The procession reached the edge of the open-air banquet just as the last rays of daylight brushed the clearing.
At the front walked the queen of the tailed foxes, her nine golden tails flowing behind her in calm waves.
She wore a short kimono, white socks wrapped neatly to her ankles, and small bells chiming softly with each step of her geta. Her presence was cool, composed, and effortlessly regal.
Behind her moved the eight-tailed nobles, their traditional garments swaying with their steps. A few other demi-human representatives mingled among them.
Beside the foxfolk marched the human contingent, their boots striking the ground in steady rhythm, contrasting sharply with the foxes' whisper-like pace.
Leading them was a red-haired commander. He was tall, heroic in bearing, composed, and steadfast. Nothing about him suggested he could be rattled.
Right behind him followed Magnus Draevik, his permanent frown welded into place.
Together, the two groups stepped into the banquet grounds.
Whispers spread across the venue. The top subject: who would the queen dance with?
Everyone had placed their bets on the mysterious human commander. He was good-looking, strong, and held the highest authority among his men. The choice felt obvious.
But if the same question were asked to the nobles standing behind their queen, the only answer would be a bitter shake of the head.
The plan had been theirs, yet none of them accounted for their queen's sudden shift in behavior. She used to be strictly pragmatic in matters of politics and war—and she still was. It was only when conversation drifted toward even the smallest hint of intimacy that she froze into an immovable block of ice.
Any insistence was met with her wrath, so no one dared mention the dance again. Unfortunately, the rumors had already spread, and anticipation buzzed through the banquet.
Representatives kept sneaking glances at her, nudging each other in hopes that someone would be bold enough to ask her to reconsider. The fox queen paid them no mind. She looked like she'd sooner die than choose a partner for the dance.
...That is, until her eyes fell on a certain man.
At first, she sensed only a fleeting gaze brushing past her. Strange. Unlike every other stare she'd felt tonight, this one left no trail to follow back.
But she was a noble nine-tailed fox. No gaze should have been able to hide from her.
She focused her perception, peeling back the layers of bodies and distance until she found him. And the moment she did, something inside her sparked.
A faint shiver ran through her as her plush lips parted. "Found you."
"Your Highness?"
Her aides noticed her change in expression and called out carefully, but she didn't respond. Everything else had faded—the music, the chatter, the crowd. There was only him.
clack… tok… clack… tok
She began walking toward him, her geta echoing with each step. The entire banquet seemed to fall into silence, all eyes drawn to her unexpected departure from her group.
Finally, she reached him. For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other; two steady gazes meeting as if to confirm that the other was real.
Ashen was the first to move. With serene grace, he extended his hand and dipped his head in a slight bow.
"Lady," he said, voice warm, "would you grant me this dance?"
The fox queen, Alice, let a slow, teasing smile curve her full lips. "Gladly… I will be in your care."
As she placed her hand into his, he didn't rush. His thumb traced the side of her fingers before he lifted her hand just high enough for his lips to brush her knuckles.
"Worry not, milady. You'll be in skillful hands."
Alice felt warmth ripple through her tails. Her breath softened, and her smile unfolded in a sensual curve.
Ashen straightened, still holding her hand, and led her to the center of the venue.
As if feeling the intimate tension fused with restless energy from their queen and the lucky human she'd chosen, the ensemble adjusted their instruments.
Their first tune had been a polite one, more suitable as background hum to conversation.
But the moment Ashen extended his hand and the fox queen stepped into his embrace, the lead musician flicked a wrist, signaling a change.
Strings slid into a heated rhythm, drums tapping out a heartbeat that matched the rising anticipation in the hall. Teasing flutes wove around it, carrying a playful spark.
Along the sensual yet urgent, high-energy beats, Ashen guided Alice to the dance floor, each step in tune with the provocative cadence, her golden tails flicking in time, their movements perfectly in sync with the ensemble's intoxicating melody.
Ashen's gaze lingered on her form. Aside from the nine additional tails and the cute fox ears, she looked just the same.
His hand settled firm against the small of her back, just above where her nine tails fanned outward, and Alice responded instantly, pressing into his grip with the familiarity of muscle memory.
A single step back, and he pulled her into the first volta.
Her geta clicked sharp staccato against the stone as her hips rolled in a figure-eight, each movement sending golden tails flicking through the air like ribbons of flame.
The loose kimono she wore—so impractical for battle, so devastating for this—slid from her shoulder with the motion, baring the elegant line of her collarbone. She left it there, defiant, as Ashen's other hand caught her wrist and guided it overhead.
A cramped studio apartment. Rain against the windows. "Again," he'd said, breathless. "You're still speeding up on the three-count."
Alice arched backward, spine curving impossibly deep, until her hair brushed the ground and her tails swept a perfect circle around them.
Ashen held her there, suspended, his composure absolute even as his fingers traced a line of fire along her ribs through the thin silk. He could feel every eye in the banquet on them—on the queen who should not bend, on the soldier who should not touch.
"You're heavier now," he murmured, lips nearly touching her ear as he drew her back up. "All these tails add weight."
Alice whispered back, "And you're sturdier. War suits you."
She punctuated the words with a samba walk that brought her body flush against his, thigh sliding between his legs in a movement that made several onlookers gasp.
Her tails curled around them both, forming a curtain of gold that obscured the most indecent points of contact for just a moment—just long enough for her to roll her hips against his in a fluid, provocative balanço.
The drums quickened. So did they.
Ashen spun her out, and Alice's leg snapped up in a high boleo, her ankle nearly grazing his temple before he caught it.
He used the momentum to lift her completely, one arm under her shoulders, the other hooking her raised leg, turning her horizontal above the ground. Her remaining eight tails fanned beneath her like a peacock's display, bells chiming wildly.
Emergency exit sign glow, sneaker squeaks on wood. "Expulsion," she'd whispered. "Then we better not get caught," he'd replied, samba-dipping her until her head brushed the wrestling mats, varsity ring cold against her spine.
He set her down in a forward roll that she transformed into a spiraling crouch, one leg extended, the other folded beneath her.
Ashen stepped over her prostrate form, not touching, just letting the heat of his body promise contact—then yanked her up by the hand so hard she flew into his chest. Her breath left her in a gasp that only he could hear.
"Defector," she breathed, grinding against him as they locked into a promenade position, each step an intentional, grinding slide. "Your commander would have you executed."
Ashen smirked. "My queen would have me beheaded."
"She's considering it," Alice purred, and executed a perfect corta jaca—a rapid, weaving step that took her under his arm and back, her tails slapping playfully against his face. "Your head, specifically."
The music reached a fever pitch. Ashen's control became a visible thing; every muscle in his arms stood out as he guided her through a series of lightning-fast direction changes.
Alice's flexibility turned obscene: backbends so deep her head nearly touched her own heels, leg extensions that seemed to defy anatomy, each position balanced in perfect tension before she moved on.
He lifted her once more, but this time she twisted mid-air, wrapping her tails around his throat—not tight enough to choke, just enough to pull his face to hers.
They were nose to nose, spinning together as one entity, her weight entirely supported by his left arm while her tails held them locked in intimacy.
The abandoned warehouse. Their first real samba. "I feel so free right now," she'd said, and he'd kissed her instead of answering.
"Infiltrator," Ashen whispered.
"Whose side are we on?" Alice asked back, understanding the implication.
He answered, "Neither, Narkals will feast on both." She tightened her tails. "Then?"
He smiled. "Together—"
She smiled back. "—Understood."
Together, "Side with both."
The final beat crashed over them. Ashen dropped to one knee, catching Alice as she fell backward in a trust lean so extreme her hair pooled on the ground and her nine tails fanned above them like a golden halo.
He held her there, one hand cradling her neck, the other gripping her hip so hard it would bruise later if she were mortal still.
They breathed, and the venue seemed to breathe with them.
Then he pulled her up—and with a final, explosive samba roll that took them across the entire dance floor, they ended where they began: his hand at her back, her hand in his, foreheads touching.
Silence descended.
In that suspended moment, some faces changed.
An elderly fox noble saw Ashen's hand still gripping Alice's hip and understood. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She'd lived through three wars. She knew a treaty when she saw one, even if it was written in not in ink.
Some of the human defectors had a hard time resisting the urge to drop their jaws at the way their fellow soldier's thumb rested in the hollow of the fox queen's hipbone. The hold screamed ownership.
In their mind, Ashen had claimed rank higher than any commander in one dance.
Some of the fox elders looked furious. How could a mere soldier dare to defile their queen with such a scandalous dance?
A soldier doesn't touch a queen. Not like that. Not with his palm branding her lower back, not with his mouth at her throat, not with his body dictating hers in front of witnesses. That touch is reserved for one thing only… a consort who's already been chosen.
The music was over, but the statement reverberated: Ashen had defected to her, not the commander, not the foxfolk. And Alice had just wrapped nine tails around him and publicly consented to be claimed.
A single heartbeat. Two.
Then the clearing erupted. Fox nobles yipped in scandalized delight, pounding their fists on tables. Humans roared approval, stomping boots in rhythm.
The other demi-humans whistled, clapped, howled… some in praise, some in shock, but all unable to look away. A few of the more conservative elders looked like they were about to faint.
Amid the cheers, the trembling chime of Alice's bells went unheard as her tails—finally, finally—curled around Ashen's waist in full possession, and she let her kuudere mask slip just enough to show him the girl he'd always known, grinning like a devil.