The night had refused to loosen its grip. It stretched endlessly, a vast shroud stitched together by murmurs of restless leaves and the long, grieving wail of the wind.
Every breath the forest took seemed steeped in alarm, as though the ground itself had learned fear and now exhaled it into the air.
Tamamo-no-Mae ran.
Her figure was a pale streak between trunks and shadow, uncaring of the brambles that tore at her sleeves or the low branches that lashed her skin.
Each step she took bled a story into the earth. The scent of iron clung to her path, thick and unmistakable, blending with damp soil until it became part of the forest's memory. It sank into the ground as if the land were drinking her desperation whole, swallowing evidence with quiet hunger.
Above her, the moon lingered in a sky strewn with indifferent stars, its silver gaze soft with something almost like sorrow. It followed her movements faithfully, illuminating the narrow passages between roots and stone, as though guiding her not toward safety—but toward inevitability.
The wind threaded through the canopy, slipping between leaves and bark, weaving an eerie chorus that rose and fell in mocking rhythm. It danced around her, light-footed and cruel, giggling as if the chase were a game meant for its amusement.
Nothing about the forest was still. Nothing was merciful.
It watched.
From the darkness behind her, eyes gleamed—sharp, ravenous points of light suspended in shadow.
A low snarl rippled through the air, not loud enough to announce itself, but intimate enough to be felt along the spine. The demon did not hurry. It did not need to. The air shrieked as it moved, its presence choking the world until only the frantic cadence of Tamamo-no-Mae's footfalls remained.
Stones cracked beneath the heels of her flesh and scattered outward, some glancing off an invisible barrier that shimmered for the briefest instant before vanishing again. Magic trembled at the edges of perception, thin and strained, like a thread pulled too tight.
The demon followed effortlessly, savoring the narrowing space between predator and prey, stretching the moment longer than it needed to—because it could.
In her arms, bundled close to her chest, an infant shifted.
She stirred, tiny fingers curling into the fabric as if instinctively seeking something solid in a world that would not slow down. Her warmth was small but undeniable, pressed against Tamamo-no-Mae's racing heart.
A broken sound slipped past her lips—not yet a cry, but close enough to freeze panic in Tamamo-no-Mae's veins.
The child did not understand the danger; she only knew the flush of red beneath her cheek and the uneven rise and fall of breath that told her something was wrong.
Tamamo-no-Mae tightened her hold, angling her body to shield the infant from wind and thorn alike.
Her pace never faltered. If anything, it sharpened—each stride measured, deliberate, fueled not by fear alone but by devotion fierce enough to burn.
The dead were said to thrive beneath moonlight, to find comfort in its cold glow. Yet no chill could numb the terror coiled beneath the forest floor, nor could it dull the resolve blazing through the woman who ran with her master held close.
From above, the moon and the scattered constellation of stars watched through torn canopies of leaves, their pale light slipping between branches like indifferent fingers.
Heaven did not intervene.
They merely observed—remote, ever-so-eternal, reflecting a fate already decided long before this night had drawn breath. In their distant gleam lingered something cruel, as though the gods themselves had turned away from mercy.
A sound broke through the frantic cadence of Tamamo-no-Mae's movement.
It was small. So quiet, so fragile.
A sob—thin as a cracked whisper—rose from the basket pressed against her chest.
The infant stirred. Her distress swelled with each uneven step, soft hiccups tumbling into one another until they threatened to become a cry loud enough to betray them both.
Tamamo-no-Mae's breath hitched. She shifted her grip instinctively, drawing the basket closer, angling her body so the child was shielded from the biting wind and the grasping dark.
"Hush now," she murmured, her voice barely more than breath shaped into sound.
Panic threaded through her tone despite her restraint. One hand steadied the basket; the other brushed along the woven rattan, fingers trembling as they traced the curve of its rim. She did not slow, but her movements softened—rocking, careful, as if motion itself could become a lullaby.
The infant's sobs dulled, smothered by the basket's tight weave and the blanket wrapped snugly around her. The cloth mirrored the color of her eyes—pale, luminous, and impossibly gentle for a world so unforgiving.
Tamamo-no-Mae noticed it even now, clung to the detail as though it were proof that something pure still existed.
Yet purity had never been a shield. Not before. Not tonight.
Her feet struck the earth again and again, each step a punishment. Pebbles bit into her soles, thorns scraped skin already torn raw. Sensation blurred into a single, burning ache that crawled upward through her limbs.
Blood followed her path freely—darkening her ankles, streaking her calves, smearing across her jaw where it slid from her chin and fell soundlessly into the dirt below.
The scent of it thickened the air.
She felt the shift immediately.
The demon delighted in it.
Every drop that escaped her body sharpened the hunt, teased the creature's senses, urged it closer—as if the night itself whispered invitations into its ear.
The game had never been about catching her quickly. It was about savoring her struggle. About watching her choose endurance over despair again and again.
Still, Tamamo-no-Mae did not falter.
The dead thrived beneath moonlight, she reminded herself. Darkness had once been a refuge to her kind, a place of quiet communion and endless wandering. Yet the moon offered her no comfort now. Its glow felt cold, alien—hostile, even.
This was not her world anymore. Not when the fragile life in her arms belonged to something else entirely.
Humans were not creatures of the night.
And so the night would never be safe.
For a moment—brief enough to doubt—everything went eerily still.
The forest hushed. The air ceased its screaming.
The demon vanished.
No growl followed. No presence pressed against her back. Even the glimmer of predatory eyes dissolved into nothing, as though the creature had never existed at all—an echo of violence that failed to anchor itself to the present.
The silence that replaced it was worse, heavy and absolute, swallowing sound until the world felt hollow.
Tamamo-no-Mae ran on regardless.
Illusion or not, past or present, she would not risk stopping. Not while her master still breathed softly against her heart.
***
Silence descended too abruptly.
Not the gentle hush of a forest at rest, but a void so complete it scraped at the nerves. Even the cicadas had fallen mute. The wind, once a restless companion weaving through leaves and boughs, stilled as though the night itself had drawn a careful breath—and refused to release it.
Tamamo-no-Mae felt it crawl up her spine.
Quiet. It's too quiet.
Her stride faltered by a fraction, instincts screaming long before reason could catch up. She did not look down at the infant nestled against her chest, though she could feel the child's awareness shift—small fingers curling faintly against the fabric, bright eyes lifting in quiet curiosity.
The child sensed the change too, even without understanding it. That alone twisted something sharp and aching in Tamamo-no-Mae's chest.
She forced her focus forward.
The forest pressed in around them, dense and tangled, its undergrowth thick with thorned shrubs and low-hanging branches. She slipped between them like a phantom, careful—too careful—mindful of every snapped twig, every rustle that might betray them.
Thorns raked across her skin, tearing through violet cloth already darkened with blood. She did not flinch.
Pain was distant, unimportant.
Only distance mattered.
She needed space. Shelter. Somewhere—anywhere—to leave her master beyond the reach of what hunted them.
If Tamamo-no-Mae could secure herself somewhere safe, perhaps then she could turn back. Perhaps then she could face the demon head-on, lure it away, end this pursuit on her terms—
A breath brushed her neck.
Cold. Wet. Wrong.
Her body locked.
—it's here...!
She didn't see it, but she felt it with a certainty that hollowed her lungs. The presence loomed behind her, immense and patient, its hunger saturating the air until it tasted metallic on her tongue. Its gaze bored into the back of her skull, heavy with intent, as though it were savoring the moment before the kill.
Tamamo-no-Mae swallowed hard.
Without thinking, she pressed a trembling hand over the infant's mouth, muffling the smallest sound before it could bloom into a cry.
The infant stilled beneath her touch—not frightened, but sensing the urgency in the woman's pulse, the way her heartbeat thundered around her like a warning drum. The child's warmth seeped through her palm, grounding her in a way nothing else could.
Luck had never been kind to them. If it ever had been, Tamamo-no-Mae might have laughed at the cruelty of it all.
The unseen presence circled them slowly, its movement etched into the soil—leaves curling inward, dirt shifting where no footfall should exist. It lingered, tasting the air, testing the space between them. Too close. Far too close.
Beyond the trees, through the thinning dark, she could sense it now—the fragile boundary of a human settlement. A village, still asleep, unaware of how near death prowled its borders.
Would anyone be awake?
She doubted it. But it didn't stop her from questioning.
Biting down on the inside of her cheek until copper bloomed across her tongue, Tamamo-no-Mae drew on what little strength remained.
Mana shimmered faintly beneath her skin, restrained, precise. She bent it inward—not to strike, not to burn—but to fade. To blur. To soften their presence until even the wind might pass them by without noticing.
The forest breathed. Branches swayed as a breeze stirred once more, carrying scents away, scattering traces. The demon hesitated. Its keen senses strained, confused by the sudden shift, by the way her trail dissolved beneath its grasp.
She did not wait.
Each step forward felt like stolen time.
She prayed—not with clasped hands or whispered hymns, but with every frantic beat of her heart.
Her plea spilled into the soil, into the roots threading beneath her feet, into the indifferent sky stretched endlessly above the canopy. She offered it to any god that still bothered to listen, to any nameless power lingering between stars and shadows.
She asked for nothing grand. No salvation for herself. No mercy earned.
Only this—
Let her master live.
Let the world spare her, just this once.
Her breath hitched as she ran, the words forming soundlessly against her tongue.
The forest did not answer. The moon did not soften. Still, she begged—quietly, fiercely—as though sheer will alone might tilt fate's cruel balance. To hold on just a bit longer.
Just a moment more, and perhaps the demon would grow bored. Just a moment more, and it might finally turn away, convinced the chase had gone cold.
She knew better than to trust such hopes—demons were cunning creatures, predators who reveled in desperation—but hope clung to her regardless, stubborn and aching.
This one had never rushed.
It lingered. Toyed. Savored.
That knowledge gnawed at her nerves far worse than exhaustion ever could.
Gradually, the forest began to breathe again.
Leaves whispered as the wind threaded through them, tentative at first, then surer. The tension coiled around her chest loosened by a fraction. No claws tore through the undergrowth. No roar split the night. Only the muted cadence of nature reclaiming its heartbeat.
***
The name Tamamo-no-Mae had once traveled freely between realms, carried on hushed breaths and trembling tongues alike.
Reverence clung to it. So did fear.
To some, she was a blessing bestowed upon an unworthy world; to others, a calamity given form. Beyond the seas and beyond mortal borders, she was known as the greatest ally her master had ever possessed—unyielding in adversity, faithful through eras soaked in blood.
She was a spirit of innumerable visages.
Yet among them all, she most often chose the likeness of a human woman.
It was practical, she told herself. Mortal forms slipped easily through mortal spaces, navigating cities and villages like water through cracks in stone. But there was more to it than convenience.
Women were artful creatures—soft-spoken and sharp-minded, capable of tenderness and deceit in equal measure. Fragile in appearance, dangerous in truth. A fleeting existence, beautiful precisely because it could end.
A fitting mask.
Freedom had always been Tamamo-no-Mae's greatest indulgence. She chased it with childlike wonder, tasting every corner of the world as though it might vanish tomorrow.
Mountains, oceans, laughter, war—she embraced them all with the same unquenchable curiosity, refusing to let eternity dull her senses.
Among spirits who had survived ages of slaughter and sorrow, her soul had been threaded deeply into time itself. She had watched civilizations rise and collapse, had learned the sound grief made when repeated endlessly.
And still, she stood—here, now—beneath a sky scattered with cold stars and a moon that bore silent witness.
Tonight, she was more than an observer.
She was part of the tale being written.
The strain of survival weighed upon her like soaked silk, heavy with the memory of all she had lost. Names unspoken. Faces long erased. Promises broken by the cruelty of time. Each step forward carried the echo of those absences.
And yet—
Against that crushing weight, one truth remained, burning steady within her chest.
Her master had lived.
Small and warm, cradled close, breathing softly as though the world had never once threatened her existence. That fragile rhythm tethered Tamamo-no-Mae to the present, anchoring her against despair. What bound them could not be severed by distance, nor diluted by the years that sought to claim everything else. It was a bond carved beyond reason—beyond time and death itself.
And so, beneath the moon's unyielding gaze, Tamamo-no-Mae made her resolve.
She would deliver her master to safety.
No matter the cost.
No matter what awaited her beyond that promise.
As Tamamo-no-Mae pressed toward the forest's thinning edge, a tremor of warmth pierced the darkness ahead.
Lanternlight—soft, trembling, undeniably human—spilled between the trunks like molten gold. A village. Close enough that the night no longer felt endless. Hope stirred in her chest, fragile and bright, yet she did not let it bloom fully.
Experience had taught her restraint. Illusions were a favored cruelty among demons, and she refused to be lured by kindness that might bare its fangs at the last second. Her expression remained carefully neutral, even as her heart leaned forward, aching.
As they drew nearer, the world revealed itself not as a trap, but as life continuing, stubborn and unafraid.
Sheep murmured gently to their lambs, low and soothing, while cattle shifted in their pens, bells chiming with a sleepy clatter. The scent of hay lingered thick in the air—dry, earthy, comforting.
It stirred something old and unfamiliar within Tamamo-no-Mae, a memory of peace she had long forgotten how to name.
The forest behind them seemed to recoil from those sounds, its menace dissolving into the hush of leaves and shadow.
The infant in her arms nestled closer, unfazed by the jostling, her breathing steady, trusting—so painfully trusting—that Tamamo-no-Mae felt her resolve tighten like a drawn bow.
Smoke rose in slender columns ahead, pale against the night sky. Hearth-fires. Homes. The sight struck her with equal parts relief and dread, her heart swelling until it nearly ached. Shelter was within reach.
And still, she hesitated.
Because she was a spirit.
A being neither living nor dead. A being born of thresholds and cast into eternity, forever walking beside humanity yet never within it. The warmth of that village was not meant for her. It had never been. To linger too long would invite questions, fear—perhaps even blades drawn in the dark.
Her gaze fell to her master again.
The child blinked up at her, eyes catching the distant light, reflecting it back like tiny stars.
A quiet sound escaped her lips, something almost like wonder. Tamamo-no-Mae's chest tightened, torn open by longing and restraint all at once.
"I will make sure you are safe," she vowed silently, the promise sinking deep into her bones. "Even if I cannot stay."
With desperation braided tightly to determination, she pressed forward, guided by nothing but resolve—and the fragile, defiant hope that fate, for once, might choose mercy.
Tamamo-no-Mae cast one final glance behind her as the forest thinned, her step faltering for a fleeting instant before resolve forced her onward.
The land dipped sharply ahead; she descended the slope in a blur of motion, vaulting up a tree and crossing its branches with practiced ease, the night air tearing past her as though it wished to stop her.
All the while, her arms remained steady. Tamamo-no-Mae adjusted her hold instinctively, shielding the small body from every jolt.
Her breath grew ragged, heat flaring painfully through her lungs, each step searing as if her spirit were being fed to the sun itself—edges thinning, strength burning away.
When the village finally stood before her, she slowed.
She stopped before one of the wooden buildings, its walls dark with age, its door closed but whole.
Carefully—reverently—she lowered the basket to the ground. The wicker brushed the soil with barely a sound. Only then did Tamamo-no-Mae allow herself to lean back, pressing her shoulder against a nearby tree. The bark was cool, grounding, a quiet contrast to the fire raging beneath her skin.
Her heart thundered, frantic and unsteady, caught somewhere between relief and dread. She tilted her head down, eyes lingering on the small form nestled within the basket.
The future she would never see rested there, wrapped in cloth and moonlight. The thought steadied her far more than rest ever could.
She straightened despite the tremor that rippled through her legs.
Love demanded it.
A tiny hand emerged from the blankets, clumsy and searching, and brushed against the edge of her moonlit crown. Small fingers tangled in pale strands, tugging with innocent curiosity. A soft, breathy giggle followed—unafraid, unburdened.
Tamamo-no-Mae froze.
Her gaze dropped, meeting a pair of bright blue eyes reflecting the lantern's glow like polished glass. There was no fear in them. Only wonder. Only trust.
Her expression softened instantly, something ancient and aching stirring in her chest as memories surfaced—of trials endured, of fragments gathered, of a promise carried long after her master's soul had slipped beyond reach.
The lantern nearby flickered, bathing them both in warm gold. For a moment, the night receded. Tamamo-no-Mae let out a quiet laugh, low and fond, allowing the child to play with her hair as though this were an ordinary night, as though they were simply two beings resting beneath a peaceful sky.
"So curious already," she murmured, voice barely louder than the wind. Her thumb brushed gently against the infant's knuckles, a fleeting touch meant to be remembered by her alone. "Such a cruel thing... that we must part so soon, Master."
Her smile wavered, sadness seeping into its edges. She tried to speak again, tried to say everything she had carried across centuries—but the words tangled and refused her.
"Master—"
A cough seized her without warning. She turned her face aside, covering her mouth with trembling fingers as Xierra continued to grasp at her other hand, unbothered, still smiling. When Tamamo-no-Mae lowered her palm, crimson stained it once more—dark, familiar, unforgiving.
Her brows knit together. A quiet, weary breath left her lips.
Time, it seemed, was no longer on her side.
"Forgive me, Master," Tamamo-no-Mae whispered, her voice dissolving into the hush of the sleeping village as her steps left no imprint upon the earth.
The words clung to her throat, brittle and unfinished.
I have failed the promise I swore to you.
The confession never fully escaped her lips. It thinned into nothing beneath the touch of the night wind, which brushed against her skin with unkind fingers, cool and unrelenting. Her throat burned, raw with exhaustion, aching for water she no longer had the luxury to seek.
Still, her gaze remained fixed downward—anchored to the coverlet wrapped carefully around the small form in her arms.
Stitched into the fabric was a name.
A simple one, abbreviated and delicate, yet it carried the weight of an entire lifetime.
Tamamo-no-Mae's fingers hovered over the embroidery, reverent, trembling. Memory filled the spaces between her breaths.
"Xierra Eous Lilyanthone," she murmured, shaping each syllable as though afraid they might vanish if spoken too quickly. A faint, fragile smile curved her lips. "A name given by humans... yet far too beautiful for a world so fleeting."
Tamamo-no-Mae did not speak more than that. She could not trust her voice to remain steady. Instead, she adjusted the blanket, careful, instinctive, as though her hands alone could convey reassurance.
Her path narrowed toward a structure humans called a church.
Stone worn smooth by centuries of prayers rose ahead, its gates half-shadowed, half-bathed in wan candlelight that leaked from nearby homes. To Tamamo-no-Mae, it glimmered like a fragile sanctuary—imperfect, yet standing.
A place of hope for humans.
She pressed on, every movement drawn tight by pain, her legs protesting with each step she forced from them. The world had never been kind to their wishes. Not once—neither in what had been, nor in what was yet to come.
At the church gate, she paused.
With a practiced motion, she brushed loose strands of silver from her face and adjusted the foxlike mask that hid what remained of her strength.
Beyond the threshold, two baskets rested side by side, each cradling a sleeping infant. They lay still beneath their blankets, untouched by the dangers prowling beyond the village's borders, unaware of the fate that had delivered them here.
Tamamo-no-Mae stared.
Her steps slowed as she approached, pain flaring sharply through her legs, ignored it with stubborn resolve. Her gaze flicked from one basket to the next—then returned, inevitably, to Xierra. Candlelight from distant windows blurred through the night's chill, casting the scene in gold and shadow, warm and cruel all at once.
Kneeling, she lingered—just for a moment longer.
She looked upon the three infants as though trying to carve the image into her soul, committing every fragile detail to memory.
"Never did I imagine I would find human children so endearing," Tamamo-no-Mae whispered. Her smile trembled. And it stayed there a heartbeat longer—long enough for it to hurt.
Her fingers brushed gently over the infant's crown, slow and reverent, as though committing the sensation to memory. Xierra responded with a quiet sound, instinctively pressing her small face into the warmth of Tamamo-no-Mae's palm, trusting without question. The gesture nearly undid her.
She lifted the edge of her sleeve and carefully wiped away the faint smear of crimson along Xierra's cheek, mindful of the lantern-lit homes nearby.
No trace could be left behind. Not here. Not now.
When she withdrew her hand, it trembled—her palm marred by red scars, purpling wounds, skin blistered and burned where mana had scorched flesh. She closed her fingers slowly, as if pain were something she could simply refuse to acknowledge.
Rising was difficult. Still, she did.
The spirit stepped back, her movements uneven, her limp more pronounced as she forced distance between herself and the church gates.
She did not allow herself to cross them. Could not. When she glanced over her shoulder one last time, sorrow lingered unmistakably in her gold-kissed eyes, bright as dying embers beneath the starry sky.
Her skin, pale as untouched frost, only sharpened the contrast against her silver hair. Freed from its usual bindings, the loose strands framed her face in disarray, lending her an otherworldly beauty—wild, fragile, and fleeting. A vision that would vanish before dawn.
"I pray that you two survive this world's cruelty as well," she murmured, her voice scarcely more than breath as her gaze swept over the three baskets. "Oh, one cherished by mana. And oh, one burdened by the world's curse."
Her lips curved faintly, sorrow threading every syllable. "This universe, its mortals—everything will stand in your way."
Her eyes returned to Xierra.
"And this," she whispered, voice breaking at last, "is my goodbye to you, my Master."
She turned away before her resolve could fracture.
Tamamo-no-Mae carried within her the final fragment of her master's soul, guarded with a devotion that eclipsed fear itself. A promise forged long ago burned quietly in her chest, and she swore—then and there—to honor it, even if the cost was her own existence.
"For you," she breathed, unheard by any mortal ear, "are the one who gave us a life worth being proud of."
The night answered her with cruelty.
Cold air tore through her, sharp as knives, piercing skin and bone alike. A screeching roar split the heavens—audible only to spirits and to the soul she had just left behind.
Tamamo-no-Mae planted her bare feet into the earth, the ground yielding beneath her weight, scars carved deep and unforgiving.
Mana surged. Violet flames streaked with gold burst to life within her palms as she tightened her arms, power roaring awake.
One by one, blazing tails unfurled and braided behind her, radiant and violent, until nine burned against the dark. Steam hissed from her wounds, flesh searing as heat clashed with cold.
Her teeth ground together as her eyes bled into crimson, fury rising to meet the ache lodged deep within her chest.
The wind howled, spiraling wildly around her, yet the village slept on—undisturbed, unaware.
They could not hear the spirits' cries.
They could not see the blood-soaked earth.
They could not feel her pain.
This time, she vowed silently, I will end it.
She vanished into the forest in a blaze of speed, each drop of her blood erased the moment it touched the ground, swallowed whole by the earth itself. Her nine-tailed silhouette dissolved into shadow, leaving behind nothing but echoes—clashing steel, crackling flame, and a demon's thunderous howl that split the sky and went unheard.
All but one.
A fragile soul—only a fragment—felt it all.
Xierra wailed, tears spilling freely down her flushed cheeks, hot and crimson-tinted, grief blooming within her without name or reason. She did not understand who had shielded her.
But she felt the reluctance in Tamamo-no-Mae's departure.
She felt the sorrow hidden behind her smile.
She felt the unyielding resolve carried in her final vow.
Words that might one day fade from memory:
"Farewell, Master. May we meet again—somewhere, someplace—in this world."
***
The cold showed no mercy.
It seeped through layers of duvets and wicker, clinging to skin far too fragile to endure it. Three cries rose into the night—thin, raw, desperate—each one carried away by the mist that rolled low across the village.
Hage slept.
At the edge of Clover's border, the looming silhouette of the first Wizard King stood watch, hands outstretched in silent benediction. One palm hovered over stone-carved pages of a grimoire, the other opened toward the world beyond. Frost kissed the four-leaf clover etched beside him, its stern gaze fixed eternally upon the settlement below.
Outside the church, the night lingered too long.
Xierra's cries cut through the fog first—persistent, uneven, born not only of cold but of absence. Something had left her. Something warm. Something familiar. Her wails trembled with a grief she could not name.
Behind the church doors, a man stirred.
Father Orsi Orfai emerged slowly, candle in hand, eyes bleary with sleep. The door creaked open, spilling pale light onto the stone steps—and for a fleeting moment, he swore he saw a dark shape linger near the baskets. A fox, perhaps. Black as night. Its presence vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He blinked, shaking his head.
"Must be getting old," he muttered. "And a little bit crazy."
The candlelight wavered as his gaze fell upon three baskets lined neatly before him. Three lives, abandoned to the cold. The wind howled louder, as though urging him to hurry.
"My, my..." he breathed, kneeling with care. "You must all be freezing."
His hands were gentle, practiced. Years of tending to the village had taught him how to cradle fragility without fear. He lifted each infant in turn, murmuring, before realizing he had only two arms.
A tired chuckle escaped him as magic flickered faintly at his fingertips. The baskets rose, drifting obediently behind him as he ushered them inside, the candle in his hand melting slowly.
The church welcomed them with warmth.
With a snap, fire roared to life in the hearth, bathing the room in gold and orange. The air shifted instantly, the biting cold retreating. Father Orsi set the baskets atop a long table, blowing out the candle as he did.
Before closing the door, something on the ground caught his eye.
A mask.
White. Fox-shaped. Cracked along the edge, stained with dirt and streaked with violet paint that resembled tear tracks. Nearby, faint impressions marked the ground—small, hurried steps. Four-legged.
Maybe he hadn't imagined it after all.
Carefully, he tucked the mask into his robe.
Inside, a cry rose again.
"I'm here, I'm here," he cooed, locking the door behind him.
He approached the baskets just as Xierra's cries faltered, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around his offered hand. The warmth of his touch seemed to reach something deep within her, quieting the storm inside her chest.
"Well now," he said softly, smiling despite his exhaustion. "Warm and cozy."
Father Orsi exhaled, amused by how quickly she settled. He pulled a chair closer, sitting beside them, fatigue heavy in his bones—but his resolve unwavering.
Lonely, this place had been.
Not anymore.
His gaze drifted to the infant on Xierra's right. Dark hair framed a serene face, unmoving even in sleep. A pendant lay tucked close to him, its soft azure glow pulsing faintly, as though breathing.
Something about the air near him felt steady.
To her left lay chaos incarnate.
Ash-blond hair splayed wildly as the infant kicked and squirmed, a wide grin stretching across his face even in sleep. Drool escaped the corner of his mouth as he babbled nonsense to dreams only he could see.
Father Orsi laughed under his breath.
"And then there's you," he murmured fondly.
His attention returned to Xierra.
She mumbled again, brow furrowing, breath hitching as though caught in a nightmare. He brushed away the stray tears gathering at her lashes, humming softly until her expression smoothed. Her platinum hair gleamed in the firelight, nearly white, her cheeks slowly warming with color.
Her eyes fluttered open—bright blue, startlingly aware—before drifting shut once more.
Father Orsi smiled.
"Are you siblings?" he wondered aloud. "Triplets, maybe?"
He studied them more closely.
No... They're too different.
The dark-headed boy remained still, breathing even, his presence calming the space around him. Xierra lay quiet beside him now, her small hand shifting unconsciously toward his blanket, fingers brushing the fabric near the pendant.
Father Orsi did not notice.
The ash-blond, meanwhile, chose that moment to grab his own cheeks and giggle in his sleep.
The priest snorted. "You've got quite a bit of spunk, don't you?"
He leaned closer, lifting each blanket just enough to read the embroidery sewn into their clothes.
"Yuno," he read first, nodding. A good, strong name.
Next—"Asta."
And finally—
"...Xierra."
The name lingered in the lonely space.
Father Orsi's smile softened as he straightened, warmth filling his chest. Three names. Three lives. Three futures, unknowingly entwined.
"You don't need to worry anymore," he told them gently. "Starting today, this is your home."
The words settled into the room like a benediction, carried by the steady crackle of the fire.
Outside, the wind still howled, rattling the old church walls as if trying to pry its way in, but within those stone confines, warmth had finally taken hold. The biting cold that had clung to the infants' skin began to recede, replaced by the quiet safety of flickering light and human presence.
Father Orsi adjusted the blankets one by one, careful, reverent in every movement. Xierra lay between the two boys, her small chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Even asleep, her brow faintly furrowed, as if she were listening to something far away—something no one else could hear. Her fingers twitched, pale and delicate, brushing against the edge of Yuno's blanket.
Yuno stirred.
It was subtle at first—a shift, a breath drawn a little deeper than before. His dark lashes fluttered, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes cracked open, reflecting the firelight in muted shades of amber. He did not cry. He only looked, quiet and observant even in infancy, gaze unfocused yet oddly intent.
His tiny hand moved, guided by instinct rather than thought, until it curled around Xierra's fingers.
The contact still her almost immediately.
The tension in her brow eased, her breathing smoothing as though something within her had finally found its anchor. Father Orsi noticed it, a soft sound of surprise leaving him as he leaned closer.
He watched as Yuno's grip tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, but firm enough to be certain. Xierra did not pull away. Instead, she shifted closer to the edge of her basket.
"Well now," the priest murmured, amusement and wonder mingling in his voice. "Seems you've already found each other."
Asta, by contrast, chose that moment to let out an indignant squawk, flailing his arms as though offended by the quiet intimacy unfolding beside him. Father Orsi chuckled and reached out, resting a calming hand on the ash-blond boy's chest until the fussing dulled into restless murmurs.
"Quiet now," he said softly. "You'll have your time too."
The fire popped, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Shadows shifted along the walls—long, warped shapes that stretched and shrank with each flicker of flame. The church, old and worn as it was, seemed to breathe with them, as though acknowledging the new lives it now sheltered.
Father Orsi sank into a chair, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Yet even as his shoulders sagged, his gaze remained fixed on the children.
He had seen hardship.
He had buried villagers, prayed over the sick, and watched winters claim those who were too weak to endure them. But this—this was different. This was a possibility, fragile and terrifying all at once.
Xierra stirred again, a faint sound escaping her lips—not quite a cry, not quite a sigh. Her eyes opened, unfocused but bright, reflecting the fire in pale blue shards.
Father Orsi exhaled slowly.
He could not have known then what paths awaited them. The wars, the magic, the impossible trials that would one day test their bodies and their souls.
He did not know that one would roar at the world, demanding it bend. That another would stand silently against fate itself. Or that the girl between them would walk a line unseen, shaped by truths yet unrevealed.
All he knew was this: they were no longer alone.
He rose at last, fetching additional blankets, layering them carefully over the three small forms. When he finished, he paused, hand hovering briefly over Xierra and Yuno—still holding onto each other even in sleep.
"Rest well," he whispered. "Tomorrow begins a new life."
Outside, the wind continued its lament, but inside the church of Hage Village, three children slept on—unaware that this quiet night marked the first thread in a tapestry woven by fate itself.
His voice softened further.
"...Xierra. Yuno. Asta."
To Be Continued...
***
AUTHOR'S NOTE
01. Happy New Year and happy holidays, everyone! I hope you've all been doing well and thank you for your patience! I've finally returned, and I'm excited to continue this story with you!
02. One last thing, though—full disclosure: there's a very real chance I'll vanish again once the holidays are over. No promises, no guarantees, just chasing deadlines and college exams. If I do disappear, know that I'll crawl back eventually. Always do.