Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Last Shrine
Sesshōmaru did not consider himself easily embarrassed.
He had long outgrown such petty mortal feelings. He didn’t flinch, didn’t startle, didn’t twitch. Emotions were a weakness. Embarrassment, specifically, was beneath him. That was a human indulgence—like flavored lattes and panic-buying bath towels.
And yet.
As the footage replayed for the seventh time that morning—on every human news network, social media feed, and council internal memo—he could admit, quietly, that this was not ideal.
The slow-motion edit of the moment his scarf caught fire was now set to a trending pop song.
The pop song had been remixed.
The remix had gone viral.
And the public had decided to call her the Miko of Mayhem.
Ridiculous.
Sesshōmaru sipped his tea with restrained loathing and resisted the urge to smash the television.
All he had wanted was to finish the damned shrine tour.
The demon council’s latest public relations stunt—an interspecies unity initiative—had required him, as one of the oldest and most recognizable daiyōkai, to appear at every major human spiritual site across the country. Bow. Nod. Pretend to find their shrines fascinating. Pretend to care.
He had done so.
Twelve shrines. Twelve camera crews. Twelve painfully dull interviews.
Every one of them had been spiritually defunct—no real power, no true priesthood left. Just aging stones and photo ops and overpriced talismans being sold for ¥800 a piece.
He had endured all of it.
This shrine, Higurashi Shrine, had been the final stop. His last act of public service before retreating into the quiet, peaceful anonymity he so thoroughly deserved.
And then the priestess shot him.
On live television.
With a blessed arrow.
That caught fire midair.
And torched his imported silk scarf.
The edge of his suit collar had been singed. He still hadn’t replaced it. Partly out of spite. Mostly because the burn mark had become a talking point, and the council insisted he keep it for “relatability.”
Humans were calling it a meet-cute.
The headline on one of the larger news sites had read:
“Sparks Fly: Demon Lord Takes the Heat from Miko of Mayhem.”
He could not remember the last time he considered burning down an entire news station.
He remembered the moment perfectly.
He had been mid-sentence—speaking directly to the camera, reciting the line they had given him. “Today, we arrive at the historic Higurashi Shrine. A quaint—”
He’d paused. Smirked slightly. Emphasized it, just enough to let his real opinion bleed through. Quaint. Mediocre. Harmless.
And then the arrow came.
Silent, fast, unnaturally precise.
Holy energy hummed in the air as it passed.
It hadn’t hit him. Of course not. She’d aimed just off-center. It had clipped his scarf. Sparked. Burned. The fire danced dramatically across his shoulder, caught the edge of his coat, and sizzled into blackened ash with a hiss that still echoed in his memory.
The smell had been… potent.
He had turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
And there she had stood—bow lowered, expression flat, mouth pulled into a line of almost-smug defiance. Kagome Higurashi. The acting priestess of the shrine. Mid-twenties. Spiritually gifted. Undeniably annoyed.
He hadn’t known her name yet, but he had recognized the aura immediately.
It pressed against him like heat. Dense. Alive. Sharp enough to sting. And entirely unexpected.
She had power.
Not the performative kind.
Not the dusted-off rituals passed down for show.
Real, true, inherited spiritual power—raw and unfiltered, ancient in origin and clearly untrained in diplomacy.
It was the first thing about this entire tour that had caught his attention.
Unfortunately, she had caught everyone’s attention.
The footage had been clipped and replayed across platforms within minutes. Humans were calling it an act of protest. Others were calling it flirtation. One particularly unhinged blogger had dubbed it “holy foreplay” and analyzed the eye contact frame by frame.
Sesshōmaru had not commented.
The council had, though.
They had issued a bland public statement about “the exciting passion of interspecies cooperation,” which he was still mentally punishing them for.
Worse still, they had decided the solution was more publicity.
The press wanted more of them—him, the stoic demon lord; her, the firebrand priestess with weaponized aim.
So now, instead of escaping this mess, he was scheduled for three additional events. Together. With her.
When they’d informed him, he hadn’t spoken for a full thirty seconds.
When he had, he’d said only, “Will she be armed?”
The council had laughed.
He hadn’t.
Kagome Higurashi, for her part, had issued a public apology with all the sincerity of a cat coughing up a hairball. She had stood next to him on the shrine steps, speaking into the microphone, tone breezy, eyes glittering with challenge.
“I regret that my arrow startled Lord Taishō,” she said, not bothering to look at him. “I had no intention of hitting him directly. The scarf was… collateral. I’m sure we can move forward with harmony and mutual respect.”
He had stared at her. Slowly. Silently.
She’d smiled. Sharp and sweet and insufferable.
He hadn’t decided yet if he wanted to strangle her or hire her.
Possibly both.
Possibly one after the other.
As it stood, he was scheduled to return to the shrine tomorrow. They were meant to “appear as a united front.” There would be joint interviews. Shared duties. A mock purification ceremony to show the “blending of traditions.”
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, smoothed the scorched edge of his coat, and exhaled slowly.
She had power.
And nerve.
And far too many nicknames in the human press.
Miko of Mayhem. The Shrine Sniper. Lady of the Flame.
Someone had made a Twitter account for the scarf.
Someone else had photoshopped a wedding invitation.
Sesshōmaru stared at the muted television as another reporter chirped about their “undeniable chemistry” and “tense, magical eye contact.”
He wondered, very briefly, what it would take to erase one’s entire presence from the mortal internet.
He also wondered what kind of bow she would bring tomorrow.
He didn’t trust her.
But he wanted to see her again.
And he didn’t know which of those facts annoyed him more.