They say that long before the mountains wore their crowns of snow, before the seas learned to roar, there was a marriage written in the stars. A marriage not born of love, nor forged by choice, but sealed by ancient debt. The Grass Fairy was not born — he was woven from strands of light and gifted to a mortal, an innocent slave whose shadow held more truth than his smile. And so the story begins...
Far beyond the reach of human lands, nestled deep within a forest both beautiful and eerie, lived the fairies of Yǐnfēng (隐风) — the Hidden Wind. Here, emerald leaves whispered secrets to the breeze, sunlight filtered in soft, golden patches, and every tree cradled a home for the magical and the mysterious.
Their dwellings, crafted from the very soul of the forest, blended wood, leaves, and stone with hints of human craft—collected treasures from a world just beyond their own. Each home was a work of delicate strength, both living and lasting, woven into the endless green.
The forest pulsed with life and purpose. Fairies of every kind toiled side by side — water fairies shimmering like dew, flower fairies vibrant as blooming petals, snow fairies cold as the mist, fire fairies glowing with fierce warmth, wind fairies swift as the breeze, and crafty fairies, known also as the Grass Fairies, proud and clever.
Each fairy type bore robes dyed in their sacred colors, colors gathered from the human world during their rare visits in mortal form. Among them, the crafty—golden yellow and green—stood at the root of them all. They were the firstborn, the creators, the most gifted, yet also the most prideful, twisted, and sometimes cold.
At the pinnacle of this enchanted realm sat their royal family — the rulers of all Yǐnfēng. Draped in robes of royal green woven with threads of gold, they were as much a symbol of beauty as they were of power.
Their palace was no ordinary tree. It rose tall and proud, its bark carved and shaped into countless doorways like nests for birds, a majestic home for the Grass Fairies. Yellow-robed royal guards patrolled its halls, while servants in pale green fluttered through corridors, tending to the needs of their kingdom.
Within the grand main hall, seated upon a throne of jade and gold, were the king and queen — Xuè Xuānluò and Mò Shěnhuī. The king's gaze, as clear and sharp as jade itself, rested on two male guards standing before him, heads bowed, wings folded low in silent shame.
"Why do you remain silent?" Queen Shěnhuī's voice broke the stillness, edged with frustration. "Xuān, tell them — how many more days?!" Her hand tapped impatiently on the throne's armrest, golden eyes flickering with a blend of worry and anger, her translucent emerald wings fluttering like a trapped butterfly.
Xuānluò sighed deeply, rubbing the corners of his eyes as if trying to squeeze away his own weariness. His wings shifted weakly behind him, tired like the man himself. Pressing his temple to his palm, his reddish-brown hair shielded part of his handsome face.
The queen growled softly and with a huff, rose from her seat, her long golden hair flowing with her movement. Xuānluò quickly stood, catching her arm gently before she could speak further, sensing the storm in her heart.
"If I hear one more time that you have failed to find a match — one whose spiritual energy could heal him — I swear I will tear your wings before he regains his!" Her voice was sharp and final.
The guards closed their eyes tightly, wings drooping further as they bowed deeper. "W-we will do everything in our power to find him, Your Highness!" they promised hastily, before fleeing down the corridor, hearts pounding for their lives. The queen's fury was legendary, but the king's calm was the forest's soft breeze.
"Calm yourself, my love. You will only make yourself ill with worry. Leave this to me — all will be well. Come, rest awhile," Xuānluò murmured softly, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Together, they floated through the air, their wings carrying them gently to her chambers, robes and hair flowing like the wind.
"Rest here. I will return after I have seen our sons," he whispered before departing.
Upstairs, in a room lit by the pale glow of a round window, two young noblemen sat near the sill. One stroked the feathers of a large bird resting on the bed; the other reclined against its soft, warm body. To any human, the bird would have seemed ordinary, but to these fairies, tiny as they were, it was as vast as a stallion.
The one petting the bird shared his father's reddish-brown hair and his mother's golden eyes. This was Mù Yēn, the elder son of Xuānluò and Shěnhuī — a fairy without wings, bound to the earth. The bird, named Yàn Yàn, was his wings, his companion, his hope.
Beside him sat his younger brother, Mù Hàoyǔ, whose jade eyes sparkled and golden hair shimmered. Unlike Mù Yēn, he had no trouble soaring the skies.
Their father's footsteps approached, the soft flutter of wings announcing his arrival.
"Hàoyǔ, go to your room. Give us a moment," Xuānluò ordered gently but firmly.
The younger son rolled his eyes, a playful smirk on his lips. "Going, going… probably to talk about your elder son's marriage again."
With a laugh, he soared through the window, Yàn Yàn lifting him high.
Mù Yēn raised a hand to call after him. "Hàoyǔ! That's my—"
But it was too late. The bird and younger brother vanished into the sky... while he had his own wings to do so.
Mù Yēn sighed, pressing his lips into a thin line. His fist clenched softly, then fell to rest on his lap.
Outside the window, the wind whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the distant promise of change — a fate neither fairy nor human could escape.