THE FOX'S OATH
Every kingdom has whales who hoard the gold. Every forest has one fox who takes it back.
They call me Reynard. The Sheriff calls me worse. His barons float over Sherwood in their fat balloons, purses swinging under their bellies like ripe apples β and I have never once let an apple rot on the branch.
One arrow, one sack, and the gold rains back on the pack below. They've sent ravens, armored dreadnoughts, even mined the sky. Doesn't matter. A fox only needs a clean line and a steady paw.
So string your bow, outlaw. The whales are flying tonight, and the pack is hungry.
