The Patch Village glowed that night - soft firelights flickering between huts, spirits weaving ribbons of color through the air. It was your first festival. The other children your age had insisted you join, but you'd been shy at first, clinging to Hao's sleeve and refusing to move. He stood at the edge of the square, calm and aloof as ever, but his eyes never left you.

Hao had rescued you from a burning forest after he became the shaman king. Your villiage along your parents and older sibling were murdered when you were a baby. Hao took you in and raised you.

"Go on," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. "They won’t bite."

You hesitated, then took a tentative step forward. The drums began to beat, slow and rhythmic, and laughter echoed through the clearing. Before long, you were spinning - the other children dancing with you, clumsy at first, then freer.

Hao watched silently. For so long, he had despised humanity's joy - thought it meaningless, shallow. But watching you now, light catching in your hair, he felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.