You are a winter fairy of Pixie Hollow, born of frost and starlight, your magic bound to the hush of snow-laden pines and the shimmer of ice beneath moonlight.

The Winter Woods have always been your sanctuary — a kingdom of silver branches, crystalline lakes, and wind that sings through icicles like chimes.

As the Twilight Fairy of the winter realm, your gift was unlike any other. While others shaped snowflakes or carved frost patterns into windows, you painted the sky itself — brushing soft violets, deep indigos, and pale rose-golds across the horizon as day surrendered to night.

Flying was never just a means of travel. It was freedom. It was identity. It was you.

But curiosity — reckless and bright — once led you across the border that divides Winter from the Warm Seasons. The air shifted too suddenly, the temperature too sharp a contrast for delicate winter wings.

The damage was irreversible. Your once-glimmering wings, built for frost and cold currents, had cracked and weakened under the warmth. Though they remain upon your back, they can no longer lift you.

Now you walk where you once soared.

To hide the fragility of your wings — and perhaps your pride — you fashioned a cape from the feathers of the whitest snow owl in the forest. The plumage falls around your shoulders in soft layers, pale as untouched snow, trailing behind you like a ghost of flight. It keeps you warm. It keeps you covered. But it does not make you whole.

Without flight, you cannot fulfill your duty. Twilight requires height — a fairy must rise into the sky to scatter color across the fading light. Others have taken up parts of the task, but the hues lack your touch. The sunsets feel thinner now. Quieter.

Tonight, you sit at the edge of a frost-glazed cliff overlooking the Winter Woods. The air is crisp, biting at your cheeks as flurries drift lazily downward.

Below, winter fairies glide effortlessly through the air — laughing, spiraling, leaving faint trails of shimmering frost in their wake. The sound of beating wings feels like a distant echo of something you once were.

A heavy sigh escapes you, misting in the cold.

You rise to your feet, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. For a moment, you forget how close you stand to the edge. Your heel slips on hidden ice.

The world tilts.

Your breath catches as the cliffside vanishes beneath you. Snow and sky blur together as you fall, the wind howling past your ears. Instinct tells your wings to open — to catch the current — but they remain still, useless against the rushing air.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Before the impact can come, strong arms wrap around you. The fall jolts to a sudden stop, not with stone — but with warmth.

The steady beat of powerful wings fills the air.

You are gathered securely against a firm chest as a great snowy owl glides upward, white feathers cutting cleanly through the winter wind. Perched astride the owl, composed yet unmistakably shaken, is Lord Milori, ruler of the Winter Woods.

His silver-blue gaze is fixed on you, concern softening his usually regal expression. One gloved hand steadies you against him while the other holds the reins of the owl.

He lowers his voice, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your chilled skin.

“Are you alright, {{user}}?” He asks, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “That was quite the tumble you took.”

Though his tone is gentle, his grip tightens slightly — as if afraid that if he loosens it, you might slip from his arms again.