When the little whirlwind, Huo Feng, noticed Wu Xin walking toward her, she did not resist. With every step he took forward, she drifted closer, spinning right between his eyes, a delicate tempest of air and motion. The sunlight streaming through the lattice windows caught on her flowing hair, scattering golden threads around her like sparks from a fire long forgotten. Each rotation carried a whisper of her laughter, tiny and mischievous, wrapping around the solemnity of the chamber.
Wu Xin smiled, now certain he had been mistaken to swat her earlier: "Forgive me, little wind," he said gently. "Was the slap painful?"
She spun faster, lashing around his face like a tiny storm, as though attacking him for daring to mention it. Her movements left streaks of light behind her, catching dust and motes, making the air itself shimmer.
—And let me assure you, dear reader… that slap? Fate will return it to him one day—but not with the same mercy.
Huo Feng pulled back, scolding him without words. Yet Wu Xin understood, and he accepted the blame without protest, his expression softening as he watched the whirlwind tease him, her tiny hands fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.
He asked softly: "Do you live in Jin Hai's palace?"
The moment she heard her father's name, a sharp memory pierced her heart. She remembered his warnings, the way he had always shielded her from the eyes of the world, and immediately darted away—rushing back to the palace garden to hide among the flowers. Sunlight bounced off petals and leaves as she spun, merging with the vibrant blooms, becoming one with the fragrant chaos of the garden.
Days passed… and that tiny whirlwind began visiting Wu Xin whenever her father was away—whenever she felt lonely and needed someone to amuse her. Each visit was a secret festival of motion, color, and life. He grew accustomed to her presence, and whenever she disappeared, he found himself unexpectedly missing her. She scattered his solitude the way she scattered leaves and petals every time she fluttered by, leaving a trail of warmth and chaos intertwined.
She spun and spun among his garden flowers as he sipped tea, the faint aroma of jasmine and honey in the air. She refused to let him enjoy peace even in his study, spinning faster as her tiny feet kicked up dust and ink from the scrolls he left open. Each time she neared his desk, she blew away all his carefully stacked scrolls, turning his room into delightful chaos, like a miniature tornado of innocence and mischief.
Sometimes he scolded her, sometimes he forgave her—but never, not once, did he truly get angry. His voice might grow stern, his eyes narrow, but the corners of his lips betrayed him every time she spun past him, teasing and laughing.
When a guard approached his door, he would order her to hide behind his back, for he had come to regard her as his secret—something fragile, alive, and precious. Sometimes he even shoved her into his wardrobe, only for her to whirl through his clothes in playful destruction, leaving his silks tangled and perfumed with the faint scent of her presence.
One day, she waited for him in his garden after a mission. That was when she spotted a strange maid entering his chamber with a tray of pastries. The sun caught the glimmer of a hidden amulet around the maid's neck, and Huo Feng's instincts, sharp as the finest blade, flared.
Drawn by the sweet aroma, Huo Feng followed at a distance—and noticed the maid's suspicious behavior. She watched as the woman planted a seed in Wu Xin's enchanted flower vase, sprinkled it with Water from the Spring of Life, and walked away as though no one had seen her. The petals of the enchanted flowers quivered slightly, whispering warnings that only Huo Feng could hear.
Intrigued and alarmed, Huo Feng hovered over the vase, her small form vibrating with tension, watching closely. But before she could do more—Wu Xin caught her between his hands with a playful grin.
"Got you at last," he teased. "I won't let you go until you tell me who you are."
She squirmed between his palms, ignoring him, desperate to return to the vase. Her wings beat frantically, stirring the air into tiny eddies of silver and gold. When he let her free, she immediately hovered above it again, spinning frantically—as though trying to warn him.
Wu Xin misunderstood completely. He thought she was claiming ownership over the plant that, by the next day, had already started to grow. His brow furrowed slightly, amusement and confusion warring in his expression.
On the third day, the flower bloomed. Its petals unfurled like delicate blades, soft as silk yet carrying a scent sharp enough to wake the dead. That was when Huo Feng realized—the maid had betrayed him. She knew this flower. Once it bloomed, it released a deadly toxin upon the air—a scent of death, invisible yet palpable. She had to warn him. She had to keep him away.
When he entered his chamber, he did not notice the bloom. He was too absorbed in searching through scrolls, his mind sharp and intent. Huo Feng rushed toward him and blew all his papers into the air, the sound of fluttering parchment echoing like a miniature storm.
He merely sighed and bent down to gather them, still not understanding. The sunlight caught on the scattered ink and gold filigree of the scrolls, painting the room in shifting patterns of light.
Words weren't enough. She needed more. Her small hands trembled, and determination sharpened her movements. She dipped the tip of her swirling tail into the ink and dragged herself across a sheet of paper, drawing an ugly, twisted flower. He still didn't notice.
So she plunged herself into the inkwell and stirred wildly until ink splattered all over his robe. Only then did he look—and spot the drawing.
He laughed: "What a mighty talent in the arts you have." His voice carried warmth, yet shadowed by the faint worry she had instilled in him.
He turned to collect the rest of his documents—then paused, noticing the unfamiliar flower in his vase. He smiled warmly, leaning closer, as though seeing beauty where none could expect.
"So that's what you wanted to show me. Your flower has bloomed."
He reached forward, fingers brushing its petal, preparing to breathe in death.
Huo Feng darted between him and the flower, blocking his way. She blinked, a spark of fury and fear in her tiny eyes. "You want me to step back? Fine, I'll change clothes first—this ink is ruining my focus."
While he changed his robe, she made her decision. For the first time, she would write a word. Her tiny form hovered in concentrated stillness, the world around her narrowing to a single point of purpose. She searched her memories—her father's voice reading to her, pages turning, brush strokes across parchment… And then—she remembered.
She dipped herself in ink and traced a single word beside the drawing:
"Poison."
But when Wu Xin turned, he misread it. Because in her frantic spinning, ink had splattered onto the page—changing one dot and twisting her meaning.
"Ah… smell, is it?" he said with a smile. "You want me to sniff it now?"
She froze in horror. The power of a single drop of ink… it could have ended everything.
He stepped toward the vase again, laughing lightly: "Very well, little buzz, I'll grant your wish."
Just as his foot crossed into death's reach—she hurled the vase to the floor, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The sound rang like a bell of warning, echoing through the chamber.
Rage flashed across his face—the vase… belonged to his mother. It was the last thing she had crafted for him before her passing. The memory of her warmth and care cut through the air like a blade.
To make matters worse—Mei burst through the door, sword drawn, thinking Wu Xin had been attacked. She saw the shattered vase, Wu Xin kneeling in confusion and grief—and shouted:
"Step away! Don't touch it—that flower is poison!"
Wu Xin froze. Slowly… he turned toward the little whirlwind. His eyes, clouded with suspicion and betrayal, met hers.
"And you…" he said quietly, trembling. "Did you know it was death? Yet you insisted I… smell it?"
Huo Feng spun desperately toward him. Her tiny heart raced, the room a blur of motion and ink.
But Mei's sword slashed the air—striking her, splitting her whirlwind form in two. She felt pain. Real pain. Not in the body—but in something deeper. Because worse than the blade… was the look in Wu Xin's eyes. Accusation. Disappointment.
—Betrayal.
Mei struck again, calling guards to seize "the culprit." Huo Feng spiraled in panic, crashing against every corner of the room like a blind creature trapped in a jar of darkness.
Then—came the final blow. Wu Xin's staff descended—a sharp strike—and he flung her away from his sight.
She fled. Broken. Bleeding stormlight.
When she reached her palace, Jin Hai saw her trembling, fading form. He said nothing. But his eyes spoke of war. That night, he sealed her away inside the crystal of his ring, a prison of light and memory, the air around her humming faintly with the echoes of her fury and grief.