Night draped over the fox tribe's village like a thick pelt, the branches above hiding the stars and moon. The fire outside crackled faintly, shadows flickering through the seams in the hut's hide walls.
Inside, all was still.
Allen sat upright against the pole, loosely tied now—more for show than restraint. Rinni lay curled beside him, her soft sniffles fading into slow, bunny breaths. Fina crouched like a huntress, eyes locked on the flap of the hut.
Then came footsteps.
A dainty foxgirl slipped in, bearing a wooden tray. Her eyes darted quickly to Allen, then away, cheeks pink.
"Evening rations," she muttered, setting the food down—meats, roasted roots, and sweet grain mash.
Without another word, she bowed and vanished into the dark.
As soon as the flap dropped closed, Fina moved like a shot.
She sprang up, stalked over to Allen, and sliced the ropes free with a casual flick of her claw. The bindings fell useless to the floor.
Her breath was hot. Her eyes burned.
