"But… how?"
Kuradome murmured beneath his breath, the words barely leaving his lips. His brow rested in the hollow of his palm, silver hair spilling loose, strands framing his face in disarray. The weight in his posture was almost physical—shoulders drawn tight, spine rigid, a stillness heavy enough to crush the air around him. His thoughts circled like caged birds, beating against the inside of his skull with no place to land.
He hadn't even dressed for the royal gathering. His ceremonial robe still hung untouched in the adjoining chamber, silk pressed and waiting. What meaning had prestige, when his son's condition consumed every inch of his mind?
The clock ticked. Tick, tick, tick. Every second mocked him. The hands moved forward, but the boy in the bed only seemed to wither further.
A low growl rumbled in his throat—raw, involuntary, almost animal. Kuradome was Wáng Xuè, royal blood of the fox clans, a lineage known for discipline and cold refinement. The royal families were not wild predators like the mountain-born yokai, nor feral beasts who let instinct rule them. They were rulers. Strategists. Creatures of ice and law.
But today, that façade was crumbling.
"Stay with me," he whispered, though the boy could not hear.
Kyoren lay tangled in sheets that were too wide for his small frame. His silver hair clung damply to his temples, his chest half-exposed where the robe had slipped aside. Every shallow breath seemed borrowed from another life. The wound carved across his ribs, still blackened at the edges, glistened faintly where his body rejected even the soft glow of healing magic.
Kuradome lifted his hand again, unwilling to accept defeat. Pale light pooled in his palm, carefully woven into a thread of foxfire—meant to coax flesh back together, not force it. He pressed it into his son's side, willing every drop of power into mending him.
For a heartbeat, he believed.
Then Kyoren's back arched, a sharp sound escaping his lips—a whimper too fragile for his years. The wound hissed under the energy, sizzling as if scorched. His breathing fractured, uneven.
The sound pierced through Kuradome's chest like a blade.
"No." His voice cracked. His fingers jerked back as if burned. The glow died in his palm. "No, no… this isn't—"
He shut his eyes hard, trying to steady himself, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. He had healed yokai struck with cursed steel, humans rotting from dark plagues, spirits bound by ancient chains. He had undone injuries older than empires. And yet this—his own child—rejected him as if his magic were poison.
The thought nearly broke him.
He sank heavily into the chair beside the bed, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in both palms. His voice was hoarse, stripped raw.
"I've studied these arts longer than kingdoms have stood. I don't make mistakes…"
But the proof was right before him. His every attempt deepened Kyoren's suffering. His every effort pulled his son closer to the grave.
Minutes bled away in silence. The boy slept—if that frail stillness could be called sleep. His chest rose shallowly, ribs sharp against skin too pale, lips colorless as parchment.
Kuradome dragged his hands down his face. He reached forward again, slower this time, taking Kyoren's cold wrist between both palms. His thumb brushed over the pulse—a faint bird flutter, too fast, too frantic. His own heart lurched at the rhythm.
He bent closer, silver hair sliding forward in a pale curtain, hiding his eyes. For a moment he could almost believe no one in the world existed but this fragile boy and the thread of life still beating inside him.
His whisper came out steady, though each word carved into him like stone breaking.
"Then I'll do what I've always hated."
A pause. His thumb lingered against the boy's pulse.
"But I'll do it. Because I love you more than anything in this lifetime. Even if it breaks me."
For a Wáng Xuè royal to bend the laws of his kind was treason. But for Kuradome, it was no longer a choice.
The forest beyond Bayakuya drowned in mist. A slow, regal procession cut through the white veil, its silence broken only by the steady rhythm of armored feet and the faint jingle of harnessed beasts. At its center moved Queen Bái Qíyuè.
She did not need guards to announce her—her presence was a blade sharper than steel. The air seemed to part for her as though unwilling to touch her robes. Her every step carried the weight of centuries.
Two crimson tails flowed behind her, their fur glowing faintly in the half-light like threads of flame woven into the fog. Her robe, deep red as burning coals, shimmered with gold roses embroidered along its hem. A heavy crown sat upon her brow, its centerpiece a blood-red gem that pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
Her eyes, glacial blue and unyielding, swept the fog ahead without a flicker of doubt. She had survived empires. She had buried rivals who thought her cold heart could be thawed. Centuries had carved her into a woman untouchable by fear.
And yet, beneath the flawless mask, her chest was tight. There was a pulse there, a memory she would never confess.
"After five hundred years…" her voice was softer than mist, meant for no ears but her own. "…you are still the only one I want."
Her lips curved faintly, but not with cruelty. With longing.
Behind her, soldiers clad in black scale and gold moved like shadows, their spears glinting faintly. In the trees, creatures shifted—yokai of the forest, beasts that would never attack unless provoked. Yet none approached. The mist itself seemed to recoil from her presence.
She did not slow. Every measured step carried her deeper into the heart of Bayakuya. Closer to Kuradome.
Closer to the darkness he had always hidden.
Closer to the part of himself he had sworn the world would never see.