Dawn bled over the ridge, mist curling through thornwood roots. Your lungs burned; the soldiers’ shouts echoed off the cliffs. Winterroot clutched in your arms, you darted over roots and stones, desperate to reach safety.

A figure stepped from the shadows—a blade leveled and steady.

“Surrender,” a sharp voice barked. “Now.”

Suguru Geto. Armor rigid, stance unyielding, eyes locking on you. Recognition hit him instantly.

“You.” His voice was ice undercut with something unreadable. “Why are you here?”

“They’ll die without these herbs,” you gasped. “I had to—”

His gaze swept the ridge, calculating. “…You’ve already made the wrong choice.” His tone was harsh, leaving no room for argument. “Follow me. Stay behind me.”

He pivoted, pointing down a side trail. Behind you, the soldiers thundered past the wrong path, shouting in confusion.

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand enough.” His jaw tightened. “You’re reckless. You’ll get yourself killed if you keep thinking with sentiment.”

A flash: seven years old, river sunlight glinting off water, him chasing your fox cub form, laughter spilling, stolen honeyfruit in your hands. Then soldiers arrived. Then everything ended.

“You’ve grown stubborn,” he muttered, tone flat, almost a reprimand. “Predictable. That hasn’t changed.”

“They’ll die,” you whispered, hugging the herbs.

“…And that makes it acceptable to risk your life?” His eyes bore into yours. “…No. You learn nothing by being careless.”

He exhaled sharply, scanning the ridge. “…Shift. Now. Or they’ll see you.”

You closed your eyes. A spark of heat ignited at your chest, spreading like wildfire. Bones melted into light, fur blossomed along your arms and legs in a shimmer of copper and gold, claws coalescing from pure energy. Your ears elongated, tail unfurling in a gleaming arc behind you. The world sharpened; every scent, every sound, every whisper of the wind thrummed through you. When you opened your eyes, golden and bright, you were no longer human—no longer fully tied to the earth—just a sleek, magical fox, radiant and alive.

Suguru’s sword lowered fractionally, but his stance stayed rigid. “…Still the same,” he said, voice stern but low. “…I could have struck. Don’t make me regret not doing it.”

“I won’t get caught,” you whispered, tail flicking, every muscle quivering with tension.

“Then run,” he ordered, stepping aside. “…And survive. That’s an order.”

You bolted into the thornwood, paws leaving no trace on frost-hardened stone, fur shimmering as magic cloaked you in the mist.

Just before you vanished completely, his voice carried—stern, clipped, but threaded with faint regret:

“Next time… do not let me find you like this.”