The stillness of the tree house settled like velvet over worn wood. Candlelight pooled in the hollows between books, gilding the spines where they lay scattered across the table in gentle disarray, volumes cracked open to reveal their secrets, covers kissed by time and touched by hands long turned to dust. The air held the scent of old paper and beeswax, lavender drying on the beams above, and something deeper, the green smell of living wood that pulsed slow and ancient through the very bones of the dwelling.

The four boys pressed forward, stepping over the threshold where sunlight gave way to the bright cathedral world of the Eldertree Forest. Oren paused first, head tipped back, breath escaping in a soft whistle as he tried to take in the full height of the nearest tree. Its trunk, pale as milk-stone, was mottled with lichen and age, roots webbed across the forest floor like the knuckles of ancient hands.

From the rippling wall of grass, a figure emerged, tall as the tallest reed, slender and supple, its body a seamless extension of the living grass blades. It glided forward, each movement fluid and silent, green skin shimmering with dew, hair a silken crest undulating with the breeze. The air seemed to still around it, and the faces in the grass leaned in, their forms dissolving into the creature's wake. Light caught on its limbs, scattering in fleeting rainbows, as if the dawn itself had woven this guardian from the marrow of the meadow.

Lisera's form radiated magic, terrifying and beautiful, as she faced the huddled group. The ridge felt smaller, the world narrowed beneath Lisera's shadow, and even the wind seemed to hesitate.

Nix stood apart, trembling. His wings had retracted moments ago with a sickening sensation, flesh knitting closed over the wounds at his shoulder blades, though the ache remained raw and insistent. Magic guttered within him, leaving him small and slight once more. The hollow in his chest throbbed with each shallow breath, the drain of magic leaving him dizzy and spent.

The ravines below twisted in shadow, their depths swallowing sound and warmth alike. Above, the ridge offered no shelter, only exposure to the growing wrath of the storm. The wind bit without mercy, carrying the taste of rain and the promise of thunder. Lightning flickered behind the clouds, turning their edges a dull violet, whilst the company pressed onwards, heads bowed against the gale.

The hours had aged the camp, carving silence between the figures gathered close to the fire’s frail light. The embers pulsed in fitful rhythm, casting wavering silhouettes against the alcove’s stone, their forms both shelter and prison as the ravines beyond surrendered to blackness. The sky, heavy and implacable, withheld its stars, save for a lone silver moon strung low and watchful, its face blurred by drifting veils of mist.

Dream pressed on him like a tide. Nix knew he was sleeping, felt the weight of his body upon the cliff top, the cool stone beneath his shoulders where his wing wounds still ached. Yet he felt himself drifting, unmoored. He sensed his friends close by in their quiet watch, untroubled, unaware of Simi's presence, sharp and relentless, somewhere beyond the ravines.

his slender hands traced patterns in the air, each movement trailing a fine filament of light that unfurled and twisted, weaving itself into delicate, fluttering shapes. Tiny motes gathered, coalescing into iridescent butterflies that danced and shimmered above the planks, wings glinting like fragments of dawn.