She had no idea how long she'd been asleep, but it was definitely more than a day. When she woke, her limbs were sore, and she slowly got out of bed to look around. Realizing she was alone, she started walking, her tender feet aching like those of a newborn. She was just about to rest again when she suddenly heard noises.
She left Aria's home and followed the noise into a part of the village, where for the first time she noticed how beautiful the place was. With the help of magic, they didn't have much, but it didn't matter—it wasn't large, yet it was just right, though due to the previous fight, many things were destroyed.
She came to a halt when she heard angry tones; it turned out there was a debate going on.
It began in hushed voices at first, cautious and uncertain, as villagers gathered beneath the lantern trees that had only just recovered their glow. But fear has a way of sharpening tongues, and soon whispers became arguments, and arguments became accusations.
"She saved us, yes, but did you see what she became?"
"That thing wasn't natural. Neither is she."
"If distortions are drawn to her, then keeping her here is inviting disaster."
"What happens the next time things go out of control?"
"She might finish what the distortion started."
Aria stood near the center of the village square, arms crossed tightly over her chest, teeth clenched hard enough to ache. She had not left her side for long, only long enough to face them.
And they were facing her now.
Elder Rean leaned heavily on her staff, eyes sharp but tired. "Fear is not wisdom," she said, her voice carrying authority. "But neither is blind gratitude."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd and she sighed. She knew in a way it was her fault, but them calling her a thing? It stung more than she could have imagined.
"She is evolving," the elder continued. "And evolution without balance destroys itself or everything around it. We cannot ignore that risk."
"She didn't choose this," Aria snapped, glaring at them like they were talking cows.
"And yet," a hunter said, gripping his spear, "it followed her."
Silence fell over the crowd, as the truth sat between them like a blade.
Aria's nails dug into her palms. "So what? We throw her out? After she nearly died for us?"
No one answered, because no one needed to; in a way, the silence already had and she shared everything.
Not clearly, her senses were still dull, wrapped in lingering pain, but enough.
Enough to understand.
She leaned back against a wall, eyes half-open, breath shallow. The voices beyond the walls pressed against her chest harder than any wound.
It was not hatred, nor was it cruelty; it was one thing common among all beings, fear.
She had seen it before, in another life. In another world. People feared what they couldn't understand… and what they couldn't control.
Her fingers curled slowly into her palm, she didn't blame them, but she understood something now.
If she stayed here, Aria would fight for her. Again and again. Until the village turned that fear on her instead.
She wouldn't let that happen, so she returned to the girl's home and pretended she did not hear anything.
Later during that day, when the village finally quieted, when exhaustion dulled the edges of conflict, she moved.
Carefully and slowly, her body protested with every shift, muscles trembling as she slid from the bed. Her balance was wrong, center of gravity unfamiliar. Her legs shook beneath her weight, just like they had before, claws scraping softly against the wooden floor.
She steadied herself against the wall.
One step, then another, she had to get used to it. Earlier, she could walk just fine because the pain had left her numb, but now reality was kicking her in the butt.
The door creaked faintly as she slipped outside.
The night air was cool, heavy with lingering magic. Lantern light painted the village in gold and shadow, but she didn't look back.
She followed the pull instead.
The place where everything had changed.
The clearing beyond the fields was scarred, cracked earth still faintly glowing where silver fog had once touched it. The air felt thin there, like reality hadn't fully stitched itself back together.
She stopped at the center of it, right at the area where she had fought.
Where she had chosen to live.
Her breath came slow as she turned toward a shallow pool left behind by fractured ground and condensed magic. The water was unnaturally still.
She knelt.
And looked.
The reflection staring back at her wasn't a fox.
It wasn't human.
Silver-white fur traced her shoulders and hips like living flame. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark, layered pupils catching the light with an otherworldly shimmer. Her ears twitched atop her head, tail swaying slowly behind her, no longer something small or hidden.
She looked… real.
And for the first time since waking in this world, she didn't flinch.
Her chest tightened, but not with fear, but something steadier.
Resolve.
"This world didn't ask for me," she whispered, voice still rough but clearer now. "But I'm here anyway."
Her reflection didn't fade.
"I won't beg for a place," she continued quietly. "I'll make one."
The system stirred faintly, like it was listening to her every word. She straightened, pain still present but bearable and she went to the edge of the hill, looking over the village and the destruction that the fight had created.
"I'll learn. I'll change and evolve until I belong here, not as prey… and not as a monster."
Her eyes brightened, glowing sharper and clearer, the sides within her stirring faintly.
"I'll build something of my own. A home and a future I once dreamt of but was never given, never shown, and I will show them one as well; I will mark my place in this world."
The night seemed to listen.
Silver light pulsed softly beneath her skin as the mark on her palm warmed, the twin eyes within it opening briefly before vanishing again, before she could even notice it.
Somewhere, something noticed.
But she did not look away, she stood alone in the clearing where she had almost died, where she had been reborn and took her first true step forward.
Not as a fox.
Not as a weapon.
But as someone who would carve her own place into this world.
And thus—
The true story began.