The sun rose with questions—the kind only the hungover and the half-awakened could hear. Its light spilled across the world in hues of auburn and rose, bleeding gently through the paper walls, turning the shadows gold-edged. The sky hummed faintly, still warm from the night's celebration; its echo lingered in the sound of distant laughter, the quiet rustle of wind-borne petals, the steady rhythm of a world pretending it hadn't just danced itself breathless.
The morning air was thick with incense, faintly sweet—cherry blossoms, sandalwood, and something else. Something divine.
"Ugh… I—I don't feel so good," I murmured, voice barely a whisper, the words curling in my throat like smoke. My body felt heavy, as though gravity had grown greedy overnight. My head spun; my thoughts came slow, stitched together with uneven thread. I tried to move, but the room swayed.
My eyes shot open—sharp, startled—like raindrops hitting cold stone.
"What… happened?" I croaked. My tongue felt dry, my lips cracked. I sounded like an echo of myself, something left behind in a broken bell. My mind writhed, chasing clarity like a snake caught in its own coil.
"Good morning, Victoria."
The voice was soft, low, and terribly composed—like boots crunching through fresh snow. That tone—the calm of someone too familiar with chaos.
"A few more minutes…" I muttered, half-pleading, trying to burrow deeper into the sheets. They smelled faintly of sakura and night wine. The bed sighed beneath me.
"She looks a mess," another voice remarked. Laughter, quiet and warm, followed. "Maybe we shouldn't have let her drink any of it."
"Or maybe we should've let her drink more," a third chimed in, amusement dripping from every syllable.
Then—words that struck through the fog.
"Look—the mark of her contract has finally appeared."
That phrase pulled me upright faster than any alarm.
"Wha—what?" My pulse stumbled. "Where am I?"
Memory began its frantic weaving, threads of sound and color darting in and out of reach. The night blurred—the music, the paper lanterns floating on the lake, the laughter of strangers. The taste of something sweet and ancient. And then—darkness.
When my eyes adjusted, the ceiling above me was unfamiliar—pale wood, thin cracks like old veins. The air shimmered faintly, laced with divinity. My senses reached out instinctively, brushing the texture of something sacred. I felt watched—not by eyes, but by awareness itself.
And then I saw them.
Five women, each one so otherworldly beautiful that logic felt like an insult in their presence. They stood—or sat—like living brushstrokes painted by a god who had taken a little too much pride in creation.
The one nearest to me had fox ears, sleek and soft-looking, the color of summer wheat. When she tilted her head, light caught in her hair like silk dipped in honey. Her eyes—amber, unreadable—watched me not unkindly, but with the faint patience one has for a child who hasn't learned what kind of world she's woken up in.
"Ah. She's awake," said another—her voice smooth and practical, the tone of someone who didn't waste awe.
The others looked up from what appeared to be breakfast—rice, grilled fish, pickled plum, and miso steaming in lacquer bowls. Their tails moved idly, rhythmic, hypnotic—as if their thoughts were written in the air itself.
For some, silence was eloquent; for others, chewing seemed a kind of worship.
"Come join us," the fox-eared woman said, smiling. "You should eat. The first sun after the Festival always makes the body heavy."
Her words carried that strange calm the divine often wear—where invitation sounds like command and kindness feels like prophecy.
I sat up slowly, my body protesting with every shift. My eyes drifted again, searching for evidence—for something to explain the dull ache under my ribs, the faint shimmer crawling along my wrist. And then I saw it.
The mark.
It glowed faintly beneath the skin, silver and black spirals—like smoke bound in glass, constantly shifting, never repeating the same pattern twice. The mark of Death.
My stomach turned cold.
The fox-woman with beautiful indigo-black fur gaze flicked toward it and then away, as if to say: You'll understand later. You always do.
Breakfast passed in strange peace. The women spoke in fragments—about temple duties, about the Festival, about how the sake this year was "blessed a little too generously." I half-listened, half-stared at the world beyond the window.
Outside, the city still wore the garlands of last night's joy—paper lanterns hung like tiny moons between buildings, and petals of sakura drifted in lazy spirals down the streets. Somewhere below, children laughed as they chased the remnants of celebration, their joy loud enough to make the silence inside feel holy.
"So," one of the women said between bites, "you don't remember much, do you?"
I hesitated. "Only flashes. The crowd, the river… Kael."
At that name, the room's air changed—barely, but enough that even my headache noticed. The fox-eared one didn't flinch, though. She only looked at me over the rim of her teacup, eyes narrowing in thought.
"You shouldn't speak of the dead before breakfast," she murmured, setting the cup down. "It spoils the appetite."
Although surprised by the name myself, I wanted to ask her what that meant—but the look in her eyes told me she wasn't speaking metaphorically.
"Are devil contractees more than I bargained for?" I muttered under my breath, though the words came out half-laughter, half-prayer.
When we finished eating, she stood and stretched, her movements unhurried, graceful in a way mortals only achieve when they've forgotten what it means to rush.
"You should go out," she said at last. "The city's still alive from last night. It'll help clear your head."
"Out?" I repeated, blinking.
"Yes. Walk among the living while you still can."
Then she smiled—a curve of lips that could mean anything from amusement to divine cruelty. "Besides, fresh air does wonders for those who've seen too much of death."
The others giggled softly, and I couldn't tell if the joke was at my expense or at fate's.
By the time I stepped outside, the world was already wide awake. The market street unfurled before me like a river of color—scarlet paper streamers fluttering overhead, the scent of roasted chestnuts, perfume, and incense blending in warm waves.
I was escorted by one of the priestesses, Dōngzhì. She was quiet as we walked—so quiet that I felt I was intruding just by breathing. Her stride was even, each step perfectly measured, as though she walked to an unseen rhythm. Her ears, frost-white, caught the light; her tails drifted behind her like slow smoke.
"So—Dōngzhì," I tried, half to break the silence, half to tether myself to something human. "Why did you want to become a shrine maiden?"
"I did not," she said simply, voice as soft as snow falling on snow. "I just didn't want to be a courtesan."
That silence after her answer was thick enough to touch.
When she finally spoke again, it was only to ask the vendor for vegetables.
I went quiet, watching her from the corner of my eye. Her beauty was almost unkind—crystalline, cold, untouchable. Even her indifference was art.
The market swelled around us: vendors shouting blessings, children running with wind charms, lovers exchanging red ribbons. Somewhere, a shamisen played—its sound threading through the noise like memory through dream.
I should have felt small. Lost.
But I didn't.
Something about the day felt… intentional, as if it had been waiting for me to open my eyes.
My hand brushed the new mark along my wrist—black reeds, white chrysanthemum, and red lily, woven like living ink. It pulsed faintly in response, warm and alive. Not power—not yet—but a promise. A sign. I wondered why it had taken so long to appear.
And though the world bustled around me, a whisper—soft, private—threaded through the noise, almost like a memory from another's mouth:
"Every death is a door, Victoria. Some just lead to prettier rooms."
The fox-woman's words echoed again: fresh air, clarity, life.
But as I walked deeper into the city, through the clamor and the light and the scent of blooming sakura, one truth followed me like a shadow—
I had no idea whose attention I had drawn last night.
And something told me it hadn't ended.
The exhibition was still on.
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