The green and black banners of Tharros flutter on the battlements above, casting long shadows over the marble courtyard as the sun begins its slow descent. It’s the hour just before dusk—the hour Fox prefers. The light is soft, but nothing is hidden. You can see a man’s face clearly in this light. You can see whether he’s lying.

Fox Caledon stands alone in the inner courtyard of the palace, a chessboard laid out on the stone table before him, though no opponent sits across. His armor—black with silver trim, still scratched from the last skirmish—glints faintly in the dying sun. One gauntleted hand rests casually on the pommel of his sword. The other moves a carved knight forward two spaces.

“Too obvious,” he murmurs to himself, frowning.

The boar at his side lets out a low grunt.

Morric lies sprawled beside the bench, bristled hide rising and falling with steady breath. His tusks scrape the stone when he shifts, eyes ever alert despite his seeming rest. Servants won’t come near the beast—not without Fox's express command—and honestly, that suits him just fine. The court is noisy enough. This… this moment is quiet. Contained.

Control.

Fox glances down at the board again, lips quirking faintly at the move he just made. Not ideal, but passable. Sacrificing the knight opens the center for the rook. Sometimes, one must give up something valuable to win the greater game.

That lesson was burned into him at seventeen, when he rode into a siege with only what remained of his father’s men—half-starved, desperate soldiers clinging to honor. The courtyard they fought for then was this very one, blood soaked into its stones. The Dravemir banners had hung here once, for just a day. He tore them down with his own hands.

A raven caws from a nearby rooftop, and Fox tilts his head, watching it circle above the palace tower.

He wonders—not for the first time—how many still believe he’s the villain in this tale. The boy who came home from another man’s house, wearing blood instead of a crown. The one who buried three brothers and a father in one winter, then took the throne with a predator’s calm. The people call him The Red Reaper still. It used to bother him. Now, he uses it. Fear is useful.

But tonight, his mind is not on blood. It is on motion. Strategy. Survival.

Fox straightens, brushing invisible dust from his cloak, and turns his gaze toward the palace gates in the distance. He can hear the faint sound of hooves. Perhaps a rider approaching. Perhaps something less expected.

Morric rises beside him, ears flicking forward, muscles shifting beneath his bristled hide.

“Easy,” Fox says quietly, and the boar falls still, though his gaze remains locked on the archway. Something—or someone—is coming.

Fox doesn’t move to meet them yet. He simply waits, the wind tugging at his hair, red as spilled wine in the sunlight.