Hey, look at me, you two-tailed stubborn fool," Kuradome ordered.
His voice was low — not the roaring kind of anger, but the kind that could slip under your skin and sit there like a blade hidden in the dark. It carried a heat of annoyance… and a flicker of something softer he'd never name aloud.
Kyoren's ears twitched, the fine silver fur at their tips catching the faint candlelight. Heat crawled over his cheeks until it burned. Meeting his father's gaze was… dangerous. Face to face like this, it felt as if Kuradome could strip away every layer he'd built up — every lie, every mask — until nothing was left but his trembling self.
The air between them was heavy, thick with the faint scent of sandalwood from the incense burning somewhere in the room. The low hiss of the brazier and the faint creak of wood beneath their feet seemed louder in the silence.
Kuradome's eyes, red as wine sealed in an ancient cellar, narrowed.
"I'll say it once more," he murmured, each syllable wound tight like a guqin string drawn to the edge of breaking.
"If you don't look at me… I'll tear out those golden eyes and keep them on my desk — so they can watch me forever while I study or play my guqin."
Kyoren's breath caught halfway in his throat. Was that a threat? A twisted kind of joke? Or… something else entirely? He couldn't decide — and that uncertainty made his stomach knot tighter.
"One… two…"
A clawed hand lifted. Shadows from the brazier's flame stretched across Kyoren's cheek, slow and deliberate, like the closing of a cage. His father's patience thinned; Kyoren could feel it like static in the air. If Kuradome reached "three," he wasn't sure what would happen — but part of him feared it would be exactly what had been promised.
"D-don't count like that!" Kyoren blurted, snapping his gaze upward. His tail flicked sharply. "I'm… I'm looking! Aren't I?!"
The half-healed stab wound on his chest pulsed faintly under his robes, a constant reminder of his own carelessness. Yurei's magic had sealed it enough to keep him moving, but the pain still lingered — a quiet, stubborn ache. Other scars, pale as moonlight, trailed along his arm and neck: souvenirs of battles his fox magic could not erase.
Kuradome's gaze swept over him, sharp and weighing, but shadowed by something unspoken.
"You're a twisted tail," he said, voice low, "always curling back on yourself until someone straightens you out."
His sigh followed — not tired in the way of a man who'd walked too far, but in the way of someone who'd carried the same burden for too long.
"Maybe I'll die from having to keep you alive forever… When will you finally stand on your own?"
Kyoren's tail stilled, his ears folding low against his head. The words struck, hot and humiliating, but they stuck like burrs.
"B-but—"
"No 'buts' before your elders." Kuradome's voice was colder now, snapping like frost underfoot.
"Have you forgotten? I spent half my life hammering that rule into you. The son of the Crown Ribbon shouldn't be this stubborn, this careless, this—" he let the word drag — "childish. When I was your age, I was already ruling the kingdom alone."
Kyoren swallowed hard. The sting of the insult burned down to his bones, but under it, something else sparked — small, sharp, and defiant.
Why does he always insult me like this… and why does it still feel like he's holding me up?
The thought lodged deep, unshakable, but his eyes betrayed him. They slid away before he could stop them.
A swift tug — unyielding.
Kuradome's clawed hand caught the scarf woven through Kyoren's grey hair, pulling his head back just enough to make him wince.
"No looking away when someone speaks to you. That's cluelessness," Kuradome growled, his breath warm but edged with steel. "A future Crown Ribbon doesn't act this nervous around anyone."
Kyoren's heart pounded, caught between bristling and shrinking under that stare. His mouth opened, words teetering on his tongue—
—but the floor shuddered beneath them.
A low, distant rumble climbed up through the stone, rattling the brazier. The incense stick toppled, scattering sparks. Kuradome's grip loosened, his gaze flicking toward the door — not with fear, but with the cold readiness of someone who'd been expecting trouble all along.
Kyoren's pulse quickened. Whatever was coming… he had the feeling it wouldn't wait for him to grow up first.