The scene shifted back to Mù Yēn and Hàoyǔ's palace.
Both parents were puffed up in anger and dread. Their sons had slipped outside, and though they had sent dozens of guards after them, none had returned. The silence was unbearable.
"Where has everyone vanished? What kind of rulers are we, who cannot even control two boys?"
Shěnhuī's voice trembled with both fury and worry. Her golden wings flickered restlessly as she paced back and forth. Xuānluò watched his wife's distress. Though his own heart weighed heavy, he tried to remain calm. Closing his eyes for a moment, he drew a deep breath, then stepped forward.
Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, he spoke with measured patience:
"They aren't tiny anymore. How long can they survive in the outside world if they were always raised with golden spoons in their mouths? They'll surely come back. Our elder son…he's foolish, a little stubborn as you...Perhaps he only ran off because of a mood swing or one wrong decision."
His voice was soft, understanding. Shěnhuī's golden eyes wavered, her anger softening slightly under his touch. With a heavy sigh, she finally nodded. Perhaps Only her husband had the power to calm her temper.
Together, they turned to the window, gazing into the night sky—the direction where their sons had gone. Then, suddenly, movement caught their eyes. The guards were returning.
Both parents' wings fluttered at once. Hope surged in their hearts—they thought their sons had been brought home. Quickly, silently, they descended the palace stairs to meet the incoming force.
But when the guards landed, they bowed deeply, their faces tight with shame. Even without words, their expressions confessed everything: We failed.
Xuānluò's jaw tightened. His breath slowed as he fought to keep calm, but his right eye twitched—a dangerous sign that he was close to losing control. It was the same twitch Mù Yēn had inherited when anger overtook him.
"Shit," Xuānluò spat, collapsing heavily into his throne, burying his face into one palm.
Beside him, Shěnhuī sat rigidly on her throne, her eyes burning like fire. The guards dared not meet her gaze. Even their breathing became shallow, as if any sound might offend her wrath.
"Why did you fail?!" she roared. "Two boys—two young boys—overpowered more than fifty guards?!"
Her voice cracked with disbelief and rage.
One guard, trembling, spoke out despite the others' sharp glares:
"N… not two, Your Majesty. Only one—Prince Hàoyǔ…"
A silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Mù Yēn, frail and slow, had been an easy target. Yet it was Hàoyǔ—still not even fully grown—who had turned the tide against fifty of their trained men.
The guards' faces flushed with shame. They wanted to silence the speaker, but Xuānluò and Shěnhuī had already heard.
The King and Queen exchanged a look of stunned surprise. Their mischievous younger son… dangerous enough to defeat their own fairies?
Xuānluò straightened, voice steady:
"Where have my sons gone? Did you track them?"
His jade eyes locked on the guard who had dared to speak truth. Something in Xuānluò's heart whispered that this one could be trusted.
Bo Qian, the honest guard, stepped forward. He bowed low, voice clear:
"Your Highness… as much as I could trace, they are heading toward Hónglián Tān. Not by the shortcut, but the long path."
Gasps echoed through the hall. Even Shěnhuī staggered back a step.
Hónglián Tān—the Crimson Lotus Marsh. A place avoided by fairies, especially in these seasons when the bird yokai tourists roamed. Those yokai were ancient, powerful, and treacherous. Once, they had stolen handsome young males from the fairy kingdom, trading them for treasures of the highest grade.
"How dare they!" Shěnhuī cried, her voice shrill, her eyes wide with disbelief. "How dare they go there!"
Xuānluò's heart clenched. He could imagine his elder son's frustration, driving him to attempt something so reckless. But he knew his boy—Mù Yēn could never meet the shameless conditions of those yokai.
Images filled Xuānluò's mind—yaos with flawless male bodies, both alluring and monstrous, desiring only males or genderless fairies shaped like men. His breath faltered. Two possibilities struck him:
Perhaps Mù Yēn had gone ignorant of what awaited, only to be led deeper by Hàoyǔ's wild curiosity and dangerous strength.
Or worse… perhaps they had gone willingly. But that could not be. His sons were not so daring—nor so unnatural.
The weight of choice pressed down on the King and Queen. If they went after their sons, they might face powers beyond their control. If they stayed, they abandoned them to whatever fate awaited in Hónglián Tān. Parents, rulers… which role mattered more?
At last, their answers split them apart.
Xuānluò's voice was firm, resonant:
"Then this time—I will go alone."
But Shěnhuī rose from her throne, her words cold and sharp:
"No. There is no need to go. Our kingdom comes first—before two souls."
The air froze.
The guards exchanged stunned glances. Some could not believe their King would risk his life alone for his sons. Others could not believe their Queen would so readily cast her children aside.
Xuānluò's heart stopped. His wings drooped, heavy with despair. It felt as though his beloved wife had driven a blade straight into him. Slowly, painfully, he turned his gaze upon her, disgust and heartbreak warring in his eyes.
Shěnhuī's chest tightened. She had revealed too much—too quickly. She had always sought power above all else. She was not even a true grass fairy, but water-born, who had absorbed his royal bloodline only through marriage and intimacy.
She swallowed hard. Not guilty for her words—but guilty for letting them slip aloud. She refused to turn toward him, staring forward instead, letting silence say what her lips would not.
And in that silence, the rift between them widened.