Before Fox Lian became the most vivid stroke in Emma's life, there was an unknown interlude.
It was shortly after she entered the academy, when her phobia of fluff was at its worst. She avoided all furry creatures, including the famed fox prince Fox Lian, whom she had never yet encountered up close.
Instead, her gaze turned toward the serene elegance of the Elf Clan—especially their prince, Thranduil.
Prince Thranduil had moonlit silver hair, pointed ears, and emerald eyes like forest lakes. His aura was cool and ethereal. When he played the harp, flowers bloomed; when he practiced archery, his stance was tall and steady as a pine. Most importantly—he had no fluff at all.
For Emma then, he was the perfect secret crush.
She would "accidentally" appear at the starlit terrace he frequented, pretending to admire the night sky while secretly watching him practice archery. She attended Elf music classes, sitting in the corner, listening to his harp until her soul felt cleansed. She even sketched his profile once in the library, a drawing still hidden at the bottom of her chest.
This cautious, semester-long infatuation was known to no one. Even Gu Liang thought Emma merely admired elven artistry.
The turning point came on a full-moon night.
Emma once again "happened" upon Prince Thranduil at the terrace, practicing archery. Bathed in moonlight, he looked otherworldly. Emma hid behind a pillar, entranced—until—
Whizz!
An arrow veered off target, shooting straight toward her hiding spot!
Emma froze in terror.
Just as it was about to graze her hair, a silver figure flashed past, catching the arrow with perfect precision.
Fox Lian.
He had appeared silently, clad in light training garb, silver hair streaming in the moonlight, tail swaying from the sudden motion. His violet eyes swept the arrow's path with displeasure before turning to Emma's pale face. "Are you alright?" His voice was colder than the moonlight.
Emma shook her head blankly, heart pounding—half from fright, half from his sudden closeness, and the overwhelming presence of that swaying silver tail. Too close!
Prince Thranduil hurried over, emerald eyes apologetic: "Forgive me, Emma. I misfired." His gaze shifted to Fox Lian, nodding. "Thank you, Your Highness."
Fox Lian gave a curt "Mm," tossed the arrow back, but his eyes lingered on Emma. "Next time, practice somewhere less crowded." His tone was not gentle.
Thranduil smiled good-naturedly, apologized again, and departed.
The terrace was left with only Emma and Fox Lian.
Still shaken, Emma instinctively stepped back, trying to distance herself from that tail.
Fox Lian noticed, violet eyes narrowing. Instead of leaving, he stepped closer, tail "accidentally" brushing her skirt.
"So late," he said, moonlight shadowing his perfect face. "The goddess is here… stargazing?"
Emma gripped her robe tightly, forcing herself to look at his face, ignoring the tail. "…Yes."
"Do stars require hiding here?" His brow arched, tone playful. "Or were you watching something else?"
Emma's cheeks burned, guilt rising.
Fox Lian read her blush and flickering eyes, already aware. He had long noticed this goddess avoiding him yet secretly glancing at Thranduil. For some reason, the thought irked him.
He suddenly reached out, brushing her hair—removing a tiny white tuft of fluff. "You picked up something." He showed it casually.
Emma stared at the soft fluff, then at his teasing violet gaze, nearly suffocating. He was definitely doing this on purpose!
"Thank you, Your Highness!" she snatched the fluff and fled—faster than when the arrow had flown.
Fox Lian watched her retreat, then glanced at the tuft of fur on his finger (shed from his own tail). His eyes gleamed with determination.
Softly, tail swaying with satisfaction, he murmured: "Seems… someone's taste is rather poor."
From that night onward, Fox Lian began appearing deliberately in Emma's sight—sometimes with new fluffy accessories, sometimes "coincidentally" crossing paths where she might meet Thranduil.
And Emma's fragile admiration for the Elf Prince, under the fox's relentless interference, withered before it could bloom.