They settled at the edge of the clearing, where the roots of the ancient tree rose like natural benches, curving to cradle them without need for words. The fox-man produced a small fire with a flick of his fingers, no spark, no tinder, just a breath of heat that coiled into flame. It burned low and steady, casting soft gold onto the moss and bark around them.
Lira sat cross-legged, Fluffy curled against her thigh. Across the fire, the fox-man lounged with easy grace, as though the forest had shaped itself to accommodate him. His robe shimmered with each subtle movement, the embroidery catching firelight like embers in the dark.
"What should I call you?" she asked quietly.
He looked up from the fan he was idly twirling between his fingers. "You've never named me?"
"You were always just… the fox," she said with a small shrug. "Now that you talk and have robes and opinions about beauty, it seems rude not to ask."
