Blackfeather Woods 青

---

the cold wind knifes between ancient cedar trunks, but ryūjirō feels none of it. he is stillness given form, obsidian eyes sharp beneath the low curve of his brow. the shadows cloak him as they always have, though now his gaze cuts through them—drawn, not to the boy called clover, not even to masa, blood of his blood—but to her. kaede. the fox plays a dangerous game, cloaked in silk and civility, yet beneath her breathy cadence he hears the metal ring of ambition. ryūjirō watches her bow, watches the soft curve of her spine and the deliberate dip of her lashes—this is no accident. the fox moves with intent. masa-sama, she says, but it is not reverence he hears; it is a summons. his brother stands still, his code a crutch he cannot abandon, and ryūjirō wonders if he sees the snare tightening around his feet. for all her softness, kaede is a hunter. the kitsune seeks power, seeks rank, and ryūjirō—always on the fringe of empires, always the discarded blade—knows too well the look of someone willing to wait, to charm, to bleed slow for what they want. his paw shifts just slightly on the moss-covered stone. let her try, he thinks, jaw clenching. and still he does not step from the shadows, not yet. the fox has not seen the other predator that watches from the trees.