One HP extra

The stairwell was narrow, carved deep into the earth. Her paw pads were silent on the cold stone. One hand skimmed the moss-lined wall for balance as she descended. Dust caught in her throat, dry and heavy.

In the quiet, the only sound was her breath. And her thoughts.

She thought of her family. The cabin hidden in the Hollow. Her father's quiet laugh. Her mother's voice humming softly as she brewed potions or stitched charms into their clothes.

They hadn't belonged to the world outside. It wasn't just caution. It was protection—against people, against what they carried in their blood, against whatever truth her parents never told her.

Her mother had warned her about outsiders.

And then she vanished.

When Kyra reached the bottom of the stair, the path opened into a chamber carved from smooth stone. Dust clung to every surface, but the space was untouched. A sealed place.

At the center was a chest. Simple, worn, sealed with a strip of cloth woven with a faded sigil—her family's. A fox curled in a circle of runes.

She hesitated, breath catching in her throat.

She reached for the cloth and gently unwrapped it.

The lid creaked open.

Inside, two things lay side by side.

A book, wrapped in the same green cloth her mother had used for talismans.

And a folded letter sealed in red wax.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the book first. She could already feel it—warm, resonant, like her mother's presence lingered in the leather. She pulled it free, unwrapped it.

It was a grimoire. Her mother's, no doubt. Pages lined with runes, notes, sketches. Personal handwriting filled the margins. There were spells here—not just elemental, but old, foxkin rites. Charms of memory and shadow. Unfinished incantations scratched out and rewritten in a second hand.

Spells of their bloodline.

Then she broke the wax seal on the letter.

My dearest Kyra,

If you're reading this, it means I was right—you survived. You endured. You reached the point I always feared, and always hoped for.

I left this for you in case I could not guide you myself. I never told you everything. I wanted you to grow without fear. But now you need to know what runs through your veins.

You are not like other foxkin. Our line descends from the Ashbound, guardians of an old pact long buried. Our instincts, our clarity in battle, our affinity for the flame—they're not chance. They're legacy.

This grimoire holds the pieces I uncovered. Secrets I was never meant to find. Finish what I started. Refine it. Make it your own.

You are more than your claws. More than your tail. You are the culmination of generations who burned quietly. Be the first to burn bright.

Live. Fight. And if the world threatens what you love—remind it who you are.

—Mother

Kyra stood frozen for a moment, the letter crinkling slightly in her hand.

Her throat tightened.

"…I knew there was something," she whispered. "I just didn't know it was this."

Kyra stood motionless in the chamber's silence, her mother's words still echoing in her bones. The weight of the grimoire in her hands felt like both an anchor and a key—to her past, to her power, to the woman she was meant to become. 

For a heartbeat, she let herself remember: her father's steady hands teaching her to track, her mother's voice humming spells into the steam of a midnight brew. The cabin in the Hollow, its walls etched with generations of foxkin marks. All of it—every scar, every lesson, every lie—had led her here. 

But the past was a closed book now. 

She clutched the book close to her chest and closed the chest with her foot.

A pulse stirred in her core—like recognition. Like something long buried shifting inside her.

She looked up toward the stone stairs.

"I'll use this," she said aloud, her voice low but steady. "For you, for me and for him." 

She exhaled, long and slow, feeling something settle inside her chest. Not an ending. A beginning. 

Then, without looking back, Kyra turned and climbed the stairs toward the light—toward her life, her fire, her future. Each step was lighter than the last.

She turned back, ears pricked forward, tail swaying in a slow, deliberate arc behind her. Her footsteps echoed softly as she ascended, each step carrying the weight of her newfound resolve. 

When she emerged into the muted glow of the overcast sky, Arman looked up from where he sat, arms draped lazily over his knees. His dark eyes flicked to the book clutched against her chest, then back to her face, lingering just a second too long. 

Kyra held the grimoire tighter, her fingers pressing into the worn leather. Her expression had shifted—not softer, but sharper, like a blade honed to its purpose. 

"Find what you needed?" he asked, his voice rough at the edges. 

She nodded. "Yeah." 

He studied her, gaze tracing the line of her jaw, the set of her shoulders. "Closure?" 

Kyra exhaled through her nose, her tail giving an involuntary flick. "Not exactly." She met his eyes, the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. "But a start." 

A pause. Then, quieter: "Thank you. For waiting." 

Arman's mouth quirked. "Wasn't going anywhere." 

His gaze softened as it traced her face—not weighing or assessing, but tender, as if she were something precious he'd found half-buried in the snow. 

Yet the warmth of it still sent heat pooling low in her belly, treacherous and slow as honey. She imagined, just for a breath, what it would be like if he reached for her—not with hunger, but with that same unbearable care, fingers brushing her jaw like she might dissolve under his touch. 

Her claws dug into the grimoire's cover, leather creaking under the pressure. A restraint. A tether. 

Her ears twitched. The tips burned. 

I'd let him have me. Body and soul. If that's what he wanted

The realization should have startled her,but It didn't… it felt right. 

Instead, she held his gaze, chin lifted, pulse thrumming. Let him see the promise in her eyes. Let him wonder.

Arman's smile deepened, completely oblivious to her thoughts. 

As Kyra's eyes flickered dangerously…