In the years since Velrik was brought into the lord's manor, he had come to attune himself to the intricate rhythms of its life. Lord Edric Veldoran had not purchased him for toil or service, but rather as a curiosity—an exotic pet to be admired. The noble’s children played with him when it pleased them, the servants regarded him with varying degrees of affection or indifference, and the lord himself scarcely acknowledged him, save for occasions where guests were present. For Velrik, this existence granted him a peculiar form of freedom, one confined by walls and expectations, yet freedom nonetheless.

  Through those years, he had forged bonds that mattered deeply. Elisa Brenhoff, the kind young human woman who had taken him in on that fateful first night, became his steadfast anchor. She taught him to read and write, corrected his speech, and, when no ears were pricked, regaled him with tales of the world beyond the manor’s confines. Mira Valen, a clever and nimble scullery maid, indulged his curiosity and imparted the art of moving unseen, who also entertained guests with her lute playing skills. Dain Forst, the gruff blacksmith, offered quiet respect and a sense of protection. Joren Karr, the stable hand, often let him sit in the stables, soaking in the travelers' gossip that filled his mind with stories of lands beyond the estate. And then there was Lucien Dreymont, the lord's trusted accountant; his keen intellect and sharp words carried a weight Velrik still struggled to comprehend.

  Through careful eavesdropping and relentless exploration, Velrik gradually unearthed the grim truths surrounding Lord Veldoran. The nobleman’s wealth was built on layers of deception, his power sustained by methods both illegal and corrupt. Though slavery was permitted within the realm, the manner in which Veldoran acquired his servants was far from lawful. Some had been whisked from lands where slavery was outlawed, smuggled to serve him through shadowy dealings. Others were trapped by fabricated debts or altered circumstances that offered them no choice but servitude. On paper, all appeared legitimate. Yet Velrik had overheard enough hushed whispers and glimpsed enough hidden documents to know that the truth was far darker.

  He had shared these revelations with his friends within the safety of the servants’ quarters, hoping that it might compel some action. That someone would be brave enough to put an end to it, but nobody was in a position to do anything.

  One night, Lucien had caught him snooping—a small shadow hidden behind stacks of ledgers in the study, even clutching a handful of silver coins he had pilfered. Velrik had braced himself for the sharp rebuke, anticipating immediate punishment. Instead, the man had regarded him with an unreadable expression before simply walking away. No reprimand, no report to the lord, and that uneasy act of kindness unsettled Velrik more than any punishment could have.

  Now, at ten years old, Velrik had long adjusted to the manor’s secrets, but an uneasiness lingered in the air. Whispers hushed to silence, lingering glances exchanged between servants, a tension that seeped through the halls like an encroaching shadow. Something was approaching, he could feel it pressing at the edges of his mind.

  But for now, it was just another day.

  Velrik walked through the lower halls, the sharp chill signaling the onset of the cold season. His keen ears caught snippets of conversation as he went about his morning tasks—fetching messages for Elisa, swiping a piece of fresh bread from the kitchens when no one was watching, slipping through the estate’s unnoticed cracks. The afternoon stretched ahead, and he pondered how best to spend it.

  The manor buzzed with its usual routines. Servants bustled about, carrying linens, scrubbing the floors, and attending to the incessant demands of nobility. Mira shot him a knowing smirk as she hurried past, balancing a tray of empty dishes. Dain acknowledged him with a grunt as he hefted a heavy iron bar onto his shoulder, his arms streaked with soot. Joren, lingering near the stables, waved lightly before returning to his duties.

  As Velrik made his rounds, he headed toward the garden, his favored retreat. He no longer entertained the notion of escaping, his collar ensured that, but he still relished testing the limits of his world. Crouching low among the hedges, he watched the guards, tracking their movements, memorizing their patterns and schedules. He had learned them all, despite knowing he had nowhere to flee.

  “You’re spying on the guards again?”

  Velrik’s thoughts were cut short as he turned to see Elisa standing behind him, arms crossed, her brow arched in playful disapproval. She had grown taller in the past few years, her childhood features sharpening into graceful maturity, yet the blend of exasperation and amusement upon her face remained unchanged.

  “I’m simply observing,” he replied innocently, flicking his tail playfully.

  She sighed, reaching out to ruffle his ears. “You’re always watching. One day, you’re going to land yourself in trouble.”

  Velrik smirked. “I’m adept at getting out of trouble.”

  Elisa chuckled, shaking her head. “Come on, if you’re not going to get into trouble today, you might as well lend a hand with my work.”

  Rolling his eyes, he followed her back inside. Whatever unease hung over the manor could wait. For now, life continued its familiar cadence.

  The warm midday light streamed through the high windows of the servants' hall, casting golden beams across the worn wooden tables. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meats hung thick in the air, mingling with the low murmur of conversation as the manor staff moved about their duties. Velrik perched on the edge of a bench next to Elisa, idly nibbling on a stolen piece of apple while she sorted through a bundle of linens.

  Then, the first shout rang out.

  A deep, commanding voice from beyond the outer walls shattered the calm. A second shout followed, sharp, echoing with urgency. The room froze. Velrik’s ears twitched, the fur on his neck bristling. A clatter of steel reverberated—distant, but unmistakably alarming. A wave of uncertainty washed over the gathered servants, heads turning toward the windows with anxious murmurs rising like smoke.

  “What was that?” Mira whispered, setting down a stack of plates.

  Sliding off the bench, Velrik crept toward the doorway. Just then, a deafening bang resonated through the halls—the ironbound gates of the manor being forced open.

  Sudden uproar erupted in the courtyard. Heavy boots thundered against stone. The manor guards shouted orders, their voices tinged with uncertainty.

  “Stay here,” Elisa instructed, grabbing Velrik’s arm.

  He barely registered her words, breaking free from her grip as he darted into the hall, moving with agile practiced ease toward the entrance.

  He knew the manor like the back of his hand—where to step to avoid squeaky floorboards and which corridors led to the best vantage points. Rounding a corner, he pressed himself against the shadows as two guards rushed past, their armor clanking rhythmically with each hurried footfall. Their hands gripped tightly around the hilts of their swords, faces pale beneath their helmets.

  “This is serious,” one muttered. “We weren’t warned.”

  “What do we do? Hold the place or surrender?”

  Velrik did not linger to hear their answer. He slipped into a side passage and made his way to the upper balcony that overlooked the grand foyer. His claws made only the faintest sound against the polished wood as he climbed the railing, hoisting himself up onto the ledge. From this vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the entrance.

  The main doors had been forced open, rays of sunlight pouring through in golden shafts, illuminating the dust swirling in the chaos. Figures in armored coats emblazoned with the sigil of the regional authorities stormed inside, weapons drawn. More surged into the courtyard beyond.

  Lord Edric Veldoran stood defiantly at the base of the grand staircase, dark robes billowing as he lifted his chin. His personal guards flanked him, weapons poised, yet Velrik could sense the hesitation in their stances. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and facing regional authorities.

  A man clad in a crimson cloak stepped forward, a high-ranking officer by the look of his insignia. With an authority that brooked no argument, he unsheathed a scroll, holding it aloft.

  “Edric Veldoran,” he announced, his voice unwavering, “by order of the king, you are hereby placed under arrest for crimes of unlawful enslavement, smuggling, and conspiracy against the crown.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  A stunned silence followed in the room. The gathered servants, frozen or hidden behind furniture, scarcely dared to breathe.

  Veldoran’s lip curled in disbelief. “This is preposterous,” he spat. “I am a noble of this land. You have no right—”

  “We have every right, we have all the proof we need,” the officer interrupted coldly, gesturing toward the entrance where another figure stepped into view.

  Velrik’s breath caught in his throat.

  Lucien Dreymont.

  Moving with the same measured grace he always exhibited, the lord’s accountant entered, fine coat buttoned neatly, expression inscrutable. Yet his firm, unwavering stance told Velrik everything he needed to know. This was no momentary betrayal—Lucien had orchestrated this.

  “I suggest you surrender, my lord,” Lucien stated, voice smooth and composed. “It will be less painful for you.”

  Veldoran’s expression contorted into fury. “You,” he snarled, stepping forward. “You dare to—”

  He never finished, as one of the guards slammed the hilt of a sword into his gut, doubling him over. The manor’s guards barely had time to respond before they were overwhelmed, weapons wrenched from their grasp. Some resisted, yet most, seeing the futility of their actions, surrendered and sank to their knees.

  And then, with a dam bursting, chaos truly unfurled.

  Velrik flinched as a loud crash reverberated through the air—a servant, in a panic, had knocked over a tray of dishes. The sound sent more frantic figures into motion. Veldoran’s guests in attendance began shouting angrily for explanations, some attempting to flee only to be intercepted by the armored officers.

  “Get back!” someone barked. “Everyone will be questioned before they leave!”

  Velrik knew better than to remain exposed. He leapt from the balcony, landing lightly near the base of a column. Heart racing, he navigated through the throng, slipping between frightened servants and dazed guards alike.

  And then he spotted them—Dain, Mira, Joren, and Elisa, huddled together near one of the side halls.

  “Elisa!” Velrik rushed toward them.

  She turned, relief flooding her features. “Vel—”

  Before she could finish, an officer approached, flanked by two others, scanning the group with keen eyes—firm but not unkind.

  “You lot,” he said, pointing at them, “you’re

  slaves?”

  Dain straightened, shoulders set. “Some of us.”

  The officer nodded. “You’re free, head outside.”

  The words hung in the air, surreal and jarring.

  Joren swallowed hard. Mira’s gaze darted between them, as if bracing for a cruel trick. Elisa exhaled tremulously.

  “Free?” Velrik echoed, ears perking with hope.

  The officer confirmed with a nod, casting a curious look at the small Vulpin. “Lord Veldoran’s holdings are being seized. Any enslaved individuals unlawfully taken into his service are no longer bound.” He addressed the other guards. “See to it they receive food and shelter. The council will determine reparations later.”

  The weight of the revelation settled over them like a slow tide.

  Free.

  Velrik barely understood what that meant. The manor had served as his prison, yet also his home. Now, it was neither.

  Around them, the world shifted—nobles squabbling, soldiers moving with determination, the old order of things fracturing before their eyes. But for the first time in years, Velrik felt a stir in his chest.

  Possibility.

  The future was uncertain, yet one truth emerged: the life he had known was in the past. Whatever loomed ahead was now his to dictate.

  Velrik shook his head, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface as he turned to Elisa and the others. Tail flicking with restlessness, he said, “W-wait here… I’ll be right back,” his voice breathless with anticipation.

  Before they could respond, he bolted, darting through the tumultuous halls on all fours.

  The manor transformed into a storm of activity—servants scrambling to hide valuables, guests conferring anxiously with soldiers, guards being disarmed or restrained. Velrik paid little mind as he slipped past the fray, through the open archway leading into the courtyard and into the garden beyond.

  Fresh air filled his lungs as he sprinted across the well-tended grass. A few terrified noblewomen huddled near the hedge maze, whispering amongst themselves, while lesser servants gathered by the fountain, paralyzed in fear and confusion. Velrik ignored them all, racing toward his concealed sanctuary.

  Beyond the meticulously manicured paths and flowerbeds lay the old oak tree, where a small gap revealed a hidden refuge among its roots—a place that went unnoticed by most. He dropped to his knees, digging his claws into the soft earth until he unearthed a small satchel nestled beneath the twisted roots.

  Inside lay his most cherished possessions—ten gold and eighty silver coins he had collected over the years, scraps of fine cloth taken for their softness, and a few small trinkets that had caught his eye; however, at the very bottom of the satchel, wrapped carefully in tattered cloth, was a drawing.

  He unfolded it with trembling fingers. It was aged now, the edges curled and smudged from years of handling. A simple charcoal sketch sketched with the unsteady hand of a child. His parents, or at least how he remembered them when he drew it—his mother’s gentle smile, his father’s proud stance. The details were crude, imperfect, yet it was all he possessed. The sole remnant of them.

  Velrik’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, everything else faded—the shouting, the marching boots, the realization that the captive world he had known crumbled around him.

  Clutching the parchment to his chest for a moment longer, he carefully folded it and tucked it back into the satchel.

  It was time to leave.

  By the time Velrik returned to the main hall, chaos had only intensified further.

  Guests were being rounded up, their protests growing increasingly desperate as soldiers confiscated their ledgers and records. Some had likely aided in Veldoran’s misdeeds, but even those who hadn’t could feel the shifting tides of power—and that alone terrified them more than anything.

  The manor's remaining guards stood in a line by the staircase now, fully surrendered and disarmed. Lord Veldoran himself had been shackled, his fine robe now flecked with dust. His wrathful protests had devolved into a bitter silence.

  Velrik navigated through the tumult, searching for his friends.

  Near the entrance to the kitchen, he spotted them. Elisa gripped the sides of her dress, tense but resilient. Dain stood with crossed arms, his expression inscrutable. Mira appeared restless, eyes darting to every new movement, while Joren rubbed at his wrists as if still feeling the presence of invisible shackles.

  “You’re back,” Elisa exhaled in relief as he drew near.

  Velrik nodded, “I had to retrieve something.”

  She regarded him with curiosity but didn’t press further. Instead, she turned toward the nearest officer.

  “What happens now?” she asked cautiously.

  The soldier, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard, cast a neutral expression their way. “You’ll be taken to the city,” he announced. “The council has made provisions for those freed from Veldoran’s service. You’ll receive food and a place to stay while your status is sorted.”

  Velrik’s ears perked at that. “And after that?”

  The man shrugged, his nonchalance evident. “That depends. Some will be given work. Others… well, you will be free to go where you please.”

  "Go where you please."

  The concept felt heavy, almost foreign.

  For so long, his world had been confined to these walls and corridors. Even in his wildest imaginings of escape, the thought of freedom hovered at such a distance that it had felt almost mythical. Now it dangled tantalizingly before him.

  He glanced at the others; Mira’s fingers twitched impatiently, as if yearning to move. Joren’s brow was furrowed in thought. Dain’s usual sternness remained, yet there was a new uncertainty in his stature—less guarded, more open.

  But Elisa… she appeared almost relieved.

  The officer motioned toward the exit. “Come on. Wagons will be waiting outside.”

  A murmur surged through the assembled servants-turned-freedmen as they were ushered toward the doorway. Some clutched one another, apprehensively. Others strode forward with quiet resolve, heads held high despite the confusion before them.

  Velrik adjusted the satchel over his shoulder, fingers brushing against the hidden drawing inside, not wanting it to go missing.

  As he stepped beyond the grand doors of the manor and out into the open air, he felt something unusual settle, filling his chest with warmth.

  For the first time in years, he was leaving—not as a prisoner, nor a possession.

  But as something entirely different.

  Whatever loomed ahead—he would face it on his own terms.

  As Velrik and the others moved toward the waiting wagons, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

  “There you are. One moment you were here, and the next, you vanished!”

  Velrik turned to see Lucien Dreymont approaching, the man’s usual stoic facade softened by the hint of a smile. It was the first time Velrik had seen him display any emotion beyond cold calculation.

  Crouching to Velrik’s level, Lucien studied him with his sharp eyes, a weighty gaze that made the young Vulpin’s fur prickle. “I’ve been watching you,” he murmured. “You’ve always had a knack for slipping away… and for taking a little with you when you go.”

  His gaze flicked toward the satchel Velrik clutched tightly against his chest.

  Velrik stiffened, fingers curling protectively around the worn leather strap. His heart raced as he prepared to bolt if Lucien made a move for it; he had fought fiercely to keep the few possessions that were truly his.

  Yet Lucien chuckled softly, a rare sound. “Oh, worry not. I’m not going to take it from you.” His voice softened, and the unreadability of his expression heightened. “If anyone deserves to hold onto something of their own, it is you.”

  Velrik didn’t relax entirely, but some of the tension eased from his shoulders.

  Surveying the remnants of Lord Veldoran’s crumbled rule, Lucien looked distantly contemplative—once-grand estate now overrun by soldiers, frightened nobles, and freed slaves cautiously stepping into their new reality.

  “They never regarded you as anything more than a plaything,” Lucien finally said, his tone sharper than before. “A source of amusement. They dressed you up, paraded you about, yet never truly saw you as a sentient creature.”

  His words hung heavily in the air, resonating within Velrik. Ears twitching, he found himself at a loss for words. How many times had he thought this? Yet hearing it spoken aloud felt like gripping a blade’s edge.

  With a deep breath, Lucien prepared to walk away but paused, returning for a moment. He bent slightly, uttering a phrase Velrik didn’t understand as he waved his fingers in the air. Suddenly, the collar that had constrained him for so long fell away, clattering to the ground. Velrik instinctively rubbed his paw along his neck, the absence of the magical device both liberating and bewildering.

  “One last thing,” Lucien said, his tone shifting to something low and knowing. “You may believe your life is improving, and perhaps in some ways it will. But freedom... it bears its own burdens. It grows more complex from here.” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll meet you in the city with the others. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  With that, he turned and strode toward the guards, disappearing into the chaos.

  Velrik lingered there for a moment, fingers still wrapped tightly around his satchel.

  Freedom was coming. It was finally within reach. But what does that mean for him?