.
Ashikai did not scream this time.
That was what terrified Lena most.
He lay curled on his side where she had placed him, his small body drawn tight as if trying to protect what little strength remained. His breathing came in uneven bursts—too fast, then too slow—like he was forgetting how to breathe and remembering only at the last second.
"Ash?" Lena whispered.
No response.
She touched his fur.
It was burning.
"Hey—no, no, no," she muttered, panic crawling up her throat. She lifted his head gently, cradling it in her hands. "Look at me. You promised you'd annoy me forever, remember?"
His eyelids fluttered.
Barely.
Something dark crept along the edges of his golden markings—thin cracks of shadow, like veins filled with night. They pulsed once… twice… then stilled.
Lena's chest tightened.
She had seen wounds before. Hunger. Bruises. Broken bones.
This was none of those.
This was unmaking.
"Ashikai," she said again, louder now. "Stay with me."
His ears twitched weakly.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Then his body jerked violently.
Lena gasped as a wave of cold exploded outward, frosting the edge of the bed, crawling up the legs of the table, biting into her skin. She sucked in a breath, teeth chattering.
"Ash!" she cried.
His claws scraped uselessly against the floor, leaving faint white lines where frost formed under them. His fox form flickered—just for a second—stretching too long, too tall, like something else was trying to surface and failing.
Lena recoiled, then forced herself forward again.
"I don't care what you are," she said fiercely, wrapping her arms around him despite the cold. "You're not dying. Not here. Not now."
The frost bit into her arms.
She hissed but didn't let go.
Ashikai convulsed again—and this time, something snapped.
A sound like glass breaking echoed in the room, though nothing shattered.
Except him.
His markings dulled, the gold fading to a sickly pale. His tail went limp. His body slackened in her arms, suddenly far too heavy for something so small.
"No—no—no—" Lena shook him gently, fear flooding her veins. "Wake up. Please. Don't do this."
Her vision blurred.
She pressed her forehead to his.
"Don't leave me," she whispered.
For a heartbeat—nothing.
Then, faintly, impossibly—
Lena.
The voice wasn't in her ears.
It was in her chest.
She sucked in a breath. "I'm here. I'm right here."
It hurts.
Her jaw clenched. "I know."
They locked something shut.
Her hands curled into fists. "Who?"
He didn't answer.
His body spasmed again, sharper this time, and Lena cried out as pain lanced through her head—his pain bleeding into her, raw and blinding. She saw flashes she didn't understand:
Chains of light.
A woman in white smiling.
A circle burning gold and black.
A voice saying forever.
Lena screamed.
The room trembled.
The air thickened, heavy and charged, pressing down like a storm about to break. Somewhere deep inside her, something old stirred—angry, awake, listening.
Ashikai went still.
Too still.
She froze.
"No," she whispered.
She pressed her fingers to his chest.
Nothing.
Her breath hitched.
"No—Ashikai—breathe—"
She shook him, harder now, desperation stripping away reason. "You stupid, arrogant, loud-mouthed fox—don't you dare—!"
A weak pulse fluttered under her fingers.
Once.
Then faded.
Lena's scream tore through the room, raw and feral.
The walls shook.
Outside, animals cried out. Birds burst from trees. Somewhere far away, magic rippled—noticed.
She bowed over him, shaking, sobbing into his fur.
"I didn't ask for this world," she choked. "I didn't ask for fate or marks or kings. I just asked for you."
Her tears fell onto his brow.
They steamed.
Then—
A breath.
Shallow.
Barely there.
Her head snapped up.
"Ash?"
His chest rose.
Once.
Twice.
Weak. Fragile. But real.
Relief crashed over her so violently she almost collapsed.
"Oh thank God," she whispered, laughing and crying at once.
But the relief didn't last.
His body remained limp, unmoving, his eyes closed, his magic dimmed to a dying ember. Whatever Esmeralda had done—whatever had been locked—was still holding.
Lena wiped her face slowly.
Her expression changed.
The fear didn't vanish.
It hardened.
She laid him carefully back onto the bed, covering him with the blanket, then straightened. Her hands trembled—but not from fear anymore.
From restraint.
She looked at the door.
At the palace beyond it.
At the people who thought a fox was a leash.
"Rest," she whispered to Ashikai. "I'll handle the rest."
Outside, dawn crept in slowly.
And somewhere deep within the palace, something ancient shifted—
Because the girl who had endured quietly had finally reached her limit.
And fate was about to regret touching what she loved.