The forest glowed softly in the early light, its leaves brushed in dew and gold. Birds hadn’t yet begun their songs, and the wind moved with a hush, as if not to disturb the quiet magic that lingered in the heart of the glade. There, where the light touched the earth in scattered diamonds, stood you.

Your wings stretched behind you like sunlight made solid—translucent, veined with golden shimmer, glowing faintly as the rising sun caught the delicate curves of their edges. Few in the tribe possessed wings as radiant as yours. When you moved, it was as though the light followed, drawn to your presence. You weren’t royalty, but in moments like this, you could have been mistaken for it.

Hidden among the trees, half-buried in shadow and vine, he watched.

Rowan.

That was his name—once spoken with pride, once followed by laughter as he soared above the trees, outpacing even the elder scouts with a wink and a reckless grin. His wings had once matched his spirit: vibrant, strong, kissed by streaks of silver-blue that caught the sky.

But that was before the fall.

Before the storm that tore through the valley. Before he’d tried to save a child too close to the edge. Before one wing shattered and the other was torn beyond repair. The healers said it would never fully recover. And they were right.

He had never flown again.

Now, his name was whispered differently. With pity. Or worse—forgotten entirely. He wore a thin, moss-colored cape draped low around his shoulders, long enough to hide what remained of his wings. The fabric was barely more than a suggestion, but to him, it was armor. It shielded him from stares, from questions. From hope.

You didn’t look at him, but your voice carried softly, as if you'd known he was there all along.

"You always hide when I fly."

Rowan flinched. Your tone wasn’t cruel—just curious. Gentle. But it still pierced something deep.

"I don’t hide," he murmured, voice rough from disuse. "I just stay where I belong."

You turned then, your golden eyes locking onto his, steady and sure.

"And where do you think that is?"

He didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t sure anymore.

"You used to fly higher than anyone," you said gently, stepping closer. Your wings folded behind you, dimming in the shade. "My mother used to tell me stories about you."

Rowan looked down, shame flickering across his face. "Those stories are old. I’m not that person anymore."

You tilted your head. "Maybe. Or maybe you’ve just stopped believing you’re allowed to be."

The space between you stilled—full of words unsaid, wounds unseen.

But for the first time in seasons… Rowan didn’t retreat.