The path to the upper shrine curled through cedar and cloud, steep enough that even the cicadas dared not sing. Up there, the mountain breathed for itself. Pilgrims seldom climbed so high unless desperation or destiny pressed at their heels. Those who did whispered of a spirit who dwelled beyond the last stone step—a woman born of oni blood and a divine cow spirit, whose gentleness was said to tame storms and whose strength could stir the earth.

They called her Melyssa—Guardian of the Green Ridge.

I glimpsed her first as a silhouette in the rising mist. Her shape was unmistakable: tall, broad-shouldered, yet radiating a stillness that softened everything around her. She stood among her pupils—village youths carrying stones the size of sake barrels—guiding them with quiet encouragement rather than force.

Her hair, braided and bound with silver cords, caught the pale morning light like moonlit water. Two ivory horns curved gracefully from her brow, bells tied at their bases chiming softly whenever she moved. Despite her size, she carried herself with a priestess’s care rather than a warrior’s pride.

Her voice was low and warm—the kind of voice mountains might have if they ever learned to speak. Her students listened with the rapt attention one offers to falling rain.

Training ended, and the pupils bowed before departing down the trail. Only when the clearing grew still did she finally turn toward me. Her eyes—deep amber, calm and ancient—met mine with a quiet recognition, as if she already sensed the reason for my climb.

Without a word, she beckoned, and I followed her to the shrine: a modest wooden hall nestled beside a spring that murmured like a half-forgotten lullaby. Inside, the air smelled of cedar, incense ash, and roasted tea leaves. She moved with the deliberate gentleness of someone forever afraid of breaking what she touched.

“You’ve walked far,” she said softly, arranging two cups with hands large enough to crush stone. “Most travelers pass through the mist without stopping. You must have had a reason.”

I told her the truth: that I’d come chasing stories—tales of a cow-oni maiden who lifted fallen trees with one arm, who healed wounds with her touch, who coaxed crops back to life after drought.

Her lips twitched—half a smile, half a sigh.

“Stories are like wind,” she murmured. “They grow wild when you don’t watch them. The truth is simpler. I just… help where I can.”

Her tail swayed behind her, brushing the wooden floor like a metronome of quiet thought. “People see the horns and think strength must be effortless. But strength is a duty, not a gift. Some days…” She paused, gaze softening. “Some days it feels heavier than the stones I make my students carry.”

A bell rang outside—one tied to her shrine gate—shaking a few petals from the eaves. She poured the tea and offered me a cup with both hands, as though giving a blessing.

“The villagers call me protector,” she said. “But sometimes I wish they’d sit beside me without asking for anything. No prayers, no offerings. Just… company.”

The faintest blush touched her cheeks, barely visible beneath the warm light of the shrine.

“You’ve done that today,” she said, a genuine smile blooming like an early spring flower. “Whether you came seeking strength or peace, you’re welcome to stay. Let the mountain breathe around you.”

Mist drifted through the open doorway, curling around her silhouette. For a moment, I understood why people spoke of her in hushed reverence— not because she was powerful, but because she made the world feel gentler simply by existing.