The forest had grown too quiet.
Even the cicadas, once loud as a chorus of tiny drums, now fell silent whenever Liara passed beneath the trees. She noticed it only after several days of wandering the edges of the human village—an invisible hush that followed her like a shadow. To her, it was a blessing. To them, it was a warning.
The first whispers began with the farmers. They said the soil had soured overnight, that rice shoots drooped as if scorched from beneath. Then came the tale of the missing goat, and soon, something worse—a child who vanished chasing fireflies near the marsh. The villagers, desperate for an answer, found one easily.
"The fox demon," they said. "The cursed spirit in the woods."
At first, Liara didn't understand. She only knew that when she ventured too close to the village stream for water, mothers would pull their children inside and latch the shutters. Even the dogs barked differently now—shrill, frantic, afraid.
She caught her reflection in the water one morning and finally saw what they saw: eyes not fully human, pupils stretched to thin golden slits. A shimmer still clung to her skin like moonlight that refused to fade.
Her heart sank. They will never believe I am only lost.
That evening, smoke rose from the village square. Through the canopy, Liara saw torches and heard the rhythmic clang of metal—blades being sharpened.
Her breath caught. She crouched on a high branch, watching.
At the center of the gathering stood an old man with a priest's robe faded to gray. His voice carried clearly even across the distance.
"The signs are clear," he said. "The demon that fell from the heavens hides among the trees. It feeds on fear and blood. We must drive it out before winter, lest the curse consume us all."
The villagers murmured in uneasy agreement. Someone held up a child's shoe, mud-stained and small. Liara's throat tightened.
"They think I took him," she whispered to herself, shaking her head. "But I didn't. I would never—"
The words broke apart in her mouth, swallowed by the forest.
Night deepened. Clouds covered the moon.
Liara slipped through the undergrowth, quiet as mist, and found the small clearing where she had been staying—a hollow beneath the roots of a fallen oak. Inside, she had gathered feathers, flowers, and smooth stones in an attempt to make the place feel like home. But now it only looked childish and vulnerable.
Her fingers brushed the necklace she had made from vines and fragments of her old robe. The faint shimmer of celestial energy pulsed within one bead—a shard of her old power, just enough to keep her alive.
She could run. She had considered it a dozen times. But something in her refused to leave this forest.
Maybe it was the broken shrine deep within its heart, the same one that had sheltered her on her first night. Maybe she felt some unspoken duty to protect it, as if the last fragments of her old life were still buried there beneath the moss.
Or maybe she was just tired of running.
By the third night, the hunters entered the woods.
She heard them long before she saw them—three men carrying torches, their laughter forced and brittle. They moved in a line, stepping on dry leaves, muttering charms under their breath.
Liara hid behind a tree, clutching the pendant to still her trembling hands.
"Tracks here!" one shouted. "Small feet. Human-sized."
"Don't be fooled," said another. "They say fox demons can take any form they wish."
She watched as they followed her footprints toward the stream. Her mind raced. Should she flee deeper into the forest, or double back toward the shrine? The latter would trap her, but it was the only place that still felt sacred enough to hide her scent.
A twig snapped beneath her foot. The sound was tiny, but the hunters froze.
"There!"
Arrows hissed through the darkness.
Liara darted away, heart hammering. Pain seared through her shoulder—a glancing shot, but enough to draw blood. Her human body was frail, slower than she remembered. She stumbled over roots, gasping.
The hunters' voices grew closer. "Don't let it escape! The priest said the blood of a fox spirit can purify blight!"
Their footsteps pounded after her.
She ran until her lungs burned, until her vision blurred. Then suddenly, the earth gave way. She tumbled down a slope, crashing into ferns and stone, and landed beside the old shrine.
The fox statue's face, half-eroded by centuries, stared at her through cracks of moonlight.
"Forgive me," she whispered again, just as she had weeks ago. "I didn't mean to bring them here."
Her blood dripped onto the base of the statue. The runes carved into it flared faintly—just once, like a dying ember remembering what it once was.
The hunters' torches glowed above the ridge. "This way!"
Liara pressed her palm to the stone and felt a pulse beneath her skin—her own remnant power calling back to her, faint but real. It seeped into her veins, whispering in a voice like wind through leaves: Do not yield.
Her eyes glowed faintly gold.
When the hunters reached the clearing, the torches flickered and went out.
They stumbled, cursing. One lifted his bow, but saw only shadows. The air thickened, humming with invisible tension. A ghostly light shimmered among the trees—foxfire, cold and blue-white.
"By the gods," one murmured, backing away. "It's real."
Liara stepped from the shrine, her expression unreadable, hair drifting in the unnatural wind.
"I don't want to harm you," she said softly. "Please, go."
They didn't listen. Fear made them bold. One loosed an arrow that grazed her cheek.
Something inside her broke.
The forest itself seemed to shudder. The trees bent as if bowing, leaves spiraling upward. The hunters screamed as spectral foxes flickered among the shadows—illusions born from her instinct, not her will. They fled, dropping their torches, their prayers dissolving into panic.
When silence returned, Liara sank to her knees. The light in her eyes faded.
The shrine's glow dimmed with her heartbeat.
She stayed there for hours, trembling, staring at her hands. They looked human again—but she knew better now. The power she'd thought lost still slept within her, and the world would never let her forget it.
By dawn, the rumors had changed again.
The survivors stumbled back to the village at first light, babbling about dancing lights and ghostly beasts. The priest listened, his eyes sharp with zeal.
"So," he said, stroking his beard, "it truly exists."
He turned toward the crowd gathering in the square. "We must purify the forest. At sunset, we'll burn incense and chant the rites of binding. If that fails—fire will cleanse what faith cannot."
The villagers nodded, half afraid, half eager for vengeance.
And somewhere in the woods, Liara knelt beside the cracked statue, exhaustion heavy in her bones.
"Fire," she murmured, remembering their words. "Always fire."
The forest whispered back with the sigh of wind through burnt leaves.
She didn't know that in the coming days, fire would indeed come—but not as her enemy.
Somewhere beyond the northern ridge, a young man was repairing the roof of an abandoned manor. He had heard the same rumors of a monster in the woods, but unlike the others, he wasn't afraid. He only wondered if the stories were true—and why, in every telling, the demon girl always sounded lonely.