The Feywild sang with life.

  In a grove tucked deep within the beating heart of an ancient forest, a young fairy named Willow spun beneath sun-dappled leaves. Shafts of golden light filtered through canopies of glimmering foliage, casting dancing patterns on the mossy ground. Each leaf shimmered faintly with its own pulse of magic, and the very air smelled sweet with blooming nectar and morning dew.

  Willow’s laughter rang out like the chime of crystal bells. Her bare feet skimmed over a fallen log as she leapt from one patch of wildflowers to another, wings trailing behind her like a soft veil of light. They were delicate, transparent and shimmering with hues of pink and violet, fluttering not out of necessity, but joy.

  Her hair—long, wavy, and the color of twilight heather—spilled over her shoulders, catching sparkles of the sun like dew on petals. Pink eyes blinked wide beneath thick lashes, full of wonder as she leaned down to coax a stubborn clover blossom into bloom.

  “Come on now,” she whispered, tapping the tiny bud with a fingertip. “You’re late to the party.”

  With a small pop, the blossom unfurled, and Willow beamed. Around her, glowing fireflies and fluttering sprite-moths gathered to bask in her joy. The forest knew her, and she knew it in turn—not as a master commands, but as a friend invites.

  She was a child of the Verdant Glade Court, a fairy of no noble blood, but still beloved by the grove she called home. Her grove, nestled near the outer reaches of the Court’s lands, had always been a place of harmony and laughter. Here, time bent gently. Seasons wove themselves like ribbon through the branches, and magic hummed in every flower petal, every rustling leaf.

  But today… something felt different.

  Willow’s wings paused mid-flutter. A strange hush had settled around her. No birdsong. No babbling from the nearby brook. Even the wind, usually playful and scented with petals, had gone still.

  She rose slowly, glancing around. The sprite-moths had stopped circling her. A few drifted downward and disappeared into the underbrush.

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  She stepped forward cautiously, her senses sharpening.

  Just beyond a thicket of honeyblossom trees, the forest seemed to shift. The vibrant, glowing life of the Feywild gave way to something quieter, darker. She pushed through a veil of hanging ivy, the leaves brushing her skin like silk—and stopped.

  The change was subtle, but unmistakable.

  The trees here looked older, wearier. Their bark was streaked with gray and black, and the moss that should have clung to their roots lay brittle and pale. The ground felt strange beneath her feet—dry, almost sickly. A single flower, a moonpetal, lay withered on its stem.

  Willow crouched beside it, brushing her fingers across the petals. They crumbled at her touch.

  A chill ran down her spine.

  “This isn’t right,” she murmured.

  She turned in a slow circle. There, in the center of a clearing, lay a perfect ring of dead grass. Inside it, nothing grew. The Feywild never allowed such stillness. Life always pushed back, always found a way. Yet here… it had simply stopped.

  And then she heard it.

  A whisper.

  Soft, like a breath drawn through leaves. No words—just sound. But it made her heart pound.

  “Hello?” she called out, trying to keep her voice steady. “Is someone there?”

  Silence answered.

  She stepped backward, nearly tripping on a root she hadn’t noticed. Her wings fluttered nervously, and the trees above her creaked. Not in the usual way. It sounded... strained.

  This place didn’t want her here.

  She swallowed hard, backing out of the clearing. Once past the ivy veil, the sunlight returned in full force, and she gasped without realizing she’d been holding her breath.

  The sprite-moths returned to her, buzzing and flickering like little stars. But Willow’s smile didn’t return.

  She turned her gaze back toward the strange clearing, just beyond the thicket. The rot had been subtle, but real. The whisper undeniable. And the stillness—that was the part that frightened her most. The Feywild never stood still.

  Willow clutched the small glass vial of dewdrops she’d collected earlier. A gift for the Court’s ritual tonight—but now, it felt unimportant.

  She looked toward the sky, where strange cloud patterns were forming—soft spirals, like ripples on a pond disturbed by something heavy beneath the surface.

  Something had changed in her grove.

  And she was going to find out what it was.