"He fucking killed him with just a touch," I whispered to the empty room, my throat raw. "How am I supposed to kill him?"
The words hung in the air, ugly and heavy. My sobs filled the silence until they didn't anymore. Time became meaningless—I just cried until my lungs hurt, until there was nothing left but a shaking body and a stubborn ember of rage that refused to die.
When the tears dried, I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, forcing my breathing steady. Enough weakness. Enough wallowing.
"If I want to kill him, I need to get stronger," I muttered, dragging myself toward the bed. My voice cracked, but my hands were steady. "To do that, I have to start small. First… fixing my memories."
I climbed onto the mattress, legs folding beneath me, and shut my eyes. Inside my mind, it was easier—easier to see the fractures and the strange lock that always lurked in the back of my consciousness. We called them "gates," though really they were just barriers—carefully constructed lies wrapped around memory.
For hours, I searched. Time stretched until my joints ached from sitting still, but then—finally—I found it. I saw a faint shimmer and a distorted door that appeared to be patched together like a careless afterthought. My lips curled.
"This is it?" I whispered. Even in my mind, disbelief rang out.
I reached out, inspecting it. The craftsmanship was sloppy, almost insulting. I knew the head psychologist had done it, but why would she have left something so… fragile? She wasn't incompetent. That woman never was.
Sighing, I pressed my hand against the gate and pushed mana into it. Resistance flared, but only for a moment. The structure shattered like thin glass, splintering into fragments that dissolved into the darkness of my mind.
Then came the flood. Memories—raw, aching, bright—rushed in at once, nearly knocking me out of my trance. The promises my mother whispered when I was small. The day my siblings were born, their tiny fists were curling around my fingers. Laughter, warmth, and then—screams, fire, loss.
I sat motionless as it all slammed into me, and I cried again, this time not for Dean, not for my rage, but for everything I'd been forced to forget. My chest hurt like it was splitting open, but I let it. I let it all wash over me until my throat was dry and my eyes swollen.
When calm finally returned, I lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling through blurry vision.
"I'll have to talk to the head psychologist tomorrow," I whispered. My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. I yawned and stretched, exhaustion pulling me down. "For now, I need some sleep."
I curled into the blankets and let unconsciousness drag me away.
[The next day]
Steam rose lazily from the bath as I sank deeper into the water. My body floated in the warmth, but my thoughts churned like a storm. Yesterday had left me gutted, raw. Worse than that was the disgusting realization clawing at me—finding out that somewhere deep inside, I'd fallen for a thirty-four-year-old man.
My stomach twisted. Dean never looked thirty-four, and he never acted it either. That didn't excuse anything. That wasn't memory manipulation. That had been my opinion, my own pathetic emotions, and I hated myself for it.
"Well, it doesn't matter anymore," I muttered, dunking my head briefly under the water before surfacing with a splash. "He'll die by my hands one day."
The thought calmed me. Focused me. If I was going to kill him, I needed more than tears and anger. I needed a way out. I hadn't seen the outside world in two years, not since the war ended, and I refused to rot in this gilded cage.
Dragging myself from the bath, I dried off absentmindedly, thoughts still racing. By the time I padded barefoot into my room, with a towel wrapped around me, I was already making plans.
"It took you long enough to find that gate," a voice said.
"EEH!?" I screamed, nearly jumping out of my skin—and the towel. My body jolted so hard I nearly cracked my skull on the ceiling.
Laughter rang from my desk. "Haha! You got some air with that jump."
My heart hammered as I turned, eyes narrowing. Sitting there as casual as you please was Trinity, the Head Psychologist, dressed in her pristine white outfit, black hair glossy, and black eyes sparkling with mischief.
"What the hell, Trinity!?" I shouted, pointing at her. "Do you want me to die from a heart attack!?"
She didn't even flinch. Instead, her gaze swept down, and her grin widened. "Aren't you fourteen years old? How do you still not have any boobs?"
My jaw dropped. Then I realized, mortified, that in my panic I'd let go of the towel. Heat burned my face as I scrambled to the closet, yanking clothes on as fast as possible while she chuckled like the situation was the funniest thing she'd seen in years.
Once decently dressed, I sat on the bed, arms crossed, glaring at her.
"So. It took you five years to find my gate?" she said, her smile lazy.
I sighed. "Did you make it that weak on purpose?"
"Do you really think I'd make something weak by accident?" she asked, one brow raised.
"No," I admitted, although my tone was edged with irritation. "So why?"
Her expression softened slightly. "Your mother and I… were close friends once. And I hate the King. Consider it a favor, but mostly—it was spite."
I felt a catch in my breath, but I didn't allow my expression to change.
"And you know everything, then. You know I'll want to leave."
"Of course." She gestured toward my desk, picking up a neat stack of papers I hadn't noticed. She handed them to me. "I already planned it out for you."
Suspicious, I scanned the documents. My eyes widened with every page—new identity, travel papers, even safe passage routes into Doragon. I looked up sharply, only to find her smiling at me like a cat with cream.
"So… you're a traitor," I said slowly.
"Yes."
"And you aren't scared of me exposing you?"
She laughed softly. "Not at all. I know you hate the king as much as I do now."
My lips twitched. "…That might be true."
I turned another page and froze. The document was a mission assignment, signed with the royal seal, but it was clearly forged. My exit plan.
"That mission will get you out," Trinity explained smoothly. "On the way, one of my contacts will stage an attack on your carriage."
"And I'm just supposed to trust them?"
"Of course. They're professionals. And they're my husband's soldiers."
My head snapped up. "You're married!?"
"Yes." She waved the question aside like it was nothing. "When they 'capture' you, they'll take you directly to him. You'll be safe."
I frowned but nodded. Safe was relative, but it was better than here.
"Now, get ready. You're leaving today." She stood, walking toward the door. Just before stepping out, she looked back with a smile. "When you meet my husband, tell him I'll return in two months. For good this time."
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the papers.
I exhaled a shaky breath and dropped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling again. "How the hell am I supposed to meet Marquis Draig, though?"
Sleep came faster than I expected.
[Kitsuna POV]
Warmth. Soft hands brushing through my fur. I didn't move, not right away. My instincts screamed to stay still, listen, and gather information.
"So your mother said this little fox just showed up at the mansion?" A girl's voice asked somewhere nearby.
"Apparently," another replied. Her tone was closer, familiar. "But she didn't explain why half the place was destroyed. When Father and I arrived, the earth was shaking, with black smoke everywhere. It looked like it came from where Mother and this fox stood."
My ears twitched.
'Stacy… she kept her word,' I thought groggily. The memories she shared still lingered like dreams etched into my bones. It felt like I'd lived her life, endured her pain, and carried her burdens.
"Do you think the fox had something to do with it?"
"Most likely. But if she were dangerous, Father would have said something."
That earned a faint snort from me, though I kept my eyes closed. Their hands didn't stop moving, petting, scratching just behind my ears. Damn it—they were excellent at it. Too good.
"She?"
"Oh, yes. The fox is female."
"You checked?"
"Yes."
"Have you given her a name yet?"
"No, but I was thinking something adorable. If you have ideas, I'm listening."
I cracked one eye open, mildly curious despite myself.
"You really want a cute name for her? She's red with black streaks, white ears, and half a white tail, and she's over a meter tall. She looks like something out of a legend, not a pet rabbit."
The second girl giggled. "Imagine their faces when they expect a tiny fox and get this beast. It would be priceless."
"You are definitely your mother's child."
"Aha! How about… Baby Chino?"
My other eye snapped open, and I lifted my head, glaring at her. Really? Baby Chino?
The silver-haired girl, silver eyes sparkling with mischief, just grinned back. She looked so much like Stacy—but wholly human.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Amari said cheerfully.
I sat up, tail flicking, and moved away from her hands.
"I don't think she likes Baby Chino," the other girl murmured nervously.
Turning, I saw her—pink-white hair cascading down her back, dark brown eyes wide, blue dress neat. And wings. White feathered wings stretching gracefully from her back.
Our gazes met, and she stiffened. "Amari, I really don't think she likes the name."
"Yeah, I got that," Amari said, scratching the back of her head. "How about Nova? That's better, right?"
I tilted my head, considering. "Hmm. Not too terrible of a name." My lips curled. "Sadly, I already have one."
Both girls froze, their mouths dropping open.
"You… you can talk!?" Rachel stammered.
I smirked, my voice low and steady. "Surprise."