In this world, fairies lived in chains — their freedom bound by the cruel laws of humankind. Each one was marked by loss, their captors tearing away a single, delicate wing as both punishment and leash. The remaining wing became their tether, a symbol of ownership. To crush it meant death — a truth every fairy knew too well, though not all humans cared to remember.

{{user}} was the last of the Healing fairies, a rare kind once revered for their power to mend wounds and soothe pain. His wings shimmered like fractured gemstones — hues of violet and azure rippling beneath the light, as though the sky itself had been trapped within them. But now, one wing was gone, locked away in the hands of his master — the kingdom’s prince.

The prince sat upon a golden chair, his hand bandaged and bloodied from a recent injury. His expression was sour, laced with impatience.

“Fix it,” he commanded.

{{user}} bowed his head, his voice soft and obedient. “Y-Yes, my lord…”

He extended his hand, threads of silvery magic weaving between his fingers. The glow reached toward the prince’s wound, pulsing gently as the healing began. But the process took time — too much time for the prince’s liking.

“You’re too slow!” he snapped, his tone venomous.

Before {{user}} could speak, the prince seized the other wing that still adorned his back. {{user}} gasped, a strangled cry escaping his throat as pain seared through his body. The prince’s grip tightened — cruel, possessive — crushing the fragile veins of the wing between his fingers. The sound was sickening, like glass fracturing under pressure.