to be invited to a warm bed

The village was quiet under the embrace of the soft night, the rain reduced to a faint mist that clung to the cobblestones and blurred the edges of lantern light. The air smelled of wet earth and flowers, and the streets murmured with voices telling old love stories. Couples sat close under eaves, speaking in hushed tones of dreams and futures yet to come. It was a night brimming with wonder, where even the stars seemed to twinkle in hopeful anticipation.

Mr. Fox walked alone through the stillness, his coat brushing against the damp stones as his steps echoed faintly in the quiet. The chill of the evening nipped at his fur, but he paid it no mind, his heart warmed by the tales and laughter he had shared earlier. The world felt alive and full of possibilities, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself think of love—not as a fleeting fancy but as something real and within reach.

As he rounded a corner, his steps slowed. A prickle of awareness ran through him, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. His golden eyes flicked upward, and there, in the window of a second-story room, stood a man.

The figure was shadowed, the light behind him faint, but Mr. Fox could see enough to take his breath away. The man’s silhouette was elegant and lean, his hair dark and unruly. He stood with an air of quiet sorrow, his face pale and luminous against the night. But it was the eyes that struck Mr. Fox most—their longing was unguarded, burning with an intensity that pierced the distance between them.

Mr. Fox’s breath caught. He knew that look, had felt it in himself so many times before. Lust, yes, but something deeper too—a yearning for connection, for understanding, for love. And in that moment, he felt it mirrored within him.

“There he is,” Mr. Fox murmured, the words soft as the mist. “At long last.”

His heart raced with the thrill of the hunt, though this was no ordinary chase. This was something more sacred, more fragile. For the first time in years, he felt mortal—fallible, vulnerable, and gloriously alive.

The man in the window lingered a moment longer before stepping back into the shadows, and Mr. Fox’s pulse quickened as the light in the room dimmed. The sorry state of the building registered belatedly, the cracked sign above the door reading “Apothecary” in faded letters.

He tore his gaze away with reluctance, his thoughts spinning as he made his way back to his troupe. There was something magnetic about that man, something that spoke to his soul in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

Back in the company of his performers, Mr. Fox leaned close to a trusted friend and whispered, “Who lives in the apothecary on the corner? The one who looks like a prince fallen from grace?”
---------------

The glow of the cheerful day faded into the embrace of night, and as the warmth ebbed away, so too did the village’s bright demeanor. Under the cover of darkness, tales changed their tone, turning sharp and bitter like the crack of distant thunder. Around fires and in shadowed taverns, voices whispered warnings, and eyes glanced nervously toward the apothecary at the edge of town.

They spoke of Darcia first. Her beauty, they said, was like that of a venomous flower—captivating but deadly. Rumors abounded of her poisons and her unsettling obsession with her broken brother. “It isn’t natural,” one villager hissed over their ale. “The way she dotes on him, keeps him close. She’s bewitched him, body and soul.”

“They sleep together, you know,” another voice added in a hushed, scandalized tone. “As lovers. It’s sinful. Unholy.”

Mr. Fox’s ears twitched uncomfortably at the accusation, a pang of displeasure curling in his chest. He did not care for slanderous gossip, no matter how confidently it was spoken. But he stayed silent, his golden eyes narrowing as he listened further.

The tales of Nimdok carried a different weight, heavy with sorrow rather than disdain. They called him a ghost of a man, a broken creature who wandered through life as though still tethered to the horrors of his past. The asylum where he had been confined loomed large in the villagers’ collective memory—a place infamous for its cruelty and malpractice.

“He came back in pieces,” one woman murmured. “Not all of him made it out.”

“They said he spoke to things that weren’t there,” another added. “Birds and shadows. Poor boy’s been ruined.”

“He was just a child,” an older man interrupted, his voice tinged with regret. “And that place broke him. No one deserves what he went through.”

Mr. Fox’s heart ached as he listened. The picture they painted was bleak, and yet, beneath the pain and pity, he sensed something else. A glimmer of strength, of beauty hidden behind the scars. Nimdok was not a ghost, he thought, but a man trapped in the labyrinth of his own mind, waiting for someone to guide him out.

That night, as Mr. Fox retired to his caravan, the stories swirled in his thoughts, refusing to settle. When sleep finally came, it brought with it dreams of his newfound prince—fragile, haunted, and desperately in need of saving. He dreamed of offering his hand, of pulling Nimdok from the darkness and into the light.

But the image of Darcia lingered like a shadow at the edge of his vision. If he was to save the prince, he realized, he must first confront the spider that wove the web around him. He would have to meet this sister, charming and dangerous as she was rumored to be, and uncover the truth for himself.

The rain tapped gently against the roof of his caravan as he slept, and somewhere in the dark, Mr. Fox smiled. He was a romantic, hopeless and eternal, and he would follow this story wherever it led.