The Subba Family
Morning.
(636 BCE) – Jan 1
(Subba Mansion)
First floor. On the window ledge, Princess Numanfung was sitting, one knee drawn up beneath her chin, the pale morning light catching along the curve of her cheek. Numanfung possesses an ethereal beauty that feels almost unreal — the kind that made servants pause mid-task without quite realizing why. Her waist-length black hair flows like silk beneath a translucent white veil, strands lifting faintly with each small movement of the breeze drifting through the open window. Her crimson-tinted eyes carry both wisdom and hidden sorrow, the two qualities settled together so naturally that few who met her gaze could name which one they'd noticed first, while her graceful expression remains calm even in danger, a stillness earned rather than simply inherited. She wears layered dark immortal robes decorated with delicate silver ornaments, the fabric pooling softly around her folded legs, giving her the presence of a celestial noblewoman.
She is known as the Lotus Beauty. She sits at number one on the younger generation's beauty list.
Title: The Five Jewels of Womanhood.
She was looking down at a giant tree that covered the sunlight below, its ancient branches spreading wide enough to cast the entire garden in dappled, shifting shade. Downside, beautiful animals were walking and eating — deer and rabbits, their coats catching stray beams of light that broke through the canopy — grazing peacefully across dew-heavy grass. She was so happy today, because this day was New Year's celebration day, the anticipation of it settled warm and light in her chest since she'd first woken. The news was spreading from the sky, carried by a parrot whose voice was controlled by a messenger from far away, from his house, the bird wheeling in slow, deliberate circles above the rooftops. "Today is New Year! Today is New Year! Happy New Year! At ten o'clock in the morning on Shifu Mountain there will be a mela — the mela will be organized by King Nuhang Sha. Praise the king, praise the king!" His voice echoed through the whole village, drifting even into the quiet corners of the mansion's upper floor.
And the messenger also said that animals were not allowed to enter the mela, the announcement trailing off into the wind almost as an afterthought.
Numanfung's eyes lit up, a small, private brightness passing across her face. *Today is New Year — really, time passes in the blink of an eye,* she thought, something bittersweet threading through the observation. She smiled while looking at the animals below, watching a young rabbit chase its own shadow across the grass. Now her heart truly wanted to go down. So, she teleported herself closer to the big tree, the air around her shimmering faintly for the briefest instant before she reappeared beneath its wide branches, sandaled feet settling silently onto soft earth.
After seeing her, they started jumping up like rabbits — quite literally, in the case of the rabbits themselves, their small bodies bounding eagerly toward her. Numanfung lay down without hesitation, heedless of the dew soaking faintly into her robes, and reached her two hands toward the rabbits and deer.
The deer and rabbits approached closer to her, drawn by some quiet familiarity that needed no words. Her hands were warm as she started patting the deer and rabbits — there were two rabbits and one deer — her fingers moving gently through soft fur, and for a moment the only sounds were birdsong and the faint rustle of leaves overhead.
In front of her there was a small pond with lotus flowers and leaves, the water so still it mirrored the pale sky above almost perfectly. Her mansion was made of ancient black wood wrapped in a wooden roof, weathered smooth by generations of rain and sun, and the walls were made of white stone, cool even now beneath the gathering morning warmth.
Numanfung's voice spoke, soft and wistful, "I want to take you with me to the mela, but since I can't do it..." Her expression was disappointed at not being able to go with her friends, the disappointment settling heavier than she'd expected it to. Tears fell from her innocent eyes, tracing thin, silver lines down her cheeks before dropping onto the grass below. The animals saw her upset expression, so they started to comfort her, instinct guiding them toward the small, familiar rituals of care. The deer pressed its head to Numanfung's head, warm and steady, and the rabbits held against her hip, wiping away her tears with soft, twitching noses, their small bodies pressed close.
The mela is the festival of the Limbu, Magar, Rai, and Tamang. This festival is organized every year, drawing entire villages down from their hillside homes for a single, bright day of celebration.
There are wooden rolling swings, their ropes worn smooth from years of eager hands. Two large bamboo poles are set up for people to sit cross-legged, the wood already gleaming faintly from early morning polishing by festival organizers.
There are cultured foods, the scent of roasting grain and simmering spice already beginning to drift faintly on the wind, carried up from the village below.
**(Rana Clan)**
Shree Yan woke up from the bed, the mattress shifting softly beneath him as he stirred. Behind him, birds were chirping in a nearby tree, their song threading through the open window, making the morning more beautiful despite the faint chill still lingering in the air.
The wind drifted through his clothes, cool and light, carrying with it the mingled scent of dew-wet grass and distant cooking fires.
Dak dak dak.
Someone was knocking on the door, the sound crisp and deliberate. "Coming," he called, voice still rough with sleep. Opening the door, it was Yi Ner, her posture already composed, hands folded neatly in front of her.
Yi Ner bowed to Shree Yan. "Young master, please give me permission to prepare you."
"Go on," he replied, settling onto the small wooden chair, its joints creaking faintly under his weight. In front of him there was a mirror, its surface slightly warped with age, reflecting his pale face back at him in soft, imperfect lines. Yi Ner spoke while combing his hair, the comb's teeth moving in slow, careful strokes through his dark strands. "Young master, did you ever feel lonely without family? Even when you have family, they should come to see you."
Shree Yan's face darkened instantly, the comb pausing mid-stroke as though the air itself had gone suddenly still. He asked, "Yi Ner!" the single word sharp enough to make her flinch. She replied, "Y-yes... young master?" in a startled tone, her hands going rigid at her sides. He questioned, "Who ordered you to ask me that question?" His tone was cold, each word deliberate and clipped. Yi Ner's body trembled; she immediately lay down and bowed her head, forehead touching the cool wooden floor with a soft, deliberate thud. "Young master, please forgive me. I — I shouldn't have asked you that question. Forgive me, young master, forgive me." Her face was covered in sweat, small beads gathering along her hairline despite the cool morning air. Her body trembled so much that the floorboards beneath her seemed to register the motion. She started begging Shree Yan, voice cracking with genuine fear.
Shree Yan looked down and said, his tone softening slightly, "Get up. I'm not mad at you. I simply want to know why you asked me that question."
She raised her head slowly and looked at Shree Yan, eyes still wide with residual fear. "Because before, you were in a coma, but no one came to see you, young master. Even though you have something that no one else could imagine."
This answer made him think about her, and made him curious to know her, some quiet recalculation passing behind his otherwise composed expression. Shree Yan turned his head and agreed to tell her. "That's because of my father."
"Your father?" She was shocked at his reply, breath catching audibly. He nodded. "It's true." She stood up slowly, robes settling back into place around her legs. She clenched her hand against her chest, knuckles pale beneath the fabric. She was in disbelief at his words. Yi Ner frowned, the expression settling naturally into the soft lines of her face. "How can a father keep this away from his own son? This isn't right. Why are they doing that to you, young master?"
He sighed, the sound heavier than the moment seemed to warrant. "I know, right? Forget it. That time has already passed." Her face grew awkward at the situation, cheeks coloring faintly, and she went back to combing his hair, the comb resuming its slow, steady rhythm. "Apologies."
She dressed him — a black robe, V-style, the fabric settling smoothly across his shoulders. Between his waist and hip there was a red belt, sitting above his legs, cinched with practiced efficiency.
She also brought water in a decorative bowl, the ceramic cool against her palms as she set it down. Shree Yan put his feet up over the bowl, the water rippling faintly at the disturbance. She started washing his legs, her movements gentle and unhurried, water sluicing softly over skin. Shree Yan didn't say anything, watching the small ripples with an expression that gave nothing away. After five minutes, it was done, the water in the bowl gone faintly cloudy.
"Young master, you're looking good now," Yi Ner commented on his looks, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. Shree Yan came closer to her and said, his voice low, "The time has come." He said something to her, quiet enough that the words dissolved into the space between them, meant for her alone.
She understood something but no one understood, her expression flickering briefly with something unreadable before settling back into calm.
He gave her a gift — an ordinary item, small and unremarkable in her palm. This item can do something but no one understood, its true purpose folded quietly beneath its plain, silver surface.
Then Shree Yan's lips curled, the expression settling into something colder, more deliberate, than anything that had passed across his face all morning.