They called it a celebration.
But Ren had learned long ago that when the Mi Clan celebrated, it was because someone else had already bled for them.
The Festival of Eternal Wind was an annual rite—one steeped in myth, decorum, and hypocrisy. Originally, it marked the ascension of the first Wind-Bound Emperor, a Mi ancestor said to have tamed the Four Winds using only his breath. Now, it was a display of power and control. Each prince hosted a segment of the festival. Each faction postured with quiet grandeur. And the people—those without magic, without clans—stood on the edges of the veil, watching illusions dance across the sky.
They saw pageantry.
Ren saw weapons
It began, as always, at the Spine of the Wind—a vast white marble causeway lined with glass lanterns and spirit kites. The four princes were to appear in sequence, each flanked by their chosen heirs, retainers, or elite companions.
Ren had walked this path once before, as a boy.
Now he would walk it as a weapon.
Hyunsu said nothing as they stood beneath the ceremonial arch, waiting for their cue. He wore only a deep gray robe embroidered with a single white feather—no armor, no crest, no family ring. His hair was tied loosely, one lock brushing his cheek in the wind.
He looked like a scholar.
Or a ghost.
Ren stood beside him in traditional summoner garb—high collar, long black coat lined with cobalt thread, the glyph of the Naku Clan stitched in subdued silver on his back.
The First Prince, Mi Jinsung, walked like victory carved from bone.
His arrival was heralded by a spear of silver wind that split the path before him, sending streamers fluttering and bowing clans to their knees. He wore white and gold armor polished to divine gleam, and behind him marched a retinue of elite stormwalkers and mages—faces veiled, eyes glowing with wind-bound sigils.
Above, his crest danced in the sky as a banner of living air, his wind magic solid enough to form wings of glass that never broke.
He was not announcing power.
He was power.
And the world obeyed.
The crowd roared
Then came Mi Kyungho, the Second Prince.
Veiled in illusion and dressed like a bridal ghost, Kyungho's approach was silent—but overwhelming. Every step changed the world around him: lanterns wept petals, kites turned to flocks of birds, and whispers carried through the crowd in voices not their own. His guard didn't march—they glided, flickering in and out of vision like candlelight.
People clapped without knowing why.
Some bowed out of instinct.
Others looked away—afraid if they stared too long, they might forget their own names
Mi Daehyun arrived third.
He did not smile. He did not wave.
He stomped.
His arrival shook the causeway.
Flames burned beneath his feet, harmless but hot enough to sear the edge of the banners. His wind magic was heavy and red—like pressure before a thunderstorm. His soldiers wore red-gold armor and bore massive glaives etched with battlefield sigils. He did not summon birds or butterflies.
He summoned dread.
Some of the audience stepped back.
He grinned
And then, at last, came Mi Hyunsu—the Fourth Prince.
No title was announced. No horn sounded.
The wind didn't part for him.
It resisted.
He walked anyway, simple robes trailing behind him, untied hair brushing his jaw. The crowd murmured—not in awe, but in confusion.
No guards.
No crest.
Just a forgotten prince with no army.
But then—
They came.
Two shadows rippled from his side.
One large. One larger still.
A black wolf padded beside Ren, its horns crackling with pale lightning, golden eyes locked on every motion in the crowd. This was Aenor, Ren's first summon—regal, alert, but restrained. Its presence made children gasp and noblewomen flinch.
Behind them lumbered a second beast—Baelgor—a massive, horned titan of muscle and stormlight, hooves sparking against stone. It moved slowly, like a mountain that had decided to walk.
The court stopped murmuring.
Some nobles looked alarmed.
Others laughed.
"Ah," one whispered, "he brought pets."
"No—his pets," another sneered. "Of course the dog prince would walk with a leash."
"A performance. Desperate, but clever."
And they weren't wrong.
It was desperate.
But it worked.
With only two figures beside him, Hyunsu crossed the causeway.
The weak prince with no entourage now had summoned gods at his flanks.
A ridiculous contrast.
A dangerous one.
Ren walked one step behind Hyunsu, silent and sharp in his ceremonial black. His coat flared like a storm's edge, the Naku Clan's mark hidden by the wolf at his side. He didn't smile. He didn't wave.
But for the first time—
They looked.
Not out of respect.
Not out of fear.
But out of curiosity.
And in the Mi Clan, curiosity was the first breath before either death or recognition.
—————
The climax of the festival was the Sky Weaving—a public magical performance where each prince released their signature spell into the air above the capital, creating vast illusions that reinforced their image, their strength, and their identity.
Jinsung's was first: a spectral falcon that split the sky, raining golden feathers like divine judgment. The crowd roared. He raised a hand, and lightning danced between his fingers—perfect, controlled, merciless.
Kyungho followed: the falcon was swallowed by a storm of butterflies, their wings refracting faces from the audience. The people gasped as they saw their own eyes staring back at them. The spell dissolved into a thousand whispers—none real, all believed.
Then Daehyun: fire erupted into a cyclone, rising like a dragon made of wind and wrath. His illusion was loud, red, and dangerous. The air shimmered with residual heat.
Then—
All eyes turned.
Hyunsu stepped forward.
Ren stood behind him, silent.
No incantation. No glyph.
Just breath.
A single exhale.
The wind rippled outward—not violent, not blinding. It carried clarity. The fog around the arena vanished. Noise stilled. Smells sharpened. And into the clean air rose a single crow.
It soared upward. Alone.
Then split into four.
Then eight.
Until the sky was filled with black wings and silver eyes.
No explosions.
No thunder.
Just quiet.
And the soft sound of feathers brushing against heaven.
Then all at once—they vanished.
The silence remained.
The crowd was breathless.
It was not the most powerful display.
But it was the most remembered.
—————————
The banquet that followed the Sky Weaving ceremony was held in the Hall of Winded Flame, a sprawling marble chamber open to the stars, its columns carved to resemble dragons writhing in constant ascent. Laughter echoed through the space like falling glass—sharp, musical, meant to wound.
Every major clan had a seat.
Every prince had a place.
Even the Fourth.
But his table stood half a length farther from the center, closer to the shadowed periphery of the great hall than the firelit heart. It was a polite insult. A minor slight. The kind of gesture that would pass unnoticed by outsiders but screamed "you don't belong here" to everyone who mattered.
Hyunsu sat without flinching.
Ren stood behind him.
He wore his sword tonight—not decorative, not ceremonial. A real one. Long, black, curved. His beasts were sealed back into him, their presence sleeping under his skin. Still, nobles who passed behind him gave him a wide berth.
Not out of respect.
Out of discomfort.
No one approached them.
Not a single toast.
Not a single smile.
Servants brought food late and left quickly. No entertainers lingered near their section. The lanterns above their table flickered too often—an intentional disruption, cast by some subtle mage to dim their corner of the hall.
They were meant to be forgotten.
And if not forgotten, mocked
Ren scanned the crowd with the stillness of a predator caged in ceremony. The other guards stood near their lords or lounged among retainers, whispering with veiled laughter. Some glanced his way. Some sneered. A few whispered names.
He heard them.
"Tame dog."
"Summoner-slave."
"Hyunsu's pet beast."
Ren did not react.
Neither did Hyunsu.
Instead, the prince quietly picked at his rice, expression unreadable, posture perfect.
At one point, a cup of honey wine was delivered—clearly from another table.
Ren took it before Hyunsu could reach it, sniffed, then poured it onto the floor.
No one said a word
Near the end of the banquet, a noblewoman from a mid-tier clan accidentally dropped her silk fan while passing their table. It landed near Hyunsu's foot.
She did not bend to retrieve it.
She waited.
A quiet challenge.
A public test.
Hyunsu met her eyes. Then calmly picked up the fan and handed it to Ren without a word.
Ren turned and tossed it behind him—off the edge of the balcony and into the night.
The noblewoman blanched. Her retinue tensed.
Ren simply resumed his post behind the prince, hands folded.
Hyunsu ate another bite of cold rice.
The incident was over.
And yet—no one approached after that.
Not even to provoke
They exited before the wine-dancers began.
Hyunsu said nothing until they were alone, walking the lantern-lit path back to his estate.
"You were quiet," he said.
"I'm a guard," Ren replied.
"You poured out the wine."
"It smelled like bellshade. Slow poison."
Hyunsu paused. Looked at him. "You think I wouldn't have noticed?"
"I think someone wanted to see if I would."
That earned the prince's faintest smile.
"Then they saw."