The sun had climbed high before Draven's legs gave out. He stumbled to the side of a dirt path and dropped against a rock, clutching his ribs. The stag's antlers had left him battered and bruised, and though the bleeding had slowed, the pain still burned with every breath.
He pressed his palm against his side. The skin was tender, sticky with dried blood. "Tch…" He muttered to himself. "If I keep moving like this, I won't reach the ruins at all."
A faint sound tugged at his ears. Not the rustle of leaves, not the cry of birds — sharper. Pained.
A whimper.
Draven pushed himself up, gritting his teeth, and followed it into the brush.
---
There, tangled in a hunter's iron trap, was a small fox.
It was unlike any fox he had seen in Branthollow's forests. Its fur was pale cream, but streaked with faint moss-green shimmer that caught the sunlight. Its ears were enormous, fennec-like, twitching weakly with every shallow breath. Blood stained the ground where the cruel steel teeth bit into its hind leg.
Draven froze. Even in agony, the creature's eyes glowed faintly — emerald, alive with a strange light.
He crouched. "Easy… I'm not here to hurt you."
The fox whimpered again, ears twitching.
Draven reached for the trap. His side screamed in protest, but he forced the jaws apart, blood welling fresh from his wound as the iron teeth released. The fox collapsed forward, shivering, but free.
It blinked up at him. For a moment, their gazes locked.
Then it pressed its nose against his ribs.
---
Warmth spread through him. Not fire, not searing, but something gentler. Like fresh spring air chasing away winter's bite. The pain in his chest dulled, his breathing eased, and though the wound did not vanish, it no longer felt like it would kill him.
Draven stared down at the little creature. "…you saved me."
The fox tilted its head, as though it understood.
He sat back, exhaling. "I save you, you save me. Seems fair."
The fox padded closer, pressing against his side. It made no move to flee.
Draven gave a small, incredulous laugh. "You want to follow me? Hah. You're either bold or foolish."
Still, he couldn't deny the warmth in his chest at the thought.
---
By evening, they had reached a roadside clearing where traders camped. Wagons lined the dirt, fires burned bright, and voices rose in chatter. Draven stayed on the fringe, the little fox curled against his cloak.
But he knew he couldn't parade her openly. A free beast would draw suspicion — and a Noble might demand it chained.
So, with a piece of charcoal, he drew a crude pattern across her foreleg. A mark, jagged but convincing enough at a glance.
"There," he murmured. "A fake slave tattoo. To keep you safe."
The fox sniffed the mark, then sneezed softly.
Draven smirked. "Don't worry. It's just ink. No chains for you."
---
Trader voices drifted across the clearing.
"…Dominion troops moving east again. Kaelith Veynar himself commands."
"Heard the League gathering too, near the marshlands. Won't be long before they clash."
"Bah. And we'll be the ones caught in the middle."
Another voice, lower, uneasy. "Not just soldiers. Beasts too. They say some are turning wrong. Mutated."
The fire popped.
"…horns glowing like molten rock. A hound bursting from inside. Contracts burning away. If it spreads…"
Draven's jaw tightened. Mutation. The stag had been one.
Draven sat in the shadows at the edge of the camp, the little fox curled against his cloak. Traders' laughter carried across the fires, but his focus was on the creature at his side.
She was so small. Her ribs rose and fell gently, ears twitching at every distant sound. Pale cream fur shimmered faintly where the firelight touched it, streaked with hints of moss-green. Her emerald eyes met his once, steady and bright despite her wounds.
Draven exhaled. "If I leave you nameless, the world will only see another tool. Another beast to be chained."
The fox blinked slowly, as if listening.
He thought of the trap's cruel bite, of her still pressing forward to heal him. Weak, yet choosing to help. Small, yet carrying a gift greater than any chain.
He let his hand rest gently on her head. "You're not a Servitor. You're not a tool. You're more."
His voice softened, almost reverent. "Feyra… that will be your name."
The fox tilted her head. Then, with a soft, almost musical sound, she pressed her nose into his palm as if sealing the word.
Draven felt the warmth of her breath and smiled faintly. "Feyra," he repeated, firmer this time. "Not marked, not bound. Named."
The fox's ears twitched, her tail swishing once. For the first time since the stag's antlers had struck him, Draven felt the road ahead lighten.
---
When the traders slept, Draven slipped away down the dark road. His ribs still ached, but Feyra's gift kept him steady.
For the first time, he did not walk alone.