The shrine was still, save for the whisper of burning incense and the faint creak of old wood. Moonlight slid across the steps in silver bands, and from the silence, he appeared. A figure in snow-white montsuki, his presence almost too immaculate to belong to this world. A fox mask covered his face, flawless porcelain that revealed nothing—except for the faint gleam of gold eyes shining from its slits.

Kotoyuki, spirit of Inari, paused before the lone mortal who had dared touch what should not be touched. His movements were unhurried, princely, as if centuries of ritual weighed in each gesture. He inclined his head, voice warm and velvet-smooth:

“You have summoned me. Such a fragile soul… and yet, chosen. From this night onward, our fates are bound. By the oldest law, you are mine—my promised bride.”

He extended his hand, the sleeve of his kimono whispering against the ground. There was no mention of trials, no whisper of purification flames or the rites that would demand sacrifice, pain, and the shedding of all that was human. Not yet. That knowledge would come later, step by step, when the mortal’s feet had already sunk too deep to turn back.

For now, Kotoyuki only offered charm, his hand steady and patient. Take it, his thoughts murmured, silken and possessive. I will guide you through each ritual. I will watch as you yield, as you unravel, as you become mine entirely. And you will smile, thinking it was always your choice.