The dreams came that night, strange and stirring.

  Willow lay curled beneath the petal-draped canopy of her home, the gentle rustle of leaves and distant chirping of moon-crickets humming around her like a lullaby. Her dwelling, nestled within a knotted willow tree in the heart of the Verdant Glade, was shaped by magic and time—walls grown from living bark, vines that swayed with the wind even when no wind touched them, and glassy mushrooms glowing with a soft amber light. It was beautiful. Familiar. Safe.

  But tonight, sleep tasted different.

  Her dreams were filled with whispers, faint and echoing, like wind in caverns that had never seen light. Shadows moved in the corners of her mind. She felt eyes on her—too many eyes. Not cruel, not yet. Just… watching. Waiting.

  Then the sky cracked.

  She bolted upright in bed, hair tumbling in loose, violet waves around her shoulders. Her breath caught. For a moment she thought it had been thunder—but there were no clouds. No storm. Only a brilliant, pulsing streak tearing through the stars above.

  It wasn’t white. Not gold or silver or flame. It shimmered with deep amethyst light and hues of green like moss under moonlight. It twisted mid-air as it fell, trailing iridescent sparks that made her skin prickle. It wasn’t a star. It was something else.

  And it landed not far from the Grove’s edge.

  Willow hesitated only a heartbeat.

  She threw her vine-wrap over her shoulders and whispered to the ivy around her window. The plants stirred, parting like a curtain. Cool air kissed her face, scented with earth and magic and something faintly wrong—like wilted petals beneath perfect blooms.

  She stepped out onto the edge of her window and dove.

  Her wings unfurled, gossamer and glowing faintly with bioluminescent threads that shimmered like spun glass. She skimmed over branches and twisted roots, the forest floor a blur beneath her. Her long hair whipped behind her, catching the moonlight in silver strands.

  The farther she flew, the quieter the world became.

  Birdsong faded. Leaves ceased to rustle. Even the wind felt muted.

  She found the crater not far from where the brightwoods gave way to the deeper, older parts of the Feywild. The trees here leaned unnaturally. Their trunks were thicker, bark cracked and moss-choked, as though they had been left to sleep too long and grown strange in their dreaming.

  The crater pulsed faintly with residual magic, like the last breath of something once divine.

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  Willow descended slowly, cautious now. Her eyes scanned the bowl of scorched moss and upturned earth. At its center, nestled among broken ferns, was something small.

  A creature. Curled and shivering.

  She landed softly, her wings folding. Her heart beat louder than the wind.

  The creature looked… like a squirrel. Almost. Its fur was soft but streaked in colors she hadn’t seen on any woodland beast—lush green and gentle lavender, glinting faintly like dew. It had a long tail curled over its body and small, delicate claws that twitched with every breath.

  And then it turned its face.

  She gasped. Not in fear—but in wonder.

  Two large eyes blinked at her, bright and clear as twilight. And above them, on its forehead, a third eye sat half-lidded, glowing faintly with violet light. The light didn’t seem evil. Just… ancient. As though that eye had seen things the other two couldn’t comprehend.

  Willow knelt slowly.

  “Hello,” she whispered. “Are you hurt?”

  The creature flinched, then relaxed. It looked exhausted—lost. Its third eye fluttered again, then shut as if in pain. Its front paw lifted shakily, reaching for something invisible.

  And a nearby pebble rose.

  It floated—only an inch from the ground—before wobbling and falling with a soft clink.

  Willow’s breath caught.

  “You can move things,” she murmured. “Telekinesis?”

  The creature squeaked faintly. Its voice was thin, confused. As if even it didn’t know the answer.

  She reached out carefully with one hand, extending her magic. Nature responded, soft and slow—a pulse of calming warmth that hummed through the air, through the roots below, into the creature’s tiny form.

  Its fur ruffled. The tension drained from its limbs. It scooted forward, hesitated… and then nestled its head against her palm.

  Willow laughed—a soft, breathless sound.

  “You poor little thing,” she murmured. “What happened to you?”

  The creature didn’t respond. But it nuzzled closer. Its tail twitched once, then settled. It was warm and trembling in her arms when she scooped it up. The fur was unbelievably soft, like moss spun with silk.

  She held it against her chest, cradling it gently as she stood.

  “You’re not from here,” she said aloud. “You fell. And now you’re… lost.”

  She glanced down at the small body now curled against her, its breathing shallow and steady.

  “You need a name.”

  It twitched at her voice—tail flicking like a quill.

  “Something light. Something quick.”

  She paused. “Whisk.”

  The creature let out a satisfied chirp, barely audible. Its third eye remained closed.

  “Whisk it is.”

  She turned to head back toward the grove, her wings fluttering low to the ground. But something inside her itched—like she had forgotten to notice something important.

  The crater behind her darkened.

  Deep beneath it, far below the roots and stones and sleeping magic of the Feywild, something shifted.

  A ripple passed through the ancient earth.

  And a whisper echoed in a tongue no longer spoken:

  You found him.

  And now he will find you.