Sage Knight's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

By the fifth dawn, Sage noticed the fox's glow had dimmed a shade. Its sides still pulsed, but slower, thinner. She knelt by the den and saw the ribs press soft against the fur. The fox had not left the bud. It had not eaten. If it starved here, the bud above would die with it. She carried a wooden tray from the shed and set it near the den. On it she laid strips of dried rabbit, a wedge of soft cheese, and a handful of red berries from the bramble line. The fox looked at the tray. It did not move. By noon the food sat untouched, drawing flies. Sage pulled out her bark tablet, the one carved with seasonal foods. She traced the symbols with her thumb. Autumn berries. Field mice. Fallen fruit. None of it matched what she had seen the fox do. The fox did not hunt. The fox pressed its glow into soil. She looked again at the dark marks streaked on the post, the disturbed leaves, the ring around the stalk. She thought about the glow. About warmth pulled from somewhere. The fox was not a hunter. It was a feeder of a different kind. Sage stood and walked to the bramble line again. She picked the ripest berries, the ones soaked with sun, and crushed two between her fingers. The juice ran dark, almost indigo in the shade. She set the crushed berries on a flat stone beside the bud, not the tray. Close to the soil, close to the stalk. The fox lifted its head. It rose on thin legs, walked three steps, and lowered its nose to the stone. It ate. Slow at first, then steady. Its sides brightened by one shade, then two. Sage sat back on her heels and breathed out. She had found the food. But as the fox returned to the den, she saw the bud above had cracked open a finger's width, showing a seam of amber liquid inside. Something was leaking. The fox curled tighter around the stalk, and Sage understood her next problem had already begun.