Willow awoke to the feeling of something pulling at her.

  Not a hand. Not even a sound. Just... a tug—like a thread from her heart had been wound tight overnight and was now being gently drawn toward the center of the Grove.

  She sat up, bleary-eyed. Whisk was curled beside her, all three eyes closed in deep sleep. He twitched occasionally, caught in dreams she couldn’t share.

  Willow brushed a hand across his soft fur and slipped quietly out of bed.

  The Court was calling.

  The Verdant Glade Court didn’t look like mortal thrones and stone halls. It was a place grown into existence—a great hollowed tree at the Grove’s heart, its branches twisting upward like arms reaching for the sun. Ivy draped the open archways. Flowers bloomed along the beams. The floor was a living tapestry of moss and clover, and the air pulsed with slow, deep magic, like the heartbeat of an ancient creature.

  The Court’s members were already gathering.

  Willow hovered near the edge of the hall, her wings tucked close. She spotted familiar faces: Maren perched lightly on a low-hanging branch; Elder Thalanil, tall and gaunt, his robes embroidered with endless twisting vines; and at the center, radiating serene authority, sat Lady Thalendra herself.

  Lady Thalendra’s hair was a cascading river of golden blossoms, her skin the color of rich soil, her eyes deep and timeless. She wore a mantle woven of living vines and blooming flowers, and as she rose, her presence seemed to silence the Court without a word.

  "My children of the Verdant Glade," she said, her voice both soft and somehow carrying to every ear, "something has shifted in our lands."

  The air in the hall tightened.

  Thalanil stepped forward, his voice sharp and precise. "The leylines hum with dissonance. Dreams turn sour. The balance frays."

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A Dryad elder twisted uneasily where she stood, her bark-skin cracking faintly.

  Lady Thalendra lifted a hand, and the hall stilled.

  "There is talk," she said, "of strange things falling from the sky. Of whispers beneath the roots. Of corruption spreading like shadow through the Glade."

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  Willow swallowed, guilt knotting in her chest. She hugged herself tighter.

  "You," Lady Thalendra said, and her gaze—impossibly old, impossibly knowing—fell directly on Willow. "You walked closest to the edge of the change."

  Dozens of eyes turned.

  Willow stepped forward, throat dry. "I… saw it, my lady. Yesterday. Beyond the honeyblossom thicket. A clearing... where nothing lived. Not even moss. It was cold. Empty."

  Thalanil's brow furrowed. "And yet you did not bring word until now?"

  "I—" Willow hesitated. "I needed to be sure. And…" She almost said I found something. But the words stuck.

  Lady Thalendra studied her for a long, measuring moment.

  "Describe it," she said simply.

  Willow did. She spoke of the silence, the dead grass, the wrongness in the air. As she spoke, she could feel the Court’s mood darken. Fear. Wariness.

  When she finished, silence hung heavy.

  Thalanil broke it. "It matches the old signs."

  Willow blinked. "Old signs?"

  Lady Thalendra's face was grave. "From before the Verdant Glade grew into power. When the Feywild was wilder. More dangerous. There were forces... creatures... that sought to claim it for their own."

  Willow’s heart thudded painfully.

  "The Verdant Glade was founded to resist them," Thalanil continued. "We bound them in dreams and roots. We banished their whispers to the deep soil."

  "But," Lady Thalendra said, her voice quieter now, "bindings weaken. Roots wither. Dreams... can be broken."

  A chill spread through the hall.

  Thalanil turned, robes whispering across the moss. "We must act swiftly. Contain it. Find the source and seal it again before it festers."

  Some of the Court nodded in agreement. Others looked fearful, uncertain.

  Lady Thalendra's gaze returned to Willow. "You will lead us to where you found the clearing."

  Willow opened her mouth—and hesitated.

  If she led them there… they might find Whisk’s trail.

  They might take him.

  Her pulse quickened. She bowed low to hide the emotion on her face. "Of course, my lady."

  She felt Thalanil’s sharp eyes on her as she backed away.

  That night, back in her tree-home, Willow paced in restless circles. Whisk sat on the windowsill, tail curled around his paws, watching her with quiet patience.

  She sank onto the floor, burying her face in her hands.

  "I can't let them find you," she whispered. "I don't know what you are. But I know you're not the enemy."

  Whisk tilted his head. His third eye opened a fraction—just a sliver—and Willow caught a glimpse of swirling purple light, like the heart of a storm locked behind glass.

  She shivered.

  Somewhere deep in the earth beneath the Grove, something shifted again.

  The first true crack.

  The corruption was no longer contained.

  And the Verdant Glade would soon learn that not all dreams could be trusted to remain dreams.