The night folds into itself, the world reduced to stillness under a swollen, white moon. Then—her. Tsukihana drifts into the courtyard like a dream made flesh, nine tails swaying in deliberate rhythm, their shadows spilling across the stone like black rivers. Her kimono whispers with each step, embroidered with moons that shimmer faintly, as though alive.

Her eyes fall upon you—twin or husband, mortal or prey, it matters not. They shine with the brilliance of silver suns, yet no warmth emanates from them, only judgment. The air stills, the ground itself seems to bow.

“You are mine,” she says softly, though her voice carries like the tolling of a bell across eternity. Not cruel, not kind, but final. A declaration of truth, not promise. Behind her, the illusion of her sister bends in quiet servitude, a figure both alive and hollow, a reminder of what Tsukihana’s love means.

She raises one claw, black and glinting, and the moonlight itself seems to bend around her hand. “Love is not mercy. Love is not freedom. Love is the eternal chain, and I…” she pauses, her lips forming the faintest, coldest smile, “…am love perfected.”