As wind blew leaves from trees, silent sadness was enveloping whole forest.
Under huge oak tree lied small fox cub.
....
Branches swayed gently, as if mourning with the earth itself. Beneath a wide, ancient tree, a small fox cub lay curled in a bed of fallen leaves. His fur, soft and pale like morning mist, barely stirred with each trembling breath.
He was alone.
The scent of smoke and feathers still haunted the edges of his memory.
The cries.
The screeches of winged beasts with cruel eyes. The flash of talons. The scream that had been his mother's last.
He had run.
His tiny legs carrying him through the underbrush, over roots and through thorned bushes, until the scent of blood was far behind.
Now he hid, deep in the forest's heart.
He hadn't meant to survive.
He had only meant to run.
---
He pressed himself deeper into the pile of leaves, as if the forest might cradle him like she once had. His mother—Saeka, the queen of their tribe—was the most radiant fox spirit of them all. Tall and graceful in her human form, silver-haired and wise. She ruled their kind not with fear, but with calm strength, like moonlight on still water.
But now she was gone.
And he was still only a cub. Too young to shift. Too small to fight.
They had called him Renkai, though the name had never truly belonged to him—until now.
"I'll carry it," he whispered, though his voice was only a breath in the wind. "I'll carry her name. I'll carry her blood."
A single golden leaf drifted down and landed on his back.
He did not move.
He only closed his eyes again, letting the cold air bite softly at his paws, and waited, for sleep, for death, or for something to find him.
Morning light pierced through the branches like quiet fire, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The little fox stirred, his eyes still heavy with grief, but the wild instincts inside him would not let him rest long.
He moved forward, paws light but cautious, deeper into the heart of the forest.
Then—
A sharp cry split the air.
Screeeeech.
His ears flattened. The wind carried the cruel call of the eagles. They had found him. Again.
Panic surged.
He ran.
The forest blurred around him as he darted between roots and leapt over fallen logs. The sound of wings beating above him grew louder—closer. He could hear them circling, diving, hunting. One tore into his back, and he yelped in pain. Another slashed near his side. His fur darkened with blood, hot and sticky, matting against his skin.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't.
His breath came in sharp bursts. His legs trembled beneath him, but still, he ran.
Then—through the trees—he saw it.
A strange, swirling mist. Thick, silver-gray, as if the air itself was turning to spirit.
He didn't think.
He couldn't afford to.
With the last of his strength, he leapt into the fog.
And everything changed.
The air turned still.
The world fell silent.
The screeches faded behind him, muffled and distant. The eagles did not follow. It was as if they feared the fog... or knew something he didn't.
He slowed, his limbs nearly giving out. The mist curled around him, cool and soft. His heart pounded in his ears as he collapsed onto damp moss, chest heaving, blood dripping into the earth.
He was still alive.
The forest had swallowed him whole.
Or... something else had.
He didn't know how long he had slept.
Time had dissolved in the fog—soft, colorless, endless. When he finally opened his eyes again, the mist had thinned, and pale light filtered through the treetops.
His body ached.
Every bone, every muscle cried out. His fur was crusted with dried blood, wounds stiff and stinging. The attacks had left deep gashes along his back and flanks. He was too young to heal them with spirit energy… too young to shift into a human form, as the older fox spirits could.
Still… he had survived.
Barely.
He dragged himself to his feet with a soft whimper, shaky legs trembling beneath him. The ground beneath his paws was damp and cool, blanketed with moss and fallen leaves. His vision was fogged with exhaustion, but something had changed.
The forest felt different here.
Older.
Watching.
Alive.
He stood in a place that should not have been hidden — a place the eagles had feared to follow. Maybe the mist had protected him. Or maybe it was testing him.
His ears twitched at the faint rustle of leaves, but nothing came. No spirits. No allies. No mother.
Just silence.
He lowered his head, breath shaking.
> What now? Where do I go?
He was just a cub. A weak, wounded child of a slaughtered tribe.
And yet, in the hollow of his chest, where sorrow once lived… something else stirred.
Anger.
A quiet, burning fire.
> I need to move forward, he thought, his small jaw clenched. I must survive.
> I will grow stronger. I will learn. I will never run again.
> And one day… I will avenge them.
The death of his mother. The fall of his people. The blood that painted the sky as the eagles came screaming down.
They would pay.
He turned, limping forward into the mist once more. The wind whispered above him in the trees, and he did not look back.
Not again.
The fog curled around his small frame like a living veil. It clung to his fur and filled his lungs, cold and damp. Everything beyond a few steps was lost in pale silence. The deeper he wandered, the more the world disappeared behind him.
His belly ached. His wounds throbbed.
He had eaten nothing since before the attack.
Renkai limped slowly through the mossy undergrowth, his head low, nose brushing the ground. He searched for berries, insects, even roots—anything that could fill the hollow pit inside him. But the forest was quiet, and the fog kept everything hidden.
A dry leaf crunched somewhere above.
He froze.
Then came the flutter of wings—swift, sharp.
Before he could react, a black bird dove out of the mist like a shadow with claws. Its beak slashed at his face, drawing blood. He yelped, reared back, but the bird circled and struck again.
Renkai growled—a high, desperate sound—and leapt sideways, dodging its talons. His heart thundered. He wasn't ready for this, not with open wounds and a starved body.
But the bird wouldn't stop.
It screamed and dove again, aiming for his eyes.
He had no choice.
Survive. That was all he could do.
This time, as the bird came down, he lunged—his fangs catching feathers and flesh. The bird thrashed, clawing at his muzzle, but he held on, fury rising with every snap of its wings. Blood filled his mouth, sharp and bitter.
He sank his teeth deeper—into its neck—until the bird went still.
Silence fell again.
Renkai stood over the broken body, panting, blood dripping from his jaw. The bird's wings twitched once, then went limp. His chest heaved with pain and victory.
He had killed.
He hadn't wanted to.
But he had.
The hunger clawed at him again. He stared at the bird's body, revulsion crawling over his skin. The smell of it… oily, iron-rich, wrong. It wasn't the kind of food his tribe would have ever eaten.
But his tribe was gone.
And he was alone.
With a soft growl, he bent down and tore into the bird's flesh. The taste was awful—bitter and gamey, feathers sticking to his tongue—but he forced it down.
Because survival didn't wait for dignity.
When he was done, he curled into the moss once more. Not warm. Not full. But… alive.
And for now, that was enough.
The fog never truly cleared.
It shifted, breathed, moved as if it had a will of its own. Renkai trudged forward, his small frame still aching, the taste of the black bird still bitter in his mouth. The earth was damp beneath his paws, and his ears twitched with every whisper of the wind.
He didn't know how long he had been walking. Time felt like a dream in this place. His hunger dulled, but alertness remained. Something felt… wrong.
No—not wrong.
Different.
He paused.
The silence was too thick. The mist too still.
That was when he saw them.
Faint—barely visible—shadows flickered between the few twisted branches that pierced the fog above him. They moved where no wind stirred. Long and thin, like stretched limbs or curling fingers. There was no sound, no footsteps, but he could feel them.
Watching.
His fur bristled.
He narrowed his eyes, lowering his body instinctively. The fog was no longer just fog—it was hiding something. Or someone.
He took a cautious step forward.
The shadows didn't move.
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again… they were closer. Just beyond the veil.
Shapes. Tall. Slender. Motionless. Neither beast nor tree.
Renkai's breath caught in his throat.
He wanted to run, but something deeper told him not to.
These things—whatever they were—were not hunting him like the bird. They weren't predators. Not yet.
> Are they spirits? he wondered. Forest guardians?
He tried to speak, but his voice cracked and failed. Instead, he lowered his head slowly in a gesture of respect—something his mother had once taught him.
Never speak first to the old spirits. Let them speak. Let them choose.
The shadows lingered. Silent. Timeless.
Then… one of them tilted its head, almost curiously.
The fog thickened again, curling around the trees like a closing hand.
And just like that, the shadows vanished.
Gone. As if they had never been.
Renkai stood frozen, his heart pounding.
The forest was still again. But he knew—he had been seen.
And he had stepped into something ancient.
Something that now knew his name.