and coats still hanging, forgotten. There was no more thought in his head than a glaze in the boy’s eyes. They shimmered and stirred, moving without his notice, nor anyone’s witness.

Something buzzed inside him; electricity pulled his fur. Jagged tugs of an unseen force, no longer asking his attention, but demanding it. Cael paid it no attention, fading into the background with the rest of his body. Scrapes wet upon his hands, stomach begging for a scrap, chest demanding they stop. Still, his feet carried him forward with no direction. There was no more of a plan than to get out of sight as fast as possible. Cael knelt down, slinging the bag over his shoulder. His knees locked, strained, almost snapping down with the full weight on his back. He took a deep breath and went for what he hoped was a way out. His nose poked through the canvas, peeking a glimpse. Blood red was the horizon, strangled by dark clouds. Fresh air, cold and dewy, carried on the winds.

The muddy path went unattended. Voices, chains, and animals heard from every direction, hidden by wagons and tents. He slunk through, the crisp whisper of a breeze on his cheeks. His paw flexed against the wet earth, stolen from him in an instant. His stomach pulled through his body, a sweaty hand wrapped around Cael’s wrist. The otter towered over him, his tail whipped, teeth bared. “You slimy little runt–”

He struggled against Westleton’s grasp, not thinking. A blur, sharp, with the taste of iron. Cael sank his teeth into the slaver’s forearm; the sanguine drip splattered across both of them. Westle screamed. Not in fear, but in panic, fury. He tore back with a kick that sent Cael stumbling into the mud. “You bit me?!” he spat, voice rising to a bellow. “You little freak! I’ll—” But Cael was already gone. The silk parted behind him, flapping in the wake of his escape.

Wagon wheels and barrels of supplies provided cover. A bear-man crossed his path, stumbling between the alley of tents. Jugs of water balanced on his shoulders, eyes tired and focused on his feet. Only a glance passed to Cael before minding his steps with caution. He paused, blinking slowly, weight sagging on his back. But when he looked again, the boy was gone. Dismissed with a yawn, he wondered if he had ever been there to begin with.

Westleton had oriented himself, slamming his way through the tent’s flap with rage in his eyes. No sign of Cael, let alone anyone else. Word spread through the camp like wildfire. By time the bells rang out, the boy was a ghost in the morning mist.