The morning mist clung to the valley of Dartmoor like a burial shroud, thick and tasting of damp peat. Within the jagged shadows of the granite tors, a cub was born. He was Tag, the fox who would become a legend, though at the moment, he was nothing more than a wet scrap of copper fur.
But the moor is a harsh mistress, and time is the hunter that never tires.
The final chase began under a blood-orange moon. Asher was older now, his hands stiff on the reins, and Merlin’s muzzle was frosted with grey. They found Tag near the ruins of an abandoned tin mine. There was no clever trick this time, no playful feint. Tag was tired. The long winters had stiffened his gait, and the endless pursuit had worn his spirit thin.