The Wolf And The Fox

Chapter 1: Maeve's Booknook

Wulfric Collins, called Wolf, began his day with the shrill insistence of his alarm clock. At 25, with a compact, slightly chubby frame that made him feel like a modern-day dwarf from the fantasy books he devoured, he groaned as he rolled out of bed. His long brown hair—secured in a messy ponytail that fell past his shoulders—clung to his back in the morning damp.

The faint light of dawn bled through the half-closed curtains, casting the apartment in a soft, greyish glow. His place was cramped and messy, yet comfortable in its disarray. Books—novels, grimoires, and well-worn paperbacks—sat precariously on every flat surface, while old coffee cups and empty takeaway containers cluttered the small kitchen table. The stale scent of lingering smoke permeated the air, mingling with the smell of yesterday's coffee, which he quickly discarded. Wolf moved to make himself a fresh cup, dumping a generous spoonful of grounds into his French press. The smell of brewing coffee woke him more than anything else.

As the dark liquid steeped, he lit a cigarette and stepped onto the small balcony, his usual morning ritual. Taking in a deep drag, he blew the smoke out in rings, watching them dissipate into the cool morning air. He felt the slight sting of the cold on his bare arms, but it grounded him in the quiet rhythm of the city just waking up.

Once his coffee was ready, he poured it into his favorite chipped mug—a relic from some long-forgotten café—and took a slow, appreciative sip. "Right. Better get moving," he muttered to no one in particular, though the books piled around him seemed to agree silently.

Wolf dressed in his usual uniform: a grey hoodie over a faded green T-shirt, earthy brown cargo pants, and his favorite beat-up leather boots. He slung his trusty messenger bag over his shoulder and, with a final glance around the apartment, headed out the door.

The damp streets of autumnal Cork City were alive with the morning bustle. His walk to Maeve's Booknook was a familiar one; the cobbled streets and the small shops he passed each day barely registered in his mind anymore. As usual, it was raining lightly—a soft drizzle that painted the city in a layer of gloss. Wolf tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, keeping his face down as he moved through the city with the purposeful shuffle of someone just slightly late.

When he reached the familiar door of the bookstore, the bell above it chimed as he entered. Immediately, the warm scent of old books, spiced candles, and the faint aroma of lavender greeted him. The bookshop was a cozy haven, its shelves packed with everything from glossy new bestsellers to worn first editions.

Behind the counter, Maeve stood with her usual mismatched outfit—today it was a flowing purple dress layered with scarves and far too many bracelets clinking around her wrists. Her grey hair was, as always, in a messy updo, giving her a look of barely-contained chaos.

She glanced up as Wolf entered and gave him a look that was equal parts exasperation and affection. "Ah, you've graced us with your presence at last, Wolf. Do me a favor, love, and brush that beard in the office. You look like you've been camping under a bridge."

Wolf chuckled, rubbing his hand over his unruly, full beard. "What? It's a look."

She rolled her eyes. "Sweetheart, that's not a look. It's a cry for help."

He shrugged. "It's all part of the mystique. Besides, I don't have time for beard maintenance. I'm far too busy selling books."

"Selling books," she echoed, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Sure. We're positively flooded with customers. Any moment now, the door will burst open with eager readers."

Wolf smirked, heading for the backroom to stash his bag. "I'm sure they'll line up any second."

Maeve's Booknook was an eclectic mix of old-world charm and subtle chaos. Every corner of the store held a forgotten trinket or hidden stack of rare books. As Wolf moved toward the tiny, makeshift office tucked behind a curtain at the back of the shop, he spotted Maeve behind the counter, casually re-shelving a stack of novels.