Light. Too bright. Scalding her eyelids, burning away the darkness that had swallowed her in death. Cold damp earth pressed against her flanks, fur matted with dew and strange scents. Her heart thundered—too fast, too wild, too alive. She jerked, muscles seizing, claws tearing the moss, teeth bared for an enemy she couldn't see.
No hands. No voice. Instead, a mouthful of fangs and the urge to snap, to bite, to rip and run. Panic clawed at her mind, a thousand instincts battering old memories: run, hide, fight, play, fuck, devour. Hunger. Rage. Confusion.
She tried to scream—what left her mouth was a yip, sharp and furious. Her vision cleared, flooded with gold and violet, every color too rich, every shadow a lurking threat. Ears flicked, swiveling. Three tails lashed behind her, each one flickering with silver light, the weight of power humming in her spine.
She was not alone.
A dozen young foxes crashed over her, yipping and tumbling, paws digging into her sides, tails batting her face. Scent overwhelmed her—kin, blood, grass, piss, fur, the raw musk of a den full of growing beasts. Laughter, bright and shrill, cut the air.
"She's awake! She's up! I told you she'd wake up hungry!"
"She smells funny—like smoke and rain and something old."
"Look, look, her tails are glowing!"
One big brother—thicker muzzle, cocky tilt to his ears—sniffed at her wounds, then nudged her none-too-gently. "Hey, Little Snow, you died or something? You scared Mom. We all thought you were turning into a dumb spirit root."
She lunged, teeth snapping at his paw. It was pure animal response—no words, just instinct, the urge to assert, to survive. He yelped, leaping away with a delighted bark, tail wagging. The others piled on, licking her face, tumbling and biting, bodies warm and heavy, full of chaotic affection.
She should've known what to do. She should've been their sister. But her mind was a mess—memories of a different life, human voices, words, spells, blood and betrayal, flickering between moments of feral hunger and the animal joy of the den. The confusion was agony, but she clung to it, refusing to fade, refusing to be just another cub.
"Let her up! Give her air, you idiots!" A sister, older, bossier, head high and eyes full of mischief, shoved the others aside, sniffing her carefully. "You're… different. It's like you're older now. Did you get smarter, or just meaner?"
She tried to answer, but the words wouldn't form. All she managed was a low, rumbling growl, tails bristling. The others backed off, for a moment. A wary respect crept into their eyes—fear and awe mingled. Foxes knew their own, but they also knew when something in the den was wrong.
"Go get Mother!" someone shouted, then bolted from the den, a silver blur vanishing down a twisting tunnel. The rest circled, watching, whispering, speculating.
"She's gonna get in trouble…"
"Maybe she'll get a new tail this year."
"She's never bit me before. I kinda liked it."
"Gross, shut up."
She tried to remember her name. Not the one they called her—"Little Snow"—but the other one, lost and echoing in the back of her skull. A name tied to pain, to duty, to blood and regret. She reached for it, but every time she touched it, the world shimmered, a wave of scent and memory crashing through her—incense and spirit blood, the taste of old iron, the screams of traitors and the moans of dying men.
"Move, brats."
A hush swept the den, even the boldest siblings flattening themselves against the dirt as an immense presence swept in. The air thickened, charged with power—moonlight and frost and something that stank of ancient secrets.
Mother.
She filled the tunnel. Seven tails, luminous silver, each one flicking with an energy that made the fur on every cub stand up straight. Her eyes—ancient, gold, patient and terrifying—fixed on Little Snow, seeing through her, past flesh and fur, right into the broken, tangled soul underneath.
She approached with a slow, deliberate grace, paws silent on the moss. The cubs melted out of her way, peeking from behind each other, nervous and reverent.
Mother leaned down, breath washing over her. A nose brushed against her head, then the wound at her side. "Still alive. Good." The voice vibrated in her bones, a note of command and tenderness, a warning and a welcome.
She shivered. Every muscle wanted to submit, to roll over, bare her throat, whine for approval. But inside, something else burned—a memory of never kneeling, of dying on her feet, of spitting blood and curses into the faces of those who would break her. She stared up, eyes blazing, refusing to flinch.
Mother's lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. She ran a paw down the side of Little Snow's face, tracing the shape of her skull, the line of her jaw, as if checking for cracks.
"She's awake, at last. And different." She looked at the other cubs. "You can see it too, can't you? Her scent, her eyes… she's not just your sister anymore."
The siblings shuffled, uncertain, but didn't argue. Mother's word was law. She bent lower, her whiskers brushing Little Snow's cheek. "Tell me, little one. Who are you now?"
The words came slow, tangled, but they came—a snarl, a whimper, a half-formed human syllable buried under layers of animal sound. "Yue…"
Mother's eyes narrowed, searching her face for a sign, an answer. "Not just my daughter, then. Not just Little Snow. I see you, old soul. I feel the twist in your spirit."
The memory—pain, blood, flame, a sect in ruins, her name screamed in hate and fear—broke over her. Her tails lashed, claws dug into the earth. She let out a noise halfway between a sob and a growl.
Mother nuzzled her, gentler now. "Peace, child. You are safe. You are home." She turned to the other cubs, her voice growing firmer. "Go, all of you. She needs rest. She needs to remember herself. Go play—she'll join you when she's ready."
Reluctant but obedient, the siblings tumbled away, glancing back as if hoping to see a miracle, or a ghost.
Silence fell, thick and sweet as honey. The mother circled, tails fanning around them both, shutting out the world. She studied the new cub, the twist of soul and spirit flickering in her golden eyes.
"My daughter tried to leap too soon," Mother said, voice low, rich with sorrow. "The fourth tail. It is a dangerous threshold—a test of body, mind, and soul. Many do not survive. She was bold, my Little Snow. Too bold, perhaps."
She stroked her head, smoothing the wild fur, brushing away the blood and dirt. "I felt her fading, slipping away. The den grew cold. Then—something else arrived. A soul, raw and storming, full of hate and hunger. Not a demon, not a stranger. Familiar, somehow. Like an old friend long lost, but changed, scarred by time and war."
The mother's eyes bored into her, ancient and kind, yet unyielding. "You saved my daughter, and for that I owe you everything. I do not blame you for what happened. The fates chose this path. But I ask you now—will you honor her life? Will you live as my child, even as you learn yourself again?"
She tried to answer, but her mind was too raw, her body too new. All she could do was stare, confusion and stubborn pride tangled together in her throat.
Mother sighed, laying her heavy head against Little Snow's back. "Your soul… I almost remember it. We met, once, long ago. Another life, perhaps. Another war. I feel the pain in you, the shame and rage. Let it rest, for now. Let this body heal you, as you healed others in your time."
She shuddered, memories flickering: temples on fire, knives in the dark, hands clutching her as she bled out her last curse. A flash of a name—saintess—hissed through her mind, leaving only pain and emptiness.
Mother watched her, waiting, not pressing. "Rest, child. Adjust to your new skin. The den will welcome you when you are ready. We will talk again—when your mind is clearer, when your past has settled."
She curled up, exhausted, warmth from the great body beside her leaking into her bones. Her new tails curled protectively around her snout, their silver tips twitching with restless dreams. She drifted, not quite asleep, not quite awake, caught between the hunger of the beast and the aching memory of the woman she had been.
The den breathed around her, full of life, promise, danger. The air throbbed with the scents of her new siblings—rivalry, love, mischief—and the ironclad strength of her mother's presence.
Inside her, two souls circled each other—fox and human, feral and broken, lost and found. She didn't know what she was anymore, or what she could become.
But as the den faded into the hush of dusk and the flickering dance of fireflies, she made a silent vow. She would not be a pawn. She would not die a victim. She would take this second chance, sharpen it into a weapon, and when the time came—she would make the world bleed for her.
For now, though, she let herself be small, and warm, and alive. For now, she belonged to the den. For now, vengeance could wait.
But it would not wait forever.