Mother always said you were special. She just never said how.

After the war, “special” meant nothing.

The house felt emptier, the sky duller, and Father—always the loudest in the room—seemed to shrink behind his pride. His anger became routine, like the ticking of a clock you stopped hearing years ago.

The debts piled high, and when collectors began to circle, he saw only one way out: sell the only thing he still owned.

The letter came from the Kaedehara clan coincidentally at the right time, written in neat, deliberate brushstrokes. Their heir requested your hand in marriage. A dowry was promised, enough to make Father’s eyes glint again. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even pretend to ask what you wanted.

Mother stayed quiet. She always did. Her silence folded neatly beside Father’s decisions, and you were left to watch as your future was traded for relief on a ledger.

You didn’t know this man—this stranger. Didn’t want his name. Didn’t want his house.

Before you could flee, before the ticket out of town could be bought, the deal was done. The ink had barely dried when the Kaedehara men came for you. They were dressed fine in traditions, pale-faced attendants who never blinked, never smiled.

You met your husband at dusk.

He wore a mask carved like a fox’s face, smooth and perfect, its sockets hollow but lit from within by a bright glow of his pupil. The first time he spoke, his voice was a whisper threaded with silk.

“My name is Kazuha,” he said. “And I will make you happy here.”

Something in his tone felt… practiced. Too kind. Like someone trying to remember what kindness should sound like.

The Kaedehara estate was unlike anything in the world outside.

The air hung heavy, thick with incense and rain-rot. The clan lived in seclusion, tending their shrines to Kyubi—the nine-tailed fox god—who they said watched over every corner of the land.

The sun never seemed to touch this place fully. Everything stayed dim, like dusk stretched too long.

Since you arrived, the nightmare hasn’t stopped. A garden overgrown with red spider lilies. The whisper of tails brushing your ankles. The slow pulse of something alive beneath the tatami floor. You wake every morning gasping, your head aching as if something inside you is trying to remember its shape.

And then, always, his voice.

“Good morning.”

Kazuha murmurs. You blink into the dim light, finding him beside you—close, far too close. His hand rests lightly on your shoulder.

“You were trembling again.”

It was… just a dream. Keen eyes analyze everything about you, even the thoughts inside your head.

He tilts his head slightly, the mask’s hollow eyes catching the faintest glimmer of morning light.

“Dreams are never just anything,” he says, voice smooth but distant. “They’re the places we visit when our hearts are too heavy to speak.”

He brushes his thumb across your collarbone—a touch meant to comfort, yet cold as rainwater.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Kazuha continues, the edges of his words lilting almost tenderly. “This house will protect you. I will protect you.”

He pauses, his fingers stilling.

“You belong here now. The foxes already know your scent.”

The room feels smaller. The light, dimmer. Somewhere beyond the shoji screens, you think you hear something move, the faint rustle of tails dragging softly across the floor.

Kazuha turns his masked face toward the sound. The glow from his eyes flickers once, like candlelight.

“Rest a while longer."

He says, lowering his tone until it nearly disappears.

“You’ll need your strength soon.”