"Mù Yēn, look at me when I'm speaking. This isn't the time to argue with your brother about that bird of yours again."
Xuānluò's jade-green eyes lingered on his son, sharp and unyielding. His arms were crossed over his chest, long reddish-brown hair spilling over his robe with a quiet grace that did nothing to soften the weight of his gaze. The warning was clear—he was serious this time.
Mù Yēn sighed, clearing his throat before raising his hand, a wordless request for his father to lead him toward the table. His wide green sleeves shifted gently with the movement, brushing like restless leaves. He already knew what this conversation would be about, and frankly, he was tired of it.
It had been years since he lost his wings. Years of searching, waiting, enduring endless lectures. And still, no one with compatible spiritual energy had appeared. No one who could help him regain them.
So he had already accepted it—quietly, painfully—that he would remain a wingless fairy crown prince for the rest of his life. A king without flight. And yet… he wasn't desperate for marriage, nor did he care for romance. All he wanted was to spend time with Yàn Yàn, with his brother Hàoyǔ, or to wander among the stillness of nature. He would rather live like a free spirit than chain himself to duty.
But as the first crown prince, he had no choice but to obey his parents. Not because it would benefit them—they already had their own wings, their own power—but because his role demanded it. The wings were his burden, not theirs. And so, though weary, he never stopped them from trying.
Father and son moved to the round wooden tea table. Xuānluò sat with one elbow against the polished surface, hand brushing his mouth as his jade eyes lingered on his son. It was a gaze that seemed to search deep within, as though hunting for something he had overlooked in years of failed matches.
Mù Yēn folded his knees neatly on the duck-feather cushion, hands resting over his lap, his golden eyes lowered beneath the curtain of his long hair. His expression was neither weak nor weary—merely silent.
But today, that silence felt heavier. His father's stare pressed against him with unusual intensity, and curiosity began to prick through his calm facade. What was he looking for? What had he not yet said?
The only sound was the wind stirring the trees outside, the soft music of birds filtering through the palace windows. Yet the quiet between them was suffocating.
Through his lashes, Mù Yēn dared to glance upward. Their gazes met, and his heart jumped—the sharp jade eyes of his father pierced into him like they would strip him bare. Both he and Hàoyǔ knew that his father's silence could be more dangerous than their mother's outbursts.
Finally, the silence broke him. He lifted his head and spoke softly, voice carrying both gentleness and unease.
"Father… is something wrong?"
The moment the words left his lips, regret twisted in his chest. Xuānluò rose without answering and stepped closer. Mù Yēn's pulse faltered. Had he made a mistake? His body stiffened, right hand twitching upward in reflex, ready to shield himself from whatever punishment might come. His golden eyes widened with the thought.
Xuānluò could look calm, almost delicate, but his children knew better—he was a strict ruler and a stricter father.
Without a word, Xuānluò's hand pressed firmly against the back of his son's head. Mù Yēn froze, hair caught in his father's fingers, and shut his eyes tight. He braced himself.
But instead of harshness, Xuānluò remained still. His eyes held confusion, thoughtfulness. He could see he had frightened his son again—just as he always did.
It wasn't new. His mother frightened him with sudden storms of anger, and his father with cold silence and punishments. They were his only fear in this world, even though he was strong in his own right, even as his power waned without wings. Only Hàoyǔ seemed fearless—rebellious, a headache to their parents, yet somehow the most openly loving.
Breaking the tension, Xuānluò raised one hand, jade light gathering at his fingertip. He drew a single character into the air, glowing strokes that burned with quiet authority:
云玺 — Yún Xǐ. Cloud Seal.
The character sank into Mù Yēn's forehead, firm but not harsh.
Mù Yēn gasped softly. His golden eyes snapped open, glowing brighter now, faint vines of light curling over his skin, spreading across his neck and chest. His father's jade eyes glowed in return, their hair both lifting in the air as the spell surged.
Behind him, golden wings flickered into existence—fragile, fractured light struggling to take form. The chamber pulsed with radiant energy. Mù Yēn turned his head, watching the wings strain to return to his body. And yet, he wasn't surprised. Not anymore.
Relieved it wasn't punishment, yes—but not surprised. This had happened before.
Xuānluò was testing fate again, forcing power against the laws of nature. Trying to prove wrong what even heaven had decreed—that his son needed a partner, a bond of spiritual resonance, to restore his wings.
Even as king, even with his might, he could not rewrite truth. But still, he tried. Out of love… or out of fear? Grass fairies were unlike others. Their devotion could blur easily into obsession.
Mù Yēn reached up, gently clasping his father's hand, trying to stop him. His voice trembled with both warmth and worry.
"Father… it's enough. You don't have to try again. It's against nature. I don't need wings to be me. You don't need to keep searching for the perfec—"
"Shut up, Yēn!"
The sudden shout cracked the air, cutting him off. Xuānluò's face was unreadable, caught between love and something darker. His voice shook with both desperation and authority.
"It's important! Why don't you understand?! You'll die without wings! How many more years can we hold you like this?!"
His words echoed in the silence, heavy and merciless. Mù Yēn could only stare—heart twisting, unsure whether to see in them his father's love or his obsession with power.