The seasons passed in quiet harmony, and with them, Cai Feiyin grew. No longer a fragile newborn, he was now a toddler with unsteady steps and bright, watchful eyes, absorbing the world with an intensity that unsettled even his parents. His amethyst-grey gaze lingered longer than it should, as if always contemplating something beyond what was in front of him.
At night, he dreamed, and in those dreams, he saw them. The Eight.
He did not understand them, nor did they speak to him, but their presence remained etched into the fabric of his existence. Each night, when he closed his eyes, their forms, unshaped yet absolute, filled his mind. And with each dream, he felt his thoughts become clearer, his mind sharper, as if each vision chipped away at the fragility of infancy and left something stronger in its place.
But Feiyin did not speak of this. He did not yet have the words.
Instead, he focused on what he did understand, the voices of his parents, the warmth of their presence, and the steady rhythm of their lives.
Cai Feng, a warrior at heart, was a man of deliberate movement and strong presence. He spent his days training with the village militia, his weathered hands adjusting the grip of a spear or correcting a poor stance. Though the village was small and distant from great sects and noble houses, he remained ever vigilant.
Yet, when he returned home, his sharp edges softened.
It was subtle, the way his posture relaxed when Mei Liao smiled at him, the way his usually cold grey eyes warmed whenever Feiyin crawled into his arms. He was not an expressive man, but in small, quiet ways, he showed his devotion.
Feiyin, though young, noticed these things.
Mei Liao was different from her husband in nearly every way. Where Cai Feng was rigid, disciplined, she was fluid, patient, and unfalteringly graceful. Even in a simple village, she moved like nobility, her hands never clumsy, her expressions always composed.
She often hummed as she worked, her melodies soft and soothing, filling their small home with warmth. She spoke to Feiyin constantly, even when he could not yet respond, narrating her actions as if she had all the time in the world to teach him.
"And this," she said one day as she plucked a herb from a wooden basket, "is ginger. It's sharp on the tongue but warms the body when it's cold."
Feiyin reached for it with chubby fingers, only to have it gently pulled away. "Ah, not yet, little one. You'll find its taste quite unpleasant."
He pouted, a small furrow forming between his brows. Mei Liao laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead before setting the herb aside.
Cai Feng, watching from the side, scoffed. "You're raising him too softly."
"Oh?" She arched a brow, shifting Feiyin on her lap. "What would you have me do? Throw him into the forest and see if he finds his way back?"
Cai Feng snorted but said nothing more.
It was during these moments, in the quiet between lessons and play, that Feiyin first began to understand language. Words drifted through his mind, forming connections, patterns, structure.
At first, he could only listen. But listening led to understanding, and understanding led to the first stirrings of speech.
One day, as his mother sat by the river washing clothes, Feiyin climbed onto her lap with surprising determination. He tugged at her sleeve, his small fingers gripping the fabric as if demanding her full attention.
Mei Liao looked down, amused. "What is it, little one?"
Feiyin stared at her, his lips parting slightly, his brows furrowed in thought. His mind worked, forming the right sounds, the right shapes.
And then, in a quiet but deliberate voice, he said, "…Mommy."
The world stilled.
Mei Liao's eyes widened, the cloth slipping from her grasp as she stared at him in stunned silence. Feiyin, confused by the sudden shift, reached for her face, his tiny fingers tracing her jaw.
"…Mommy?" He repeated, hesitant but determined.
A tremor passed through her lips before they curved into the softest, most radiant smile he had ever seen. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, pressing her forehead against his as a warm laugh escaped her.
"Yes, my love," she murmured, voice thick with emotion. "Mommy is here."
She held him for a long time, as if memorizing the moment, as if it was the most precious thing in the world.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of gold and violet, Mei Liao sat by the fire, a proud smile tugging at her lips as she looked at her husband.
"He spoke today," she announced.
Cai Feng, who had been sharpening a blade at the table, paused mid-motion. His grey eyes flicked to his son, who sat on the floor, stacking small stones with an unusual amount of focus for a child his age.
"What did he say?"
Mei Liao's smile grew. "Mommy."
Cai Feng hummed, setting the blade aside. He stood, crossing the room in two strides before crouching before Feiyin. His strong hands rested on his knees as he studied the child.
"Say 'Dad.'"
Feiyin blinked up at him, tilting his head slightly.
Cai Feng waited.
The toddler pursed his lips, as if considering, then looked away, deliberately ignoring him as he placed another stone on his growing stack.
Mei Liao burst into laughter.
Cai Feng narrowed his eyes. "Brat."
Still, there was no irritation in his tone, only the ghost of amusement.
The days continued like this, marked by small yet meaningful moments.
Feiyin's words expanded slowly. He learned to say 'water' when he was thirsty, 'cold' when the wind bit at his cheeks. He called for 'Mommy' whenever he needed comfort, and though he still refused to say 'Dad' outright, he would tug at Cai Feng's sleeve when he wanted his attention.
And despite his grumbling, Cai Feng always answered.
It wasn't until weeks later, when Feiyin was playing outside, that it finally happened.
Cai Feng was repairing the fence when Feiyin, who had been chasing after a butterfly, suddenly stumbled and fell. He let out a small cry, startled more than hurt, and instinctively reached out.
"Dad!"
Cai Feng froze.
The air between them hung still, as if the entire world recognized the weight of the word. Then, in a single breath, he set his tools aside and crossed the short distance, lifting Feiyin into his arms with an ease that belied his rough exterior.
"You alright?" he asked, checking for any signs of injury.
Feiyin sniffled but nodded, his tiny hands clutching onto his father's sleeve.
Cai Feng exhaled in relief, pressing a hand over the boy's head. His lips twitched slightly.
"Good."
Mei Liao, watching from the doorway, grinned. "Took him long enough."
Cai Feng gave her an unimpressed look, but there was something lighter in his expression, something only Feiyin, resting against his chest, could truly feel.
Through it all, Feiyin grew, not just in body, but in understanding.
His mother's warmth became his first sense of safety, her presence the first thing he sought when uncertain.
His father's quiet strength became his first lesson in resilience, the unwavering force behind the small village that protected them.
And though neither of them could yet comprehend the depth of the soul that had been reborn into their son, nor the visions that lingered in his mind when he slept, they knew one thing.
Cai Feiyin was theirs, and they would raise him as best as they could.
For now, that was enough.