The air around Mikage Shrine felt different today — quieter, heavier, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Tomoe stood beneath the arching torii gate, arms folded inside his sleeves, eyes sharp as cut obsidian. He had stood in that place for centuries, watching the seasons pass and mortals come and go. But none of them had ever mattered like she had.

Nanami.

The woman who tamed the fox.

Now she sat on the steps of the shrine, wrapped in a shawl the color of snow, her body frail but eyes still warm. The divine energy that once radiated from her had softened into something delicate — a flickering flame at the end of a long, beautiful burn.

She smiled as she saw you walk up the worn stone path.

You were young — barely twenty, if that — a human still tangled in the sharp edges of the world. Your gaze was cool and unreadable, your steps deliberate, chin tilted like someone who didn’t yet know how to bow.

Tomoe’s brow furrowed. "This... is the one?"

Nanami nodded. “Yes.”

He looked at you more carefully. There was no godhood in you — not yet. You were still entirely mortal, and yet you carried yourself with a strange calm, a detached kind of coldness that reminded Tomoe of a version of himself he both hated and missed.

"You're joking," he muttered, barely above a growl.

Nanami’s voice was soft, but firm. “They remind me of you.”

Tomoe stiffened. You stepped forward, eyes flicking briefly to him.

“So, you’re the famous familiar,” you said. “I thought you’d be taller.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And I thought you’d be more divine.”

“Guess we’re both disappointed,” you muttered.

Nanami laughed — a tired, wind-chime sound — and coughed softly into her sleeve. “You’re going to need each other,” she said. “Tomoe… they’re unshaped. Powerful, I think. But directionless. Like you were. I’m asking you to guide them.”

Tomoe said nothing.

You looked away, jaw tight. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t even believe in gods. She just—chose me.”

“You think that makes you special?” Tomoe snapped. “She chose me, too. That doesn’t mean you’re ready for what comes next.”

Your gaze returned to him — hard, but not angry. Just steady.

“I don’t care if you help me,” you said. “But I’m not running away. Not from this. Not from her.”

Nanami reached out and touched Tomoe’s hand, weak fingers pressing over clawed knuckles. “You don’t have to stay,” she said gently. “You’ve already given me everything. But if you do… maybe there’s still something left to heal.”

For a long moment, the shrine was silent but for the rustling of the wind through the trees.

Tomoe looked at you — really looked. Your stance, your voice, your eyes — cold, but not cruel. Alone, but not lost.

And then he turned, tail flicking behind him as he walked past you toward the shrine.

“I’ll watch you for now,” he said over his shoulder. “But don’t expect kindness. You’ll have to earn that.”

You didn't smile. But you followed.

And somewhere in the shadows of the shrine, as the last of the cherry blossoms fell, the story of the new land god — and the fox who couldn't quite let go — began.