11
Vulpes
The evening was uneventful until I reached into the mailbox, feeling the weight of an unexpected envelope. It was thick, heavy, and ominously unmarked, save for my name and address written in a familiar confident, authoritative script. A sense of foreboding washed over me as I ascended the stairs to my apartment, the envelope"s presence like a stone in my hand.
Once inside, under the harsh light of my kitchen, I slid a finger under the sealed flap, bracing myself for what I might find. The contents slid out, and I stifled a gasp. There, on my counter top, lay a piece of skin, inked with the majestic image of a lion"s head, its mane once a symbol of power, now a grotesque message from a hunter to his prey.
The tattoo I recognized—it belonged to Spiridion, a man whose very exis
