62 KiB
The fog greeted her like a sigh.
It clung to the earth in soft folds, curling around Kiriko’s boots as she stepped from the treeline into the edges of Reedmere Hollow. The village was little more than a scatter of damp eaves and low stone shrines, its boundaries bleeding into mossy fields and still water. Even now, near midday, the mist did not lift—it loitered like a secret not yet confessed.
Kiriko paused at the weathered torii arch, one hand resting on the hilt of her spirit-bound blade. The lacquer was worn smooth beneath her fingers, but the metal slept cold and quiet, indifferent to the stirrings in her chest.
A child watched her from the rooftop of a fishing shed. Old eyes in a small face. He whispered to no one, then vanished.
Behind her, the forest closed like a mouth.
The villagers did not welcome her. Nor did they flee. They watched. Measured. As if her presence had been expected—but not hoped for.
She asked for the headwoman. Received silence and a bowl of steaming broth.
Later, an old man with eyes like cracked ice murmured, “You’ve come for the fox, haven’t you? She doesn’t like iron. But she does love the sound of your name.”
Kiriko did not answer. She drank her broth in silence and tasted reeds on her tongue.
A dog barked once, then whimpered and backed into the shadows of a stilted porch.
Kiriko’s presence moved through the village like smoke. Not the crackling kind, but the slow, clinging scent that lingered after something sacred had burned. Her coat—long, travel-worn, lined in ritual stitching—shifted just enough to reveal the glint of her inner armor. Beneath the hood, her hair spilled like ink over bone-white skin, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—gleamed faintly in the fog. Violet and rimmed in black, like they had forgotten how to be mortal.
A woman dragging a basket of river lilies dropped one. It floated beside her foot, ignored.
No one spoke of what she was. They didn’t have to.
Children were pulled aside not in scolding but in trembling silence. A fisher’s boy bowed awkwardly and whispered a prayer—not to her, but against her. Someone muttered the old slur under their breath: Oni.
Kiriko neither acknowledged nor corrected. She had heard it all before.
When she passed the shrine, a young shrinekeeper—barely past his first moonblood—froze mid-offering. His eyes went wide. Then, hastily, he placed another candle and whispered to the reeds: “Forgive us. She's just passing through. Please.”
Kiriko paused then. She turned her head, ever so slightly, to regard him.
He dropped his gaze like it burned.
The mist seemed to pull tighter around her shoulders, like a shawl of intent.
She moved on.
The headwoman’s hut sat beneath the oldest willow, its roots tangled in riverstone. Inside, it smelled of wet bark and juniper smoke. The elder herself was willow-thin, all sinew and lacquered silence, her eyes clouded but unblinking.
Kiriko knelt, blade across her lap, palms up in the old style. The spirit within the sword remained dormant, a weight rather than a whisper.
“You came alone,” the elder said after a long silence. Her voice was neither warm nor cold. “No markings. No writ of sanction. No offering from the Shogunate.”
“I do not serve them,” Kiriko said.
The elder made a small sound. Not quite approval. Not quite pity.
“You heard of the fox?”
“I heard she haunts the lake. That offerings vanish. That young men walk too far into the reeds.”
“And do not walk back.”
Kiriko inclined her head once.
The elder studied her—lingering on the wrapped hands, the burn-scar sigils inked into pale skin. The red cord tied three times around her left wrist, frayed with age. Her gaze drifted to the faint glow beneath Kiriko’s collarbone: a scar shaped like a lotus split down the center.
“You’re Akumei,” the elder said at last. “I saw one of your kind once, in the Warlord’s court. Moved like he was floating. Eyes like dusk. They said he could smell lies on the breath.”
“I smell little now but damp wood and old fear,” Kiriko replied.
The elder's lip curled, uncertain whether to laugh or banish her.
“You came to hunt the fox?”
“I came to end what needs ending,” Kiriko said. “If she is cursed, I will cleanse her. If she is cruel… I will return her to the dark.”
A long silence stretched between them, taut as a string pulled before song.
Then the elder murmured, “Reed spirits are not easily slain. Some things... live by being desired.”
Kiriko’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And some things live too long by being feared.”
She rose without being dismissed, the blade still quiet at her side. The elder did not stop her.
As Kiriko stepped back into the fog, the headwoman whispered—to the shrine smoke, to the willow, to whatever might listen:
“Moon have mercy. She doesn’t know she’s already in the story.”
The hut they gave her was barely more than a shed, dry only in the corners. A straw mat. A rusted basin. The scent of lake rot and old incense clung to the wood.
Kiriko unpacked slowly. Each item placed like a shrine offering.
A thin cloth of red silk—blood-soaked once, now faded.
A blade smaller than her main weapon, curved like a smile but dulled with use.
A small lacquered box that, when opened, released the scent of salt and iron.
She did not pray aloud.
Instead, she knelt bare-kneed on the mat and slid the silk aside. The ritual scars across her thighs were uneven, some too clean, some too deep. Tonight she added a new one—just beneath the hip bone. The blade pressed in with the precision of habit, no hesitation. Blood welled. Slow. Accepting.
Her breath caught only once.
The Akumei did not ask for strength. They bled for balance. The pain fed the spirit. The wound reminded it of its place: inside, not in control.
As she wrapped the cloth tight across the fresh line, she whispered only:
“Be still. There is no one left worth killing tonight.”
The blade at her hip hummed. Not warm, not cold. Just… present.
Later, in half-slumber, she lay curled around the wound, arm draped over her blade like a lover she could not trust. The hut was silent.
But outside…
A reed rustled against no wind.
Then—faint, like a memory of music—came laughter.
Not cruel. Not joyful. Something curious.
It brushed across the edge of her thoughts, the way a tail might curl around an ankle before vanishing.
Her eyes opened, slow and amber-glow-lit.
Nothing stood outside.
But something had been there. Listening. Scenting her through the dark.
And for the first time in months… Kiriko didn’t feel alone.
The fog had thinned, but the reeds were thicker. They curled and twisted in strange loops near the lake’s edge, forming patterns no wind could have made. Spirals. Knots. Almost... words.
Kiriko stood at the edge of the shore, eyes scanning. Her blade was still sheathed, but her fingers lingered near the hilt.
The shrine had been defaced. Not destroyed—but marked. A smear of red across the offering stone. Petals crushed into it. Lily, orchid, something purple-stained and soft. The figurine of the water kami had been turned backward.
She crouched.
A single footprint—bare. Slender. Not child-sized, but too delicate for any of the villagers.
“Another offering?” she murmured.
“No,” came a voice behind her.
A boy. Pale, wide-eyed. Maybe ten winters at most. He stood barefoot in the wet grass, gripping a woven charm too tightly.
“She sings, you know,” he whispered. “When no one’s watching. I saw her last night.”
Kiriko turned slowly. “What did you see?”
“She had hair like smoke. Eyes like fire. She sang a name. Not mine. But he followed anyway.”
“Who?”
The boy pointed.
And then she saw it.
Just beyond the reeds, by a stone half-submerged, lay a body.
She moved fast, blade drawn now—not for use, but habit. The boy stayed rooted, watching.
The victim was young. Sixteen, perhaps. Blood crusted his neck, torn at the throat. But what made her breath still… was the look on his face.
Eyes open. Lips parted. Ecstatic.
No signs of a struggle. His hands were curled near his chest, as if reaching for something that never quite let him go.
There were marks too—trailing down his skin like claws. Or kisses.
Kiriko stared. She had seen slaughter. Rage. Desperation. But not this.
This was seduction turned fatal.
The blade at her side pulsed, faintly. Not in warning. In recognition.
Behind her, the boy whispered again:
“She didn’t want to hurt him. She just... wanted him to stay. I think she gets lonely.”
Kiriko closed the boy’s eyes. Then her own.
For just a moment, she heard the voice again.
A hum. A laugh. A sigh.
Then the reeds swayed, and the wind returned.
She watched from the mist, tail coiled like smoke around her thighs, teeth just barely catching her lip.
The swordswoman knelt over the boy like a mourner. But Rika knew that stance—measured. Controlled. Not grief. Assessment.
She was more beautiful up close than the spirit had expected. All pale precision and muscle drawn tight beneath traveling leathers. Her skin held the kiss of ritual pain—fresh blood under silk-wrapped thigh, thin scars trailing like script. She bore them not like shame, but like purpose.
Delicious.
Rika tilted her head, letting her illusion cloak her. The woman’s scent was maddening. Not fear. Not reverence. Something rarer.
Self-control.
The fox inhaled. Slow. Deep.
She tasted devotion buried under ash. Desire wrapped in frost. A blade that had dulled itself to avoid cutting again.
Oh, how lonely that was.
Her last lover—his name already fading—had begged to be touched. Had gasped her name as she bled him. His hunger was real, but shallow. A boy’s longing.
But this one...
This one was iron-bound, soul-scored. Carrying a spirit inside her so silent it made Rika’s fur rise. And yet—she still bled for it. Nightly. Quietly. Like a priestess no longer sure her god listens.
That made her dangerous.
And irresistible.
Rika licked a drop of dew from her fingertip, watching the swordswoman close the boy’s eyes with reverence.
“She mourns the shape of death,” the spirit murmured to no one. “But not the death itself.”
A pause.
“She could love me. Or end me.”
A wider smile.
“Maybe both.”
Then, with a flick of her tail, the fox vanished deeper into the reeds. The game had begun.
The boy’s blood hadn’t cooled yet. But the air had.
Kiriko stood, fingers brushing the handle of her blade, though she hadn’t drawn it. She didn’t need to. The tension in the air was too thick, too slow to cut. It wasn’t danger—it was... something else.
A shift.
The fog stirred—not with the wind, but around something. A ripple. A disturbance. Just beyond the body, the reeds bent as if someone brushed them gently with their palm. Then a flicker—barely there. A shimmer like silk, a silhouette where no one stood.
And then—gone.
Her body moved before thought. She followed.
No shout. No threat. Her feet were silent, her eyes sharp. The mist swallowed sound quickly here. Her path wound narrow between reed and moss, the lake’s edge blurring into marshland.
Shapes loomed and vanished. Tree stumps. Crooked stones. Once, a rusted offering bowl overturned in the mud.
She pressed forward, breath quiet and tight. Every instinct in her warned: turn back.
But there was another feeling too—older than fear. The pull of something half-remembered. Not a trap, not a call. A... question.
She turned a corner where the reeds grew in unnatural knots—and stopped.
There it stood.
A shrine. Forgotten. Half-devoured by earth and reed and time. The torii was cracked but still stood, one side sunken into the mud like a grave marker. The shrine figure was small, elegant, worn smooth by wind and rain: a fox-woman, kneeling, hands open in supplication. One eye had been scratched out. The other stared skyward, as if pleading with the heavens that never answered.
Offerings still lay at the base—fresh berries. Wilted flowers. And something stranger: a child’s toy carved of bone, shaped like a nine-tailed fox.
Kiriko stepped forward. Her blade hummed—quiet, observant.
Then... breath on her neck.
She turned, but the reeds only sighed.
No shape. No sound. Just the scent of crushed lily, and a feeling—not cold, but lonely.
Then a whisper—one that might have been inside her skull:
“They stopped praying.”
And beneath it, a second voice. Fainter. Older. Familiar.
“But you... you bleed like you remember how.”
Kiriko stood in silence, eyes locked on the shrine.
And in that moment, something inside her blade stirred—not violent. Not angry.
Interested.
The fog thinned as she neared the village again—just enough to show her the crooked rooflines, the guttering shrine flames, the distant silhouettes of villagers pretending not to watch her return.
Kiriko’s boots were wet with lake-mud. Her eyes, sharper than before.
She found the headwoman where she had been the day before—kneeling beside a hearth of wet wood and whisper-smoke, brewing something that smelled like moss and bone ash.
“You went into the reeds,” the elder said, not looking up.
Kiriko didn’t answer.
The old woman stirred the brew once, twice, and finally said, “You shouldn’t have.”
“There’s a shrine,” Kiriko said.
Now the elder looked up. Her face unreadable, a mask worn too long.
“It’s nothing. Forgotten. We do not speak of that place.”
“But someone still offers berries.”
A pause.
“Children’s mischief. The old stories linger. But it’s no god that answers there now. Only hunger.”
“Hunger can be sacred,” Kiriko said softly.
The headwoman’s lip twitched—disapproval, or fear. Maybe both.
“She was once a guardian spirit,” the elder admitted. “Before the old pact was broken.”
“By whom?”
The headwoman turned her eyes back to the pot. The silence dragged, heavy.
“Time breaks all things,” she said.
Kiriko knelt slowly, facing the flame but not the woman. Her voice was calm, but there was iron underneath.
“No. People break pacts. Time only buries them.”
For a moment, nothing moved but the smoke between them.
Then the elder whispered, “You should leave this place.”
Kiriko didn’t reply. Her blade, resting at her side, gave a soft tremor.
Not in warning.
In agreement.
The pain came easier the second night.
Kiriko sat cross-legged on the mat, tunic folded neatly aside, blade across her knees like an offering bowl. The bloodletting was precise—a shallow line along the inner thigh, just above last night’s scar. A whisper of steel. A sigh of skin.
The crimson welled slow, warm, as the trance took her.
Not sleep. Not meditation. Something in between. The state the Akumei called tsugunai—where the spirit and the body spoke in pain and silence.
Her breath slowed.
Her thoughts thinned.
And that’s when the wind shifted.
A scent—wet flowers, heated skin. The same as before. And the sound—bare feet on water. Not splash. Not weight. Just movement.
She opened her eyes.
Mist blanketed the lake like silk, rippling only in the center where a shape stirred it.
She emerged slowly. A woman, or something wearing the shape of one. Pale skin kissed with moonlight. Long hair that swam around her body. Nine tails trailing behind her in translucent ribbons.
She danced without music. Hands lifting, turning. Each movement sinuous and sure. Every gesture saying, look at me—without ever asking.
Then she turned.
And Kiriko saw her face for the first time.
Eyes like heat. A mouth made for promise and punishment. Her beauty was not gentle—it was ritual, carved for seduction, for power.
Then she spoke.
Not in threat. Not in command.
In invocation.
“Who are you?”
Not a name. A genuine question.
It stunned Kiriko more than any attempt at enchantment.
The spirit didn’t know.
She had not been told.
Kiriko’s throat tightened. Her blade shifted faintly in her lap, not in warning… but amusement.
The spirit tilted her head, curious. Her voice dropped lower.
“You’re not from here. But you bleed like one of mine.”
Then, with a final turn, she vanished into the mist—laughing not out of victory, but intrigue.
The spirit was gone. The mist returned. But Kiriko did not move.
Not for a long time.
Then—slowly—she rose from the mat, still barefoot, blood dried against the curve of her thigh. Her blade stayed behind, resting in silence, as if it too knew this part was not meant for steel.
She stepped out into the cold.
The lake called her like a memory she couldn’t name.
Reed and fog kissed her ankles. Then calves. She walked knee-deep into the still water, the hem of her robe clinging to her legs. The chill should have bitten deeper—but something in the air felt… warmed.
Not by sun.
By presence.
She knelt then. Just above the surface. Hands brushing the water, as if testing for magic.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
No answer.
But the water rippled.
“Why did you dance?” she asked the silence.
Still no reply.
But her skin prickled—just below the ribs, where her pain scars ended. Something unseen traced across her awareness, like a gaze that touched more than eyes should.
“You want something from me,” she said. Not a question. A truth.
She stood again. The water kissed her thighs. Her breath caught—not from fear, but from the way the lake suddenly listened.
“I want something too,” she murmured. “Your name.”
And from the mist—very far away but clearly meant for her—came the sound of a voice sighing, breathless with amusement.
“Then come find it.”
The mist peeled back like gauze from a wound, and there—again—was the lake. Still. Waiting.
Moonlight licked the water’s surface in silver ribbons, illuminating the figure at its heart.
The fox spirit.
She stood barefoot on the mirror of the lake, wrapped in sheer silk that clung to her like mist made flesh. Her hair floated as if underwater. Tails drifted behind her—nine of them, swaying in rhythm with some unheard song.
Kiriko stepped into the circle of light, boots silenced by moss and damp.
“I see you’ve come further”, the fox said, circling again. “You’re learning.”
Kiriko didn’t speak. Her throat was tight.
“I thought you might have run back to your little pain-prayers and tucked-in blade,” the spirit teased. “But here you are. Wet to the knees, trembling under that stoic skin.”
“I don’t tremble.”
“Oh, you do,” it whispered. “Just so beautifully on the inside.”
She glided closer. “Let’s trade.”
“No.”
Rika tilted her head. “You want to know my name. And I—” her smile turned wicked, “—want to know why you hurt yourself every night, even when no spirit demands it.”
Kiriko’s jaw tightened. “Because I must.”
“Must?” she echoed. “Or choose to?”
Silence.
Rika stepped behind her now, not touching—but the warmth of her presence coiled like breath on skin.
“What did you fail?” she murmured, so close her words brushed Kiriko’s nape. “Whom did you swear to protect, little Akumei?”
Kiriko shuddered.
And answered, voice low, raw:
“My sister.”
The air shifted.
The vixen spirit moved, finally, in front of her again—eyes searching, not mocking now, but curious.
“There it is,” she whispered. “A name for a name.”
She leaned in—so close their mouths might have met had Kiriko only leaned forward.
“But you didn’t ask when I’d tell you mine,” Rika purred.
Then her fingers rose.
Not threatening. Just two fingers tracing along Kiriko’s throat, down to the collarbone, over the place where old scars met the thrum of her pulse.
Kiriko gasped.
And then—the spirit pressed her palm flat against that spot. Slow. Firm.
Not hurting.
Just claiming.
Kiriko’s knees weakened.
“Good,” she breathed. “Feel that. You gave me something real. So I’ll give you something back.”
Her hand slid away.
Kiriko reached to stop her.
But the fox was already drifting back into the mist, tails brushing the air.
“You earned a touch,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Not a name.”
Then, with a sly smile:
“Next time, bring a secret that hurts.”
And she was gone.
Kiriko stood in the lake, breath ragged, skin flushed, heart hammering.
And though her blade remained untouched…
She felt utterly disarmed.
Kiriko didn’t remember walking back.
The mist clung to her like sweat. Her steps were slow, mechanical—knees stiff from the cold water, mouth still parted, throat dry.
Inside the hut, she dropped her coat in the doorway. Her hands trembled as she unwound the wrappings from her arms. The blade, still resting by the mat, pulsed once—not in alarm. In awareness.
It knew.
She sat. And stared.
The spot where the spirit’s fingers had touched—her throat, her collarbone—it burned. Not with pain, but memory. The way one remembers an exhale against bare skin. The way desire lingers before it admits its name.
She had faced spirits. She had fought demons. But this was different.
She had given something away tonight. Willingly.
"My sister."
She said it again, to the empty air. To the ghost of mist and laughter still humming through her skin.
Her blade stirred again. A whisper at the edge of thought.
Dangerous.
Or maybe it said: More.
She lay back on the mat, limbs heavy, eyes wide in the dark.
She should have meditated. She should have cleaned the wound.
Instead, she touched her own neck, retraced the line of the spirit’s fingers.
Her breath caught.
And for the first time since she bled the vow into her skin…
She felt wanting.
Not for release. Not for peace.
For her.
The woman who asked for secrets and gave nothing in return.
Kiriko’s body tensed—then softened.
She didn’t sleep.
She waited.
The hut smells like blood and restraint.
She crouches outside it, barefoot in the reeds, mist clinging to her skin like a second pelt. The moonlight is thin here—barely enough to catch the white of her thighs, the flick of one lazy tail trailing behind her like a ribbon undone.
Inside, the girl stirs. Her breathing has changed—no longer the tight, controlled rhythm of the Akumei trance. No. She is awake. Ache-warm. Remembering.
The spirit tastes it in the air.
That pain… oh, it is delicious. Not the fresh, frantic flavor of fear. No. This is aged grief, bottled behind her ribs and uncorked with a single whisper: “My sister.”
She shivers, her fingers curling into the moss.
So rare, that kind of honesty. So unguarded. So utterly unaware of how it would echo through her body like wine.
She wants to press herself against the threshold. To slip through the cracks in the wood. To sit cross-legged beside that blade and ask: “What else have you buried inside you, little soldier?”
But no. Not yet.
Desire must simmer.
She watches instead. Watches Kiriko touch her own throat—the place where spirit-fingers left warmth—and breath shallow, thighs tensed. She smiles.
She wants to taste that breath. That tension. That pause between honor and surrender.
She could take her now. Slide through shadow, pin her down, make her whimper like all the others who begged to serve and be broken.
But Kiriko… doesn’t beg.
She offers. Piece by piece.
And the spirit is not hungry for obedience. She is hungry for the moment the girl chooses to give her everything.
She slips back into the mist then, slow and silent, humming a tune no one has sung in decades.
Next time, she’ll ask for another secret.
Next time, she’ll touch her lips.
The dawn was dull—gray light struggling through the mist as if afraid to shine.
Kiriko sat in the center of the hut, knees tucked beneath her, blade resting in front of her like an altar. She had cleaned the steel twice already. Polished the grip. Burned incense. Marked the floor with salt and ash.
Still, the blade remained cold.
She pressed her palm to the hilt and closed her eyes.
“Come,” she whispered. “Speak.”
Nothing.
Not even the usual thrum beneath her skin. The living metal that once stirred with her breath now felt like any other sword—mute, dead, unmoved.
“Why?” she asked aloud.
She reached deeper—into herself. Into the pain that was always there, carefully curated, trimmed like a bonsai of scars. The bond should have responded.
Still—silence.
“I need your counsel.”
The words came out harsh, almost desperate.
She had not begged like this since… before.
Her fingers trembled. Her thighs ached—not from the ritual, but from the memory of another hand.
That touch.
That soft, lingering touch.
Her blade had felt it too.
She bowed her head.
“You think I’ve strayed.”
No answer.
“Then guide me. Show me the path. Is she a threat? A trick? A test?”
Still nothing.
Only the heavy silence of old resentment.
Because the blade remembered the last time Kiriko had opened her heart.
And what she lost.
Her voice broke.
“I need something to protect again.”
And finally, faintly—just a whisper of awareness—
Then stop letting her undress your soul.
She flinched. And the blade fell silent once more.
The scent was cedar and blood.
She remembered kneeling—back straight, palms open. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but from reverence.
Across from her, her sister mirrored the posture. Younger, but already radiant with the calm of someone meant to be protected. Her gaze never wavered.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered.
Kiriko bowed her head.
“I already did.”
Between them, the blade rested on black silk—unawakened, its spirit dormant. Steel folded seven times, passed down through three bloodlines. A tool, nothing more.
Until this.
Kiriko reached first. She drew the thin ceremonial knife across her palm without hesitation. The pain was crisp. Pure. Her sister followed, slower.
They pressed hands together.
Blood mingled.
And the moment their joined hands lowered to the blade’s hilt, something changed.
A pulse. Like the first heartbeat of a newborn.
The steel shimmered faintly.
Then—sang.
A low, resonant tone that echoed in their bones. Not music. Not words. Something older. A sound that whispered of devotion, honor, service. The spirit of the blade had awakened.
Kiriko gasped. Her vision blurred—not from pain, but from the sheer rightness of it.
Her sister smiled.
“It knows your heart,” she said.
Kiriko swallowed hard.
“No. It knows yours.”
And for the first time in her life, Kiriko felt complete.
Not as a warrior.
As a shield.
She blinked the memory away.
The hut felt colder now.
The blade before her was silent once more. Dormant.
And she was no longer a shield.
She was a blade without a vow.
The fog had lifted, but not the silence.
Kiriko stood in the communal hall of Reedmere Hollow, flanked by flickering oil lamps and the wary eyes of a village that had decided long ago what she was here to do.
Across from her, the headwoman sat, hands folded, mouth tight.
“You’ve seen her now,” the elder said, voice thin. “The fox. You know what she is.”
Kiriko met her gaze, calm. “I’ve seen something. Not yet what.”
“She’s a killer. You saw the boy.”
“Yes.” Kiriko’s jaw twitched. “But he followed her. Willingly.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room.
“She’s not just spirit,” the headwoman snapped. “She’s desire. Corruption. She lures with beauty and consumes. That shrine you found? That was before.”
“Before what?” Kiriko asked softly.
No one answered.
Kiriko stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
“You brought me here to slay a monster. But I see no monster. I see a wound.”
The headwoman rose, the mask slipping from her face just enough to show the fear beneath.
“She’ll break you, girl. The way she broke the pact. The way she broke the old wardens. If you won’t raise your blade…”
“I will,” Kiriko interrupted. “But not in ignorance.”
She turned.
Left the hall in silence, her boots echoing on the stone.
Outside, the mist was gathering again—more a suggestion now, a beckoning veil.
She gathered her blade, her wrappings. Her breath.
Then stepped toward the lake.
Toward the reeds.
Toward the shrine.
She didn’t expect answers.
But she wanted them.
And that want… was enough.
The shrine waited in silence.
Kiriko stood at its heart, wrapped in stillness and old incense smoke, her blade cold against her back. The moon bled white onto stone and moss.
Then—movement.
A shimmer in the mist. A flicker of tail.
And there she was again.
The fox-woman. Half spirit, half seduction. Barefoot, half-wrapped in silk that clung to her thighs, her chest. Her smile was not warm. It was knowing.
“You returned.”
Kiriko said nothing.
“You want my name,” the spirit purred, circling slowly.
“I want your truth.”
The spirit laughed—a low, curling sound. “You’ll have it. But first…”
She stepped closer, gaze fixed on Kiriko’s face.
“You owe me a secret that hurts.”
Kiriko’s lips parted. The cold air licked her throat. Her fingers twitched.
“I told you already.”
“Not enough,” the spirit whispered, close enough now that her breath touched Kiriko’s cheek. “Give me the moment. Give me the shame. Or I take nothing.”
Kiriko trembled.
“I was away,” she began. “It should have been a simple hunt. A spirit. A lashbeast.”
The spirit’s eyes darkened. She said nothing.
“I left her behind the wards. Safe. Or so I believed.”
Kiriko’s voice dropped lower.
“I felt the wardstone shatter in my chest. I ran.”
Her hands clenched at her sides.
“She screamed once. Only once.”
The spirit circled again. Slower. Listening.
“I found her… laid across the altar we had shared. Throat torn. Eyes open.”
Kiriko swallowed hard.
“I touched her. Called her name. But she was already…”
Her voice cracked.
“I failed.”
The spirit stopped behind her now. Silent.
Kiriko stood still.
Then—
Fingers.
Cool. Gentle.
Not on her throat this time.
On her wrist.
Tracing the lines of her oldest scars.
Each one.
Each remembered punishment she gave herself.
“Good girl,” the spirit whispered.
Kiriko shuddered.
“You bleed so prettily for your shame.”
The spirit’s hand moved, up her arm, ghosting over the curve of her shoulder.
“I can feel it still,” she whispered. “That moment inside you. Like wine gone bitter.”
Her lips nearly brushed Kiriko’s ear.
“You taste like loss.”
Kiriko exhaled—ragged, helpless.
But still she didn’t turn.
Still no kiss.
Just that hand, tracing over old wounds like reading a story written in flesh.
“You want my name?” the spirit said.
Kiriko nodded.
“You’re not ready.”
And just like that—gone.
Mist swallowed her.
Leaving Kiriko on her knees.
Blade cold.
Heart pounding.
And the memory ripped wide open again.
She ran her fingers down her own thigh, slow and thoughtful, where the air still hummed from Kiriko’s touch—not skin to skin, no, but soul to soul.
The girl had given it to her.
Not just a story.
A confession.
And oh… what a confession it was.
The moment of the scream. The shape of the altar. The way her voice broke when she said “eyes open”—Rika had fed on a thousand heartbreaks before, but never like this. Never so raw. Never so… familiar.
She had tasted it in the air before Kiriko even spoke it aloud.
Failure.
Abandonment.
A vow shattered not by cowardice, but by chance. That cruel god, random and punishing.
Rika curled deeper into the reeds, her tails wrapped tight around her body like a cocoon. Her lips parted slightly, breath misting into the night.
Her thighs pressed together.
Not from lust. Not entirely.
From hunger. For the only thing she had ever wanted since the shrine fell: someone who understood.
Someone who hurt the same way.
She could see it now—Kiriko at the altar, not of duty, but of grief. Spilling her own blood to feel less alone. Holding a silent blade that used to sing.
She was so beautiful in that pain.
Beautiful like a broken moon. Like a warrior trying not to drown in her own armor.
“You taste like loss,” Rika whispered to no one. The words still trembled sweetly on her tongue.
She pressed a palm to her own chest—right where the old pact used to bind her.
There was nothing there.
Not yet.
But the echo of something stirred.
A new vow.
A new soul.
A new girl with blood on her wrists and devotion in her voice.
“Kiriko,” she whispered.
The name was a prayer now. A promise.
She would not touch her—not yet.
But she would haunt her.
Woo her.
Claim her.
And maybe, just maybe… she would let herself be claimed in return.
The shrine was whole.
Kiriko knew it the moment her feet touched the stone.
The air was warm. Sweet with plum blossoms.
The torii stood proud. Painted red, not faded. Lanterns hung like fireflies, swaying in invisible wind.
She stepped forward.
And saw them.
Two women—identical, but not the same.
One in crimson, one in ivory.
Their laughter carried like bells over water. Their tails—nine each—curled in lazy arcs behind them as they danced beneath the sacred tree.
Rika.
And… her twin.
Kiriko didn’t know how she knew their names, but she did.
They were joy, woven into flesh.
Priestesses? Spirits? Something older.
A shrine of balance.
Of devotion.
Of twin souls.
Kiriko stepped closer—but her feet made no sound. She was not here. Only watching.
The girls twirled, their hands brushing, faces glowing with mischief.
“Someone’s watching,” the one in red said.
“I know,” the one in ivory replied, eyes flicking toward Kiriko’s place behind the stone.
They both smiled.
Not afraid.
Not surprised.
Just… curious.
The one in ivory stepped forward, voice like water over glass.
“You’re the one she chose,” she said.
Kiriko opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
The girl’s smile faded—softened.
“She’s lonely,” she whispered. “But not cruel.”
Behind her, the shrine shimmered. Cracks running up the pillars. Blossoms turning black.
The ivory twin turned back to the one in red—Rika—and the world rippled.
Laughter cut off.
The sky darkened.
And Kiriko saw, for a breathless moment—
Rika alone.
Kneeling at the altar.
Her tails curled around her like chains.
Blood on her hands.
But not her own.
Kiriko reached out—
And woke.
Heart pounding.
Throat dry.
Blade humming faintly beside her.
The name hadn’t been given.
But the truth had.
The sun bled pale over Reedmere Hollow, barely cutting the mist.
Kiriko stood in the village square, blade wrapped at her hip, the scent of sleep and incense still clinging to her.
The dream had not faded.
It shimmered at the edge of her vision—twins dancing, blossoms burning, blood on silk.
She approached the headwoman’s door.
No invitation was needed. She stepped inside.
The old woman looked up from her bowl of barley and broth. Eyes tired. Hands still.
“I had a dream,” Kiriko said.
The silence was thick.
“I saw the shrine whole. Two spirits. Twin souls. I saw her—before.”
The headwoman’s lips pressed tight.
“She was not always what she is,” Kiriko said, stepping closer. “You knew them. Both of them.”
No answer.
Kiriko’s voice dropped.
“What happened to the other one?”
The headwoman’s spoon clattered into the bowl. Her hands shook. Just slightly.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to her.”
“She kills our sons.”
“She mourns her sister.”
The room was so still Kiriko could hear her own breath.
“She is a spirit,” the woman snapped. “She doesn’t feel.”
Kiriko stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
“She feels more than you. She grieves.”
The headwoman stood, sudden and sharp. “We made a pact,” she hissed. “We kept the balance. Until the girls grew greedy. Until the twin grew too close to the wrong soul.”
She paused. The words almost didn’t come.
“She fell in love with one of us.”
Kiriko’s heart skipped.
“And?”
“And the village paid for it. We broke the pact to save ourselves.”
She said it flat.
Ugly.
True.
“And the survivor?” Kiriko asked.
The woman met her eyes.
“Was never the same.”
Kiriko stood still for a long breath.
“Then why send me?”
The woman’s gaze hardened.
“Because you don’t love her yet.”
Kiriko stepped out of the headwoman’s hut, the sun high but weak, the mist reluctant to leave.
Her heart thundered with a new kind of ache—not guilt, not even desire.
Duty.
Not given.
Chosen.
She reached for her blade.
It was warm.
Not to the touch—within. A pulse beneath her skin, humming through the hilt like a breath long held.
She knelt, instinctively, in the shadow of the old well.
Drew the blade slowly.
The steel gleamed. Silent.
Then—a whisper.
“You would protect her.”
Kiriko froze.
It was the first time it had spoken in years.
“You would vow.”
Not an accusation.
A question.
She bowed her head, lips brushing the hilt.
“I don’t know what she is,” she whispered. “But I know she is not what they say.”
The blade thrummed again. Not loud. Not triumphant.
Reverent.
“Then let me sing.”
A single note rang through the steel—a low, aching tone that shimmered in the air before vanishing.
Kiriko exhaled.
And for the first time since she’d broken her oath, she felt—
Ready.
The mist was thinner tonight—like even it knew what was coming.
Kiriko walked without hesitation. Her blade at her back hummed with purpose. Her feet remembered the way through reeds and stone.
She passed the torii gate like it was hers now.
And there—at the center of the shrine—
She waited.
Barefoot, back arched in feline grace, Rika lounged across the altar stones like it was a throne.
Her eyes glowed gold. Her breath quickened when Kiriko stepped closer.
“You came in the open,” Rika said, voice low and pleased. “No veil. No fear.”
“I came to listen,” Kiriko replied.
“I hoped you’d come to kneel.”
Kiriko’s heart stuttered.
Rika stood slowly, silk and shadows slipping from her skin like memory.
“You saw her,” she whispered, stepping close. “My sister.”
Kiriko nodded.
“She was light,” Rika murmured. “I was the storm.”
Their fingers brushed.
“And now… you carry both.”
Their breath mingled.
Kiriko parted her lips to speak—
When the blade screamed.
Too late.
A shape burst from the mist—steel flashing, voice snarling.
“WITCH!”
The man from the village—mud-stained, eyes wild—charged straight for Rika with a hunting spear raised.
Rika didn’t flinch.
But Kiriko moved.
Faster than thought. Blade drawn. The spirit inside it howling now—not for blood.
For protection.
Steel met steel.
And the man’s scream turned from rage to terror.
Because Kiriko wasn’t holding back.
Not this time.
He burst from the mist, all rage and righteous terror.
“WITCH!”
Steel glinted.
But Kiriko was already moving.
Not with panic.
With purpose.
Her blade rose like a breath.
Clink.
Spear met steel.
The sound was soft.
Too soft.
The man staggered—expecting resistance.
He got invitation.
Kiriko stepped back—not away from Rika.
Between.
He snarled. “She’s poisoned you!”
Kiriko tilted her head. Slowly.
“No,” she said. “She claimed me.”
He lunged.
She let him.
Steel danced.
But not to kill.
She cut him.
High on the bicep.
Low on the hip.
Across the chest—shallow, perfect. One drop of blood for every vow she could not make before.
The man cried out.
Not in agony.
In confusion.
Because she looked calm.
Exquisite.
Behind her, Rika stood frozen, lips parted, watching. Tense with something beyond fear.
Kiriko circled her prey. Blade humming. Breathing steady.
“She cannot take life,” Kiriko said, voice low. “But I am not bound.”
Another slice. Inner thigh. Blood traced down pale flesh like ink.
“She does not feed on death.”
A deeper cut now. Over the rib.
“She feeds on offering.”
She looked to Rika then.
And smiled.
“You wanted pain?”
She plunged the blade—not to kill.
To break him.
The man screamed.
And the shrine sang.
Rika gasped—hands to her lips. Her whole body shivered. Her knees buckled. She moaned.
The blood hit the altar.
Steam rose.
Mist curled.
And Rika—beautiful Rika—arched back, her fingers digging into the stone, her body trembling with pure, delirious pleasure.
Her voice cracked on Kiriko’s name—though she did not yet know it.
Kiriko stepped back.
Let the man live.
And turned to the fox-spirit who now could barely stand.
“Take it,” she whispered.
And Rika crawled to her.
Pressed her lips to the wound on Kiriko’s palm.
And drank.
Not blood.
The pain behind it.
Her eyes fluttered.
Her thighs pressed together.
Her voice a whisper.
“You understand.”
The man whimpered as he crawled away.
His blood stained the grass. His shame hung heavier than his wounds.
Kiriko didn’t watch him go.
Her eyes were fixed on Rika—
Kneeling. Shaking. Touched not by violence, but by understanding.
The fox-woman looked up, lips still wet from where she’d kissed Kiriko’s palm.
Gold eyes wide. Glowing.
“You bleed for me,” she whispered.
“I chose to,” Kiriko said softly.
Rika reached forward, fingertips brushing Kiriko’s knee.
A question.
A plea.
Kiriko didn’t pull away.
“I’ve waited…” Rika murmured, rising slowly to her feet, “so long for someone who knew how to hurt for love.”
Her voice cracked, just slightly.
Kiriko lifted a hand to her face—cupped her jaw with the reverence of a vow reborn.
“You ache,” Kiriko whispered. “Like I do.”
Rika’s breath hitched.
Their lips were inches apart.
“I want to taste that ache,” she breathed.
Kiriko leaned in.
Not fast.
Not desperate.
A slow meeting.
Mouth to mouth.
Pain to pain.
Their first kiss was soft—deceptively gentle.
But beneath it—
A shiver.
A moan.
A gasp against parted lips as Rika pressed closer, letting Kiriko hold her like something holy.
Her fingers found the scars on Kiriko’s arms.
Traced them.
Trembled.
“Let me feel it,” she whispered against her throat.
And Kiriko let her.
She guided Rika’s hand beneath the edge of her tunic—
To the place where the blade’s spirit had marked her years ago.
A burn that never faded.
Rika kissed it.
Not hungrily.
Devoutly.
Kiriko inhaled sharply—hips twitching, hands gripping Rika’s waist.
The mist thickened around them, cloaking the altar in a veil of silver.
Their bodies didn’t tangle.
They offered.
And they received.
One kiss.
Then another.
A sigh. A bite.
The start of something impossibly intimate.
When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed, breath mingling, Rika whispered:
“Now you know why I’ve waited.”
And Kiriko, voice thick with want, with ache, with devotion—replied:
“I’d wait a thousand nights…
for this.”
The shrine had no walls.
Only pillars of shadow, and the breath of the mist that curled like fingers around their limbs.
Kiriko knelt at the base of the altar, sweat slick on her skin, her chest still heaving from the ritual fight.
The blade lay beside her—sheathed, satisfied.
Her wrists still bore the heat of the strike.
But her eyes… her eyes were locked on the spirit that had not moved.
Rika stood with one bare foot on the stone, her body coiled like a bow not yet loosed.
She didn’t blink.
She didn’t speak.
Until she did.
“You bled for me,” she whispered.
Not a question. A revelation. A hunger unfurled.
Kiriko nodded, throat dry.
“I would do it again.”
Rika stepped forward.
One slow, soundless step.
“Then give yourself,” she murmured. “Not just your blade. Not just your pain.”
Her hand lifted.
And from the folds of her robe, she pulled a length of shrine-silk—red, aged, and soft as breath.
She came to Kiriko’s side and knelt.
Not above her.
With her.
The silk trailed over Kiriko’s fingers.
“May I?”
Kiriko exhaled.
“Yes.”
Rika began at the wrists—
Winding the silk in figure-eights, not tight, not cruel—just enough to remind Kiriko she had given herself willingly.
Her lips brushed the skin between each knot.
“Devotion,” she said.
The silk slid down.
Around her waist.
“Duty.”
Around her thighs—kneeling, binding Kiriko open to her gaze.
“Desire.”
Kiriko shuddered.
Rika pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.
And moaned—soft and helpless.
“You smell like grief and fire.”
She rose. Straddled Kiriko’s lap.
Their bodies barely touched—only breath and promise between them.
Rika’s hands slid up her arms, over her bound chest, until her fingers wrapped around Kiriko’s throat.
Not to choke.
Just to hold.
To know.
“Do you give yourself to me?” she asked.
Kiriko’s eyes fluttered. Her breath hitched.
“Yes.”
Rika leaned in.
Their lips met like a match to kindling.
No battle.
No resistance.
Just burn.
Her tongue tasted salt and steel.
Her hands roamed over muscle, scar, and silk until Kiriko gasped her name—though she still didn’t know it.
“I want your pain,” Rika whispered against her mouth.
“You have it.”
“I want your shame.”
Kiriko broke.
Tears. Real ones.
“I am yours.”
Rika kissed them away.
One hand slid beneath the silk, over her stomach, between her legs—not to take.
To offer.
Their breath tangled.
Their hips found rhythm.
And the shrine—
The shrine bloomed.
The vines shivered.
Blossoms burst open.
The mist pulsed like a heartbeat.
And in that moment—
When Kiriko cried out, not from pain, but release—
Rika buried her face in her neck and whispered,
“You are sacred now.”
As the sun rose, the shrine glowed.
Soft petals littered the altar.
Kiriko slept, still half-bound in silk and satisfaction, her blade across her thigh like a vow made flesh.
Rika sat beside her, brushing hair from her brow, humming a tune from a life long lost.
And in the reeds below—
The man who crawled away lay cold.
Face turned to the sky.
Eyes open in terror.
A warning.
A blessing.
A consequence.
Kiriko stirred.
Her wrists still bore the faint warmth of the silk, long since untied.
She was wrapped in a half-folded shrine robe, legs tangled with bare limbs, her sword lying beside her like a lover left out of the fun.
Rika was already awake.
Or had she never slept?
She sat cross-legged at the edge of the shrine’s low stone platform, licking nectar from her fingers—petal-stained, sticky-sweet.
“Dreaming of me again?” she purred, without turning.
Kiriko groaned and rolled onto her stomach.
“My back is dreaming of you.”
Rika turned, eyes gleaming.
“I could kiss it better.”
Kiriko buried her face in her arm. “You already bit it better.”
Rika padded over on silent feet, tails trailing behind her like silk banners.
She straddled Kiriko’s thighs with all the grace of a cat.
“Complaining, little blade?”
Kiriko turned her face just enough to meet her eyes.
“I didn’t say stop.”
Rika leaned down.
Her tongue traced a bruise on Kiriko’s shoulder.
Kiriko hissed—but not in pain.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Rika whispered. “All stretched and marked. Like someone worthy finally claimed you.”
Kiriko blinked.
Something in that tone... the edge of it...
She reached up, caught a handful of Rika’s hair, and tugged—just enough to see if she'd yield.
Rika’s smile widened. Not submissive.
Pleased.
“You’re learning,” she murmured.
Their lips brushed—almost kissed.
But Kiriko pulled back. Just a breath.
“I want to know you,” she said. “All of you.”
Rika's smile faltered. Just for a moment.
Then she sat up. Slid off Kiriko’s hips.
Back to the stone’s edge.
“You already do,” she said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You know how I taste. How I ache. How I break.”
“But not your name.”
Silence.
Rika glanced back over her shoulder. “Names are power.”
“You have mine.”
Rika's eyes softened—then sharpened again, sly.
“I didn’t say I’d return the favor immediately.”
Kiriko sat up, robe falling open. She didn’t bother to cover herself.
“You like this,” she said. “Teasing me. Keeping me half-bound.”
Rika crawled back over, slow and delicious.
“I like seeing you want.”
She kissed Kiriko’s knee. Bit her inner thigh—softly. Just enough to promise more.
Kiriko caught her chin.
“You play. But you’re afraid.”
Rika stilled.
Kiriko leaned in.
“I’m yours. But not yet yours forever.”
The fox-spirit’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Then make me want forever.”
Their mouths didn’t meet again.
Not yet.
Instead, Rika stood, stepped into the sunlight streaking through the mist—and stared toward the village.
“They’ll come soon,” she said.
Kiriko rose. Picked up her blade.
And for the first time, it sang—low, sensual, hungry.
“I’m ready.”
They found him at first light.
Half-submerged, throat uncut, wounds shallow.
But eyes wide, tongue swollen, face frozen in that final rictus of unanswered pleading.
“Makuro…”
The eldest among them—grey-browed, calloused, face like old bark—knelt beside the corpse.
His fingers brushed the boy’s torn tunic.
Then the skin of his side.
The cuts were precise.
Too precise.
Not the wild flaying of a spirit’s frenzy.
Not the seductive but lethal aftermath the fox always left behind.
These wounds spoke of control.
Of ritual.
Of choice.
“Not her,” he said quietly.
The others gathered. Three men. Two women.
All hollow-eyed, tense as rope stretched taut.
One woman spat into the reeds.
“I told you. The swordwoman’s blade sang. I heard it in the mist.”
“She was supposed to hunt the thing,” muttered another.
“She didn’t hunt her,” the old man rasped. “She offered to her.”
Silence fell.
Mist drifted between them like a veil.
“She’s not one of us,” someone whispered.
“She never was.”
“She’s been claimed.”
The old man stood.
“They lie together in the shrine,” he said. “The fox... and her new sword.”
No one spoke.
Until the youngest among them, eyes bright with a different kind of fear, murmured:
“If she’s given herself to the spirit…”
“…then she belongs to it.”
“…and what she protects, she’ll die for.”
The old man’s mouth thinned.
“Then we don’t go for the spirit.”
He looked toward the shrine.
“We go for the blade.”
They came with lanterns.
Seven in total—men and women wrapped in cloaks and trembling resolve, blades dulled by disuse, and eyes hard with fear.
The mist parted for them.
Not out of welcome.
But as if the lake itself watched.
The shrine pulsed with moonlight.
And inside—
Kiriko lay sprawled in silk, her limbs tangled with Rika’s pale, perfect body.
Her blade rested beside her, gleaming with a sheen of oil and blood—neither fresh.
Rika’s fingers traced lazy circles on Kiriko’s stomach, eyes half-lidded and content.
Neither of them moved as the villagers gathered.
Until the old man stepped forward and barked:
“Swordwoman. Wake.”
Kiriko’s eyes opened.
Calm.
Unhurried.
She didn’t sit up. Didn’t reach for her blade.
“Speak,” she said.
“You were sent to kill the spirit.”
Kiriko turned her head.
Looked at Rika.
Watched the way her lashes fanned her cheek, how her breath stirred the air between them.
“I was,” she said softly.
The villagers stiffened.
“And?” the eldest pressed.
Kiriko’s gaze didn’t leave Rika’s.
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re bound to her,” a woman spat.
Rika smiled now—languid and slow.
“You speak as though that’s a curse.”
The youngest among them stepped forward, blade in hand.
“She’s killing boys.”
Kiriko sat up now.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just enough for the silk to fall from her breasts, for the light to catch on the fresh mark bitten into her shoulder—Rika’s claim, red and tender.
“She takes what is offered,” she said.
The old man growled. “You’re bewitched.”
Kiriko smiled.
“No. I’m home.”
They didn’t know what to do with that.
Their torches flickered. Their courage cracked.
“Then you stand with her?” the youngest said, voice trembling.
Kiriko rose.
Naked. Unashamed.
She picked up her blade.
“I kneel to her,” she said.
Rika purred behind her. “Not always.”
A flush of wicked heat, even now.
Kiriko stepped between them and the shrine gate.
“I will not let you touch her.”
“You’d raise your blade against your own?”
Kiriko didn’t blink.
“My own are dead.”
Silence.
And then, softer—more dangerous:
“She is what remains.”
They stepped forward as one.
Kiriko knew the signs—the breathless resolve before a mob becomes a weapon.
The youngest surged first. Brave. Foolish.
“Then die for your whore—!”
Steel flashed.
But Kiriko was already moving.
She didn’t draw her blade.
She let it draw her.
The steel hummed, a deep, keening note like a lover gasping her name.
The blade sang.
And Kiriko danced.
She stepped past the first strike like fog curling around a tree, pivoted, and let the blade taste flesh.
A perfect cut.
Not fatal.
But marking.
“You will not touch her.”
Her voice was low. Fierce. Changed.
The next villager shouted—a woman this time, swinging wildly.
Kiriko caught the blow on the flat of her blade.
And the sword sang again—a sharper, sweeter note.
As if it drank from the clash.
“Do you hear her?” Kiriko whispered.
“The spirit in the steel?”
Another step.
Another cut.
Blood spilled across the shrine stones.
Rika moaned behind her—barely audible.
But present.
Feeding. Thriving.
Kiriko didn’t turn.
She felt her.
A man lunged. Kiriko let him.
She turned the blade in a spiral—not to parry.
To bind him.
He tripped over her movement, stumbled.
Her foot found his knee.
Her blade kissed his ribs.
One stroke.
Three wounds.
A ritual pattern.
Rika inhaled behind her, like the scent of rain after fire.
“Keep going,” she whispered.
Kiriko smiled.
The blade was alive now—guiding her hand, bending her limbs in forms she hadn’t practiced in years.
Not since before—
Before she failed her last ward.
But this time, the blade sang for her.
One villager fell. Then two.
Alive, yes.
But marked.
Scarred with the blade’s judgment.
And then—only the old man remained.
He knelt, bleeding from a shallow cut at the temple.
Kiriko stood above him.
Bare feet stained. Eyes alight.
Blade thrumming in her palm like a pulse.
“Go,” she said.
“Speak of this night.”
He shook. Trembled.
“She’ll destroy you.”
Kiriko leaned in.
“She already has.”
And turned away.
She’s naked again.
Not in body—she always is, in some sense.
But now her soul lies raw.
Wide open.
Kiriko moves like a hymn sung in steel and sweat.
Nearly bare, breasts rising with each breath, blood dappling her skin like rubies from the gods.
And Rika cannot look away.
The blade sings.
Kiriko dances.
Men cry out—bloodied, broken, humiliated—and Rika shudders.
The shrine is vibrating.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
Each stroke of Kiriko’s blade feeds her.
Not just her body—though her thighs are trembling, slick and clenched with a hunger she hasn’t known in centuries.
But her soul. Her shriveled, aching, starved little spirit that has known only betrayal and drought—
Is drinking.
One villager falls with a choked scream.
Kiriko stands over him, chest heaving, moonlight painting the curve of her hips, her breasts streaked with sweat and crimson and purpose.
And Rika breaks.
Her knees give beneath her, not out of weakness—
but to praise.
To feel.
She sinks back on the shrine stone, gasping, one hand curling between her thighs with shameless desperation.
She’s not watching anymore.
She’s experiencing.
Two fingers, slick and sure, sinking inside herself to the rhythm of Kiriko’s killing strokes.
She moans.
Soft. Sinful. Sacred.
Her other hand claws against her chest, drawing shallow red lines, mimicking the wounds Kiriko carves on others.
Each cry in the mist outside is another thrust of fingers, another sob of pleasure.
The shrine trembles.
The fox shudders—
And then—
She comes.
Silently.
Violently.
Spiritually.
Her body bows, lips parting in a breathless scream that echoes only in the Veil, her back arching, her tails flaring, light bursting from her eyes as her faith is fulfilled.
She collapses.
Panting.
Glowing.
Kiriko turns.
Blade dripping.
Body radiant with victory and sweat.
She meets Rika’s eyes.
And knows.
She sees her. Open. Spent. Wild.
And Rika reaches for her with a tremble in her fingers.
“Kneel,” she whispers.
Kiriko does.
And Rika, still breathless, lifts her blood-slicked hand to Kiriko’s cheek.
“You gave me sacrifice,” she says.
Voice shaking, wrecked.
“And I give you... this.”
Her hand slides behind Kiriko’s head.
Pulls her close.
Not for a kiss.
But to share breath.
A sacred act.
And then—
“Bind with me,” Rika whispers.
Her thighs still twitching, her core still pulsing with heat.
“Fully. Soul to soul. Flesh to spirit. Become not my protector—”
Her forehead touches Kiriko’s.
“—but my mate.”
Kiriko shudders.
Not with fear.
With knowing.
And with want.
They did not leave the shrine.
They didn’t need to.
The Veil dropped around them, thick with incense and sweat and moonlight turned red.
Kiriko knelt, blade across her thighs, the blood of her oath-fight still drying on her skin.
She said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
Her eyes met Rika’s.
And in them: surrender.
Not broken.
Offered.
Rika stepped closer, her body gleaming from sweat and her earlier climax, her eyes wide with something too deep to name.
“I would claim you,” she said, voice low, wild. “Not as prey. As mine.”
Kiriko tilted her head, exposing her throat.
“Then take me.”
That was all.
The rite began.
Rika fell upon her not with frenzy, but hunger-shaped like reverence.
Her tongue traced the curve of Kiriko’s throat, her teeth grazing skin.
Her hands slid down her back, nails catching in old scars and new ones alike, drawing soft gasps from the woman who’d once been too proud to make a sound.
But now—
Kiriko moaned.
Low.
Willing.
Rika pushed her down onto the shrine stones, straddling her hips, body flush against body.
She kissed down Kiriko’s sternum, her navel, then lower, until she tasted the wet heat already waiting.
Kiriko trembled.
But didn’t stop her.
Rika fed.
Not just on pleasure—but on the willingness in every twitch, every gasp, every breathless plea.
And when Kiriko arched, crying out her name—not shouted, but given—Rika drank deeper.
Not to own.
To fuse.
They rolled.
Kiriko atop her now, hands grasping Rika’s wrists and pinning them above her head.
But her dominance was service.
She kissed, bit, devoured—tongue lapping at Rika’s breasts, her stomach, the slick place between her thighs.
And when Rika shuddered again—this time with pain, not pleasure—it was because Kiriko’s ritual blade had returned.
In hand.
And poised above her own chest.
Rika froze.
Kiriko looked down.
“I vow,” she whispered, blade tip touching skin, “to carry your soul in mine.”
The blade carved.
A single arc.
A symbol.
Rika’s name—ancient, lost—carved into the skin above Kiriko’s heart.
Blood welled.
Rika moaned.
And came again—not from touch, not from kiss—
From bonding.
Kiriko slumped forward, her blood slicking their chests as they pressed skin to skin.
The shrine flared with light.
A pulse.
A fusion.
Their auras merged—pain and desire, duty and hunger, love and madness.
And in that moment—
They melted.
Two women.
One spirit.
A fox with a blade at her hip.
A blade with fur around her soul.
Breathing slowed.
Bodies stilled.
Only a single voice remained.
“I am yours.”
And the echo—
“And you are mine.”
Forever.
The villagers say the shrine is quiet now.
But not silent.
Never silent.
The mist has grown thicker, sweeter, laced with jasmine and the copper scent of something more intimate.
The flowers never bloomed in Reedmere before.
Now they burst from every crevice.
Red. Always red.
No one speaks of the raid.
Not openly.
But the names of the seven are never spoken again.
Those who returned came back marked.
Not with wounds.
But with visions.
They dream still—of a woman wrapped in moonlight, her laughter like knives in silk, her mouth stained with pleasure.
And beside her, always:
The bladewoman.
Kneeling.
Kissing.
Killing.
But only the guilty.
Only those who once broke the pact.
The rest?
They rebuilt the shrine.
Petal by petal.
Cutting their palms open to water the soil with offerings of pain, not lies.
Some say you can still see them—
Two figures at twilight.
A woman with wild hair, tails like veils behind her.
And her blade.
Always at her side.
Sometimes wrapped in her arms.
Sometimes atop her altar.
But always… bound.
Not by rope.
By choice.
And if you bring an offering?
If you come with truth and open skin?
The fox might let you live.
The blade might let you kneel.
And if you’re very lucky?
You’ll wake with lips bitten, thighs trembling—
And the faintest whisper in your ear:
"You tasted like sorrow. Delicious."