The morning mist had just begun to lift when Willow returned to the Grove.

  Dew clung to the petals of the giant blossom trees, each droplet catching the soft morning light like tiny crystals. Birds sang overhead in fluted tones, and the scent of blooming nectar drifted lazily through the forest paths. It should’ve felt peaceful. It should’ve felt like home.

  But Willow’s mind was elsewhere.

  She held Whisk gently against her chest, wrapped in the fold of her mossgreen shawl. The creature stirred now and then—still groggy from his fall, his three eyes flickering open only briefly before sleep tugged them shut again. His tail occasionally floated instead of dragging. Once, a leaf near her foot skittered out of the way without her touching it.

  Whisk was full of quiet, subtle magic. Like the kind that slumbered in ancient seeds or old forest stones—power that hadn’t yet remembered what it was.

  Willow’s wings fluttered softly as she crossed the threshold into the Grove proper, a hidden circle of forest where ancient trees leaned protectively inward, forming natural arches and spirals of bark and bloom. Homes like hers were nestled high in the trees, shaped by magic, music, and time. Soft trails of glowing pollen drifted through the air like living stardust.

  She felt eyes on her.

  Not the eyes of trees. People.

  “Willow?” came a voice from above.

  She glanced up to see Maren, a sprightly court fairy with iridescent green wings and a crown of clover atop her curls, peeking from a window of woven birch bark.

  “You’re up early,” Maren added, floating down in a graceful spiral.

  Willow offered a small smile and tightened her wrap protectively around Whisk. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Maren tilted her head. “You felt it too?”

  Willow’s breath caught. “You felt something?”

  Maren nodded, her brow furrowed. “A shimmer in the Veil. A shift in the leylines. I thought it was just my dreams at first, but…” She trailed off as her eyes dropped to Willow’s arms. “What’s that?”

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  Willow hesitated, then slowly unfolded the wrap.

  Whisk stirred, blinking his two main eyes open. The third eye remained shut, as though conserving its strength—or hiding.

  Maren gasped. “He’s… adorable. What is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Willow admitted. “He fell from the sky. There was a crater. I think… I think something went wrong.”

  The other fairy leaned in, her tone cautious now. “Does he speak?”

  “No. But he understands things. And he… moves things.”

  Maren straightened, wings twitching. “You should tell Elder Thalanil.”

  Willow stiffened. “He’d lock Whisk away in the crystal hollows and start chanting about omens and echoes. He barely trusts fireflies that blink too fast.”

  “He’s the Verdant Court’s Warden for a reason,” Maren said softly. “If this is part of some deeper shift in the Feywild, we need to know.”

  Willow didn’t answer. Her instincts screamed otherwise. Whisk hadn’t brought the darkness—he was running from it. She was sure of that. He didn’t feel wrong.

  He felt… lost.

  “I’ll talk to him soon,” Willow lied.

  Maren gave her a long look but didn’t press further. “Fine. But be careful. Dreams have been strange all across the Court. Even the Dryads have gone quiet.”

  She flew off without another word.

  Willow waited until she was gone before ascending to her dwelling again. Once inside, she sealed the door with a whisper to the ivy and set Whisk down on her bed of moss. He stretched, yawned—an oddly high-pitched squeak—and rolled onto his back, his small belly rising and falling gently.

  She sat beside him and let the silence settle around them.

  “Why did you fall?” she asked softly. “What were you before you forgot yourself?”

  He didn’t answer, of course. But when she reached out, he leaned into her hand. His third eye twitched.

  Later that day, she tried to show him the Grove. He was wary at first—skittering under her shawl whenever someone new approached. But he warmed quickly, especially when she led him to the Whispering Pond.

  It was there, beside the glowing blue water, that she noticed something odd.

  Whisk had trotted ahead to sniff at a mushroom ring. As he stepped past the circle, the grass beneath his tiny paws blackened. Barely—a touch of decay, like frost kissed the edge of the leaves. And just as quickly, it was gone.

  Willow stared.

  He didn’t notice.

  She looked around. No one else had seen.

  Later that night, after the forest had quieted and the Grove lay under the gaze of the twin moons, Willow sat beside her window with Whisk curled beside her shoulder.

  And she whispered, “You don’t even know, do you? Something’s after you. Or maybe… part of it is still with you.”

  Whisk made a sleepy chirp.

  She glanced at the stars. They twinkled above like they always had, beautiful and cold.

  But the wind whispered through the leaves—and something in it listened back.