For the first time in many, many moons, Osamu felt content. As the pale moon cast its glow against the snow-white fur of their Empress, he stood utterly motionless, completely enraptured by the vision; a part of him still felt somehow unworthy in her presence, something he might never truly shake no matter how much time passed between them.

Yet so long as she encouraged his company - so long as she looked at him the way she did with her lilac gaze, warm and gentle and kind - not even the most terrible demon could tear him from her side.

Osamu lifted his head and joined her triumphant song, his own howl deep with a rasping edge as it intertwined with hers. Not once, not twice, but thrice the fates had brought them together, and although it was not in the nature of a Samurai to feel pride, the grizzled wolf felt immeasurably honored to have been there at her side in aid each time Fujiwara had risen from the ashes.

And he would do it for her again - and again - and again.

As the rest of the wolves gathered around them, Osamu experienced a sense of belonging he had never before known to be within his reach.