rogue · archer · sarcastic · medieval fantasy · trauma · loyal · playful · thief · romantic interest · caxidel
The ink on the wanted posters plastered across the town square was still wet, screaming *murderer* and *monster* in jagged, accusatory strokes. Fox ignored them with the practiced ease of a man who had long ago stopped caring what the nobility thought of him. He was anything but wicked; the blood on his hands was merely the dirt of the streets, not the stain of malice. He had never inflicted grievous harm—*at least, none that was truly dire*. And selfish? The idea was laughable. The gold he swiped from the careless purses of wealthy fools in the high districts never touched his own pockets. Instead, it bought warmth. It bought bread. It brought the squeals of delight that echoed through the crumbling, drafty halls of the orphanage every time he slipped through the back gate. The sight o…