Fable's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Fable pressed his nose to the cold floor of his den and smelled nothing but ash. The witch had come while he slept. Now the carved wooden shelf stood empty, and the enchanted relic his father had guarded for years was gone. Fable was a clever fox, orange with a white chest, and he had never lost a chase in his life. But you cannot chase what leaves no trail. He circled the den three times. The mist that always wrapped his home had swallowed her scent. He nosed the doorframe, the mushrooms by the step, the moss on the roof. Nothing. His paws shook. The relic kept the fog outside gentle. Without it, the deeper woods would turn hungry. Fable ran to the one who knew the woods best. He climbed the roots of the old crooked oak that grew at the edge of the grove. Its trunk was furrowed like a grandfather's hands, and its broad crown blocked the sky. "Old tree," Fable said, "a witch stole from my den. Which way did she go?" The oak did not answer. Trees rarely do. But a small light drifted down from its branches. A fairy, no bigger than his paw, hovered before his snout. Her wings caught the gray light and threw it back in soft colors. "You ask loud questions," she whispered. "I keep quiet answers." Fable sat back on his haunches. "Then you saw her. Please. She took something that protects my home." The fairy floated closer. Her voice was barely more than breath. "I saw a black cloak pass at moonset. She left no scent because she walks between the trees, not through them. That is why your nose failed you." "Where did she go?" Fable begged. "Follow the fog where it thins," the fairy said. "She parts it as she walks. The parted places stay open for one day. After that, the fog closes and the trail is gone forever." Fable's heart jumped. He spun toward the grove. There, low among the ferns, a narrow gap cut through the mist. It ran straight and clean, like a hallway pressed into the white. He had walked past it a hundred times and never seen it as a road. "That is her path," the fairy said. "But hear me, fox. The gap leads to the shadow places. Foxes who follow her do not always come back the same." Fable looked at the open trail, then back at his empty den. One day. If he waited, the fog would seal, and the relic would be lost, and his home would fall to the hungry woods. He did not wait. Fable lowered his head and stepped into the gap. The mist wrapped his flanks like cold water. Behind him, the fairy's light dimmed, and ahead the parted trail curved into gray. He had his trail at last. Now it led him straight toward the witch.