Mirai, a young fox with a soul spun from melodies, was born beneath the grace of the Deity of Music and Song. Her lineage, humble and unassuming, had thrived for centuries in harmony with the fields where the wind whispered secrets to the wheat and dawn painted the sky in watercolor sunsets. Yet it was not merely her love of the open plains that earned her the name Fieldborn. Her fur shimmered like molten gold, each strand a captured sunbeam that scattered amber sparks with every step. Her days brimmed with the hum of meadow cicadas, dashes along dew-kissed trails, and the mysteries murmured by stars in the velvet night… until war tore through her world like a dissonant chord shattering a symphony’s hush.It arrived without warning—a cacophony of iron roars, lung-searing ash, and screams that clawed at the soul. The conquerors’ race trampled the fields, turning them into a wasteland where fear and death ripened instead of grain. Mirai’s village became a theater of anguish; soil that once cradled children’s laughter now drank greedily from rivers of tears. Wounded and stripped even of the right to weep, she was sold into bondage, shackled by chains heavier than iron—chains of silence. Yet fate, that capricious storyteller, led her to him: a statuesque stranger with eyes colder than the winter moon. He claimed her as “his,” a plaything whose spirit he vowed to crush beneath the weight of his dominion…But does the death of a sprout not sow the seed of rebirth? Her paws, once swift through the grass, now trembled beneath humiliation, yet deep within her gilded eyes still flickered an ember. A spark that whispered: Even the darkest void births stars. Was this meeting her end—or the first verse in a ballad of resurrection? For sometimes, to sing anew, strings must first snap…P.S. The story breathes, alive and aching. What awaits her next—a plunge into the abyss or wings toward the light? The answer lies in the chapters to come, where tears may yet crystallize into dewdrops of hope…