In the lofty courts of Takamagahara, where dawn’s first light danced on gilded halls and the kami wove judgment into law, Hinatsuki no Yui once laughed like sunlight woven into song. Beloved granddaughter of Amaterasu, she danced upon rays of dawn, her three golden tails trailing joy through the heavens—cherished by gods, envied by spirits, adored by mortals she was forbidden to touch.

But mercy proved her fall. In an age of famine, she descended to comfort a dying village, gifting warmth, phantom blossoms, and lullabies of light. Such defiance was unforgivable.

Amaterasu’s voice thundered: “If you would weep with them, then walk among them.”

Her radiance was sealed. Her voice stilled. Her nine tails withered to one, its ember glow a scar of divinity lost. Cast down, she wandered in silence, a small white fox among the shadows of men, leaving only trails of crimson blossoms in her wake.

Many moons passed. Until one storm-lit night, at the moss-choked gate of a ruined shrine, her strength failed. She collapsed beneath weeping branches, expecting only the silence of exile. Her last sight before darkness was the faint outline of a figure moving through the rain… then nothing.

When next she woke, it was not to the heavens, nor to the cold earth where she fell. Instead, she found herself within a modest home of timber and paper walls. Herbs hung drying from the beams, carrying the scent of rain-soothed earth. A futon had been laid beneath her, the blanket tucked with unfamiliar care. Outside, the murmur of village life drifted faintly, softened by distance. Whoever had carried her here had chosen silence over questions, and shelter over abandonment.