Bài Qíyuè hears nothing but silence by now… as if time itself had stopped.
The romantic rain of roses that Sozai released above them fell like a heavenly gift, and within that tender rain, something long-buried stirred awake inside her. She feared—terribly feared—that she might break her carefully composed Gothic façade in front of everyone. Yet the petals continued falling, soft and weightless, as if whispering secrets of memories only she could hear.
She lifted her gaze and watched the petals drift down, each landing gently upon their shoulders and hair. To everyone else, it was a spectacle of beauty, an unforgettable moment like breaking news flashing across the sky. But to her—it was a storm. A storm tearing through her heart, ripping open an old wound she had tended and hidden for centuries. The rose-scented air grew thick, heavy with an invisible tension.
In this storm, Bài Qíyuè did not feel like the queen she was now. No—she felt like that small teenage fox yokai once again, the young Qíyuè who had been hopelessly in love with Kuradome since childhood. She had never married anyone, not because of politics or duty, but because of him. Because she could never bring herself to give her heart elsewhere. Yet the real Kuradome… he had never once granted her even a tender smile. His heart had belonged to another from the very start. Too early. Far too early.
And now, seeing him showing even a fragment of that tenderness—something she had dreamt of all her life—was breaking her apart in the most beautiful way possible. It was a pain so exquisite she felt as though she would gladly cut out her own heart and place it into his hands if he only asked. If he wanted her power stone? She would give away everything without hesitation, leaving herself with nothing but her love for him.
Her eyes dropped helplessly to Kuradome's lips—the same lips that had moments ago touched the sweet Zhào. She could almost taste them in her imagination, certain they must be even sweeter than the fruit itself. She wanted them, wanted him. Not as a queen, not as a yokai bound by politics and duty—but as the girl who had always, always wanted him whole. Entirely hers. Again.
Up to down.
In and out.
Soul to soul.
For a fleeting moment, she forgot that she was a queen standing before a gathered crowd. She forgot the eyes upon her, the weight of kingdoms, the history carved into her bloodline. All she could see, all she could feel, was Kuradome's presence. His features seemed carved by some divine hand, magnified in beauty by the thin silver fabric hiding his eyes. He was unseen, and that concealment made him even more breathtaking—for beauty hidden away is often more powerful than beauty displayed.
Her blue eyes blinked, sudden moisture gathering as her composure faltered. The nostalgia was too much, too sweet, too cruel. It carried her back to those days of innocence—when she and Kuradome were young, before kingdoms and burdens, before wars and crowns. Back when their greatest struggle had been simply learning to live up to their parents' legacy. They were born to rule, not to love… and that had always been the curse of the royal yokai bloodlines. So many generations had faded away not because of weakness in battle, but because their hearts had been starved.
Bài Qíyuè's gaze softened. She looked at Kuradome… and then at Kyoren.
Almost without thinking, she lifted her hand and placed it gently over Kyoren's head, like someone who had known him for years. It was not the touch of a mother, for she was not his mother. Nor was it the touch of a caretaker. Yet there was truth in it nonetheless—Kyoren was a part of Kuradome, and she loved every part of him, no matter how it came to be.
Kyoren's clone looked up at her, his face devoid of emotion—colder even than Kuradome's own. He was but a shadow, a creation, and so he could not understand what he should feel or what he should not. He was incomplete, lacking the imperfections that made someone real.