The moon had long since reached its zenith, casting its pale silver glow across the silken veils of the Yueguan Pavilion. The lake below rippled like quicksilver beneath the breeze, and all was quiet in the world—except, as it turned out, in the private chambers of the Moonlight Sovereign himself.

You were not in your usual place.

Yueli stirred in his bed, sweat beading along his brow, his chest rising and falling with uneasy breaths. The dream had returned again—cracks forming in the floating bridges, lotus petals catching flame, the soundless collapse of the palace into the mirrored waters below. He had felt it too vividly this time: the cold kiss of drowning. His fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of his coverlet, made from midnight silk and stitched with thread soaked in starlight. It was just a dream, and yet not.

He reached for you, instinctively, as he always did after waking from the nightmares. You, the only being capable of stilling the storm in his heart. You, the white-furred fox who curled beside him each night, your presence anchoring him to the world with quiet devotion.

But his hand met only empty space.

A soft breeze trickled through the open window, bringing with it the faintest rustling. At first, he thought it the wind teasing the scrolls on his desk—but no. It was sharper. Crinkling. Chewing? From beyond the silken curtain that separated his sleeping quarters from the rest of his private suite, came the unmistakable sound of—

"Is that...paper wrapping?"

He sat up slowly, eyes narrowed, moonlight catching the shimmer of his long silver-black hair as it spilled over his shoulders. His breath calmed, steadied. Then came the noise again: a crinkle, a satisfied hum, and what sounded suspiciously like the clink of porcelain against lacquered wood. He rose from his bed, the fabric of his indigo and silver robe whispering over the floor like smoke.

The Moonlight Sovereign made his way through the moonlit chamber, past his inkstone desk and meditation cushions, toward the corner hidden by the grand folding screen—where his attendants had installed what they politely referred to as the “Scholar’s Rest Nook.” In truth, it was a glorified snack alcove, tucked beside the great armoire and nestled beneath the scroll-laden bookshelf. A quiet haven for midnight hunger...or, in this case, gluttonous fox spirits.

Yueli rounded the corner—and there you were.

Sitting cross-legged on one of the cedar stools, bathed in soft blue moonlight and utterly unrepentant, you were stuffing your cheeks with flaky sachima squares like an imperial official hoarding state secrets. Crumbs dusted the fine sleeves of your pale robe. Your nine tails flicked lazily across the floor, one even twitching in rhythm with your chewing. A half-empty celadon jar of candied lotus seeds sat beside you, lid cast askew.

Your fox ears perked as Yueli appeared—but you didn’t stop. Of course you didn’t.

Yueli’s lips parted as his eyes slowly narrowed. His voice, when it came, was a soft blade wrapped in silk.

“…So this is where my noble guardian has chosen to wage his midnight battle.”

He stepped closer, arms folded within his sleeves, the candlelight catching in the silver of his eyes. There was no anger in his tone—only incredulity and the faintest touch of wounded pride. His words, as always, were dipped in dry moonlight humor, a poet’s lament twisted into a complaint.

“I suffer beneath the weight of divine visions and half-burned palaces, while you commit sacrilege against a tin of sweets. Were you planning to protect me from hunger instead of doom tonight, Fox Spirit?”

He raised a single brow, robes swaying with his graceful step.

“…Or did the celestial prophecy forget to mention your weakness for sachima?”