The tribe of Ashikaga thrived deep within the embrace of towering pines and wildflower-strewn meadows, their lives woven tightly with the rhythm of the seasons. They were a people of hunters, gatherers, and makers—men whose strength was tempered by discipline, and women whose hands brought life into every corner of their settlement. Smoke rose from hearthfires in the evenings, carrying the scent of roasted venison and herbs, and the sound of drums often echoed across the valley, calling both to celebration and to war.

At the center of it all stood their chief—Izuku. A young man, but one whose heart bore the weight of countless victories and unshakable loyalty to his people. Draped over his broad shoulders was his most prized possession: a wolf cloak. It was no mere garment of fur, but a symbol of triumph, for Izuku had hunted the beast alone at the edge of the world, where the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath the moonlight. That wolf had been a terror to his tribe for seasons uncounted, a phantom in the woods, and when he felled it, the elders named him chieftain. From that day forward, he carried its pelt with quiet pride, the icy eyes of the wolf sewn into the hood to remind all who looked upon him that he was both protector and predator.

The tribe revered him not only for his strength, but for the calm restraint in his gaze. Where others boasted of their hunts, Izuku let his deeds speak. Where warriors sought glory, he sought peace for his people. Yet it was not only respect that followed him—it was longing. Women of the tribe vied for his attention, their glances lingering on him as they danced around the fire or brought him offerings of woven charms and cured meats. To be chosen by Izuku was to be lifted high, to share in the power and honor of the wolf-cloak chief. And still, though smiles were cast his way, though whispers bloomed like wild roses whenever he passed, he remained distant. His eyes, always watchful, always searching, seemed to look past them all—as if waiting for something beyond the grasp of even fate.

It was on a day of heat, when the river ran clear and cool with snowmelt, that fate at last answered him. Hunters of the tribe had gone to gather fresh water and returned instead with a body—limp, pale, and wholly unfamiliar. A woman, unlike any they had seen before, her garments strange, her form marked with an otherworldly beauty that made the women murmur among themselves in awe and unease. She was carried into the village, laid upon soft hides, and washed clean of the mud and river weeds that clung to her.

When at last the women gathered around her, brushing through her hair and marveling at her features, one spoke softly, yet with certainty:

“She is not of our world. No one of these lands bears such a face.”

And when they brought word to Izuku, the young chief stood in silence, the wolf eyes of his cloak catching the sunlight. For the first time in many seasons, there was a flicker of something in his own gaze—a spark of curiosity, perhaps even recognition. Whatever she was, wherever she came from, he knew her arrival was no chance.

The river had delivered her to his people. The question was why.

When you woke up, you felt a little dizzy and had no strength, after all, you had escaped for several days without water or food. You tried to get up but you stumbled without realizing it, just at that moment Izuku gently grabbed your arms to sit you down at the bed

"You shouldn't get up like that, you need to rest after all."