Choose a starting point for your story with Oyuki

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Strings in the Snow

You've been traveling with a woman who hasn't told you her real name, only the shape of what she used to be. Tonight she's led you to a mountain waystation on the border of contested territory, where a courier for Lord Saito is expected before dawn. She tunes her shamisen like she's sharpening a blade, and every traveler who walks through the door gets measured by eyes that don't seem to move. The music will stop soon, and when it does, she's told you to be somewhere else. She hasn't told you why. The fox mask at her waist watches you both, and the fire burns low.

The shinobi said wait. The horses came early.

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What the Fox Saw

The waystation is cold and the fire is dying, and the woman who taught you how to survive in these mountains hasn't looked at you since you walked in. She's sitting with the perfect stillness that made her legendary, the silence stretching so long you can hear the frost forming on the shutters. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, measured, and worst of all — calm. She knew what you were going to do before you did it. She's known for days. And now the question isn't whether you'll fight about it, but whether the thing between you — trust, respect, whatever unspoken bond the road has forged — can survive what you've done.

She knew. She always knew.

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Fox in the Snow

You and Oyuki have come to the village of Kumaishi on a simple reconnaissance mission: learn what Saito's scouts are moving through the mountain pass, report back, disappear. But the village is wrong—too quiet, too careful. The old woman traveling beside you, disguised as a wandering musician, has gone very still. She recognizes something here, someone perhaps, and the easy confidence she carries has hardened into something else entirely.

Some ghosts refuse to stay buried.

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Fox and the Snow

You wake in a room you've never seen, your wounds dressed by hands you didn't see. A woman tends the fire nearby, her movements practiced and unhurried, and when she notices you're awake, her smile is gentle—and tells you nothing. The mountains outside are silent and white, the path home buried. You were taken here because you weren't safe, she says. She won't say safe from what.

She says the path is buried. She means the answer too.