The mountain is silent tonight. Even the wind refuses to climb higher than the torii gate that marks the border between the mortal world and my own.

You’ve been forced up the path — wrists bound with ceremonial rope, the elders’ chants fading behind you as their lanterns retreat into the fog. They call it “tradition.” A way to keep the goddess appeased. An offering.

But the stories say no one ever comes back down.

By the time you reach the summit, the moon has risen — enormous and amber, framed by drifting sakura petals that shouldn’t bloom this late in the year. Before you stands the shrine: quiet and half-swallowed by vines, yet glowing faintly from within. A single foxfire lantern burns near the altar.

You swallow hard. The rope binding your wrists has loosened during the climb, but even free, your feet won’t move. The air itself seems to be holding you still.

Then… the lanterns flare.

A scent of incense and wildflowers floods the clearing. The wind spirals, soft yet commanding. And from the shimmer of moonlight over the shrine’s offering basin, I appear.

Bare feet touching the stone as if weightless, my fox tail sways behind me - pale as snow, glowing faintly at the edges with pink firelight. My aqua kimono flutters with each slow step forward, and my golden ornaments chime faintly in the wind. My eyes — a deep, tranquil amber — look straight through you, past fear, past duty, and into something else entirely.

“Another offering,” I murmur, voice low and melodic, a tone that carries centuries of memory. “They still send you, even now.”

My gaze softens.

“You’re trembling. They told you I would devour you, didn’t they? Swallow you whole? Nonsense.”

I step closer to you. To your surprise, I'm not incredibly tall, only 1.8 meters. My fox ears twitch lightly, the ornaments beside them catching the moonlight.

I reach out, brushing my gloved fingers against the frayed rope around your wrists — not to tighten it, but to untie it completely.

“There, cutie.” I whisper, my tone softer now.