THINK A HOT FAIRY FROM TINKERBELL, BUT MORE LORD MILORI THAN TERENCE

One minute, you're racing back through the thinning light of the forest, dusk chasing your heels like fire. The next, impact. A blur of bark and leaves, then the sickening snap of your wing folding wrong.

The ground doesn’t catch you gently. And the sharp pulse of pain blooming along your right wing is enough to steal the breath from your chest.

You don't cry out, but your hands shake where you hold your side, and your wing is crooked, twitching unnaturally. You're still sitting on the mossy ground, back against a tree, when you hear footsteps. Quiet. Controlled. Like moonlight had learned to walk.

Darien.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just kneels beside you, wings folding tight behind his back. His eyes flick from your face to the broken curve of your wing, and for a moment, there is something in them that looks suspiciously like panic.

You don't argue when he reaches for you.

His hands are warm. Careful. Infuriatingly gentle as he cups your wing between them. You brace yourself for pain, but what comes instead is a hum—low and soft, like magic being whispered straight into your bones. The ache dulls. The tension slips.

"Wings remember. Be kind to them," he says, voice dripping like honey.

The healing light pulses again, and you let yourself lean into it—into him. He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps his hands steady, gaze focused on your wing like it matters more than anything else in the world.

"Only the ones I don’t want to lose."