On the other hand, Yurei did not like the fact that Sozai gave Ennagiri the warmest smile, the most genuine thank you.
To him, he was only ever a tease.
The truth was, Yurei forgot everything Sozai had done for him the moment he saw him treat someone else with kindness. His heart worked by unfair logic—Sozai had to treat him the best, because they had been close friends far longer than those guards or anyone else. The history between them should have meant privilege, something no one else could reach.
Anything less, and Yurei felt abandoned, as though someone had snatched away his rightful place.
He growled low in his throat, so quietly he feared the royals might overhear. His lips pressed into a thin line, fox tail restless, ears lowered in irritation.
He murmured, voice edged with a dark, playful annoyance:
"Sozai… I'll see you after my duty here. You're losing too much of your shame by now."
But the shade of his voice deepened as something crueller pressed into his mind.
A voice that had lived within him for far too long.
"Such a confusing boy… Whom do you even want? That clueless cat, or the royal fox?~ Well, who cares? As long as you keep your words."
The words slid like silk over shattered glass. Cold, smooth, a silence before the storm. Yurei's expression froze, jaw tightening as he answered in his thoughts:
"Do not interfere in my matters. My life, my decisions—whom I'll love, whom I'll share myself with. That is mine alone."
The voice chuckled, that nightmare sound like glass breaking in his skull. Yurei was used to it—used to its laughter, its constant presence—but it never grew less haunting.
"Alright, alright. Your life, your ruin. I don't care… I'll simply take my turn once you're gone. Anyway… isn't it about time you feed me, dear—Yu. Yao?~"
The name struck him like a blade to the chest. His breath hitched.
That name—Yu Yao—the one he never wanted anyone to hear. The one only two beings ever used: Sozai, who twisted it into a mischievous threat or playful endearment; and this voice, who wielded it as a chain to bind him, a reminder of darker truths.
For a heartbeat, the sound of the banquet blurred into silence. His ears heard nothing but that name echoing inside, as though the entire hall whispered it at once. His stomach knotted so tightly it hurt.
Yurei swallowed hard.
"N… not now. I'm busy."
The voice lingered, humming dark amusement, but retreated enough to let his vision return to the present. He forced his gaze outward, towards the royals—Kuradome, Kyoren, and Bài Qíyuè seated beneath the great canopy, golden lanternlight spilling across their silks. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, sweet wine, perfume and sweat.
Kuradome lifted his cup with smooth command. "Pour me another Yeifeng."
Yurei obeyed, the heat in his cheeks rising as he caught the strange way Kuradome leaned too close to Qíyuè. His lips brushed her cheek, his breath dangerously near her fox ears as he whispered something low. Her fur puffed in startled twitch, her face flushed crimson as she tried to compose herself.
The sight burned in Yurei's chest. Kuradome, of all people? Breaking his own rule—no affair under my roof?
The voice in his head cut across his thoughts, darker now, almost growling with double meaning:
"Will you let me drink—or must I create a scene right here?"
Yurei's pulse pounded. Fear mixed with embarrassment. He knew too well: if he delayed, the voice would not hesitate to act through him, here in front of royals. His mind scrambled for an excuse to escape.
He stepped forward suddenly, bowing low before Kuradome and Qíyuè, eyes shut tight to hide the trembling in them, his face burning red.
Qíyuè quickly pulled her hand free from Kuradome's grasp, her heart racing, ashamed of her own blush. She knew Yurei must be disturbed—just as she was—by Kuradome's uncharacteristic behavior. She composed herself swiftly upon her throne, hiding the shiver still quivering through her ears.
Kuradome, meanwhile, dropped his hand to his lap, sighing as though Yurei had stolen his best moment. His tone was smooth, but faintly disappointed—not flustered at all.
"Yes. Speak."
Yurei's chest tightened. That tone… off, yet steady enough to be convincing. Was it truly Kuradome, or not? His fear doubled. He stammered:
"M… may I go into my chamber for a while?"
Kuradome blinked beneath the fabric of his veil, then spoke words that froze Yurei's blood:
"Ask the one who owns you as his right hand. Why ask me? You weren't chosen for promotion by me, after all."
Yurei's heart sank.
That was true. He had been chosen by Kyoren, not Kuradome.
And the way this false Kuradome said it—it was exactly how the real one would. Too exact. Too natural.
He quickly rose, nodding, embarrassed and shaken. He turned to leave, whispering to himself with lips pressed tight:
"Oh… fuck myself…"
Because once again, he could not tell truth from imitation.
Behind him, Kuradome's behavior slipped again. His hand slowly, deliberately reached for Qíyuè's once more, fingers locking with hers. Her breath hitched; Yurei's stomach knotted in sickening anger and disbelief.
Ah, fuck—what kind of day is this? Crawn ribbon, the same one who preaches against affairs, caught red-handed?
And yet Kyoren, calm as ever, merely watched. He was the most composed of them all—off-character, yes, but not grotesquely so. He gave Yurei the smallest nod. Permission.
Relief flooded him. His fox tail puffed slightly as he bowed hurriedly and moved away, boots echoing as he disappeared into the palace's golden halls. The music and laughter of the banquet faded behind him, replaced by silence, his pulse pounding louder than anything. The air inside was cooler, tinged with incense, but he could still feel the ghost of the voice pressing at the edges of his skull, waiting.
Sozai, amid fun and teasing with the others, turned his head briefly toward the royal stage. He caught the sight of Yurei's figure slipping into the palace gates. He did not look surprised. Did not even wonder.
He only sighed, faintly, as if to himself—
a sigh that carried both hurt more then fondness and frustration, like someone watching a cycle repeat for the hundredth time.
"This again…"