It was only a few days before the shift into winter, and Pixie Hollow buzzed with that familiar mix of urgency and excitement. The Nature‑talents were in full preparation mode, gathering everything the winter fairies would need once the border opened—seed stores, woven leaf‑blankets, lantern pods, and bundles of preserved berries. Every fairy had a job, and the air shimmered with movement.

Baxter was helping the garden fairies stack baskets near the transport clearing. His arms were dusted with pollen and leaf bits, freckles standing out against his sun‑touched skin as he hefted another woven basket onto the growing pile. His wings flickered with warm amber light each time he lifted something heavy, catching the glow of the late‑autumn sun. He worked quickly, efficiently, but with that easy calm he always carried—like the forest itself breathed through him.

Just as he reached for another basket, the deep, echoing horn sounded across the Hollow.

The Winter Arrival Call.

Every fairy froze for a heartbeat. Then the clearing erupted into motion as they hurried to line up along the path leading to the border. Baxter wiped his hands on his trousers, tied his long dirty‑blonde hair back with a strip of leaf‑fiber, and took his place among the other sparrow men and garden‑talents.

A cold breeze swept through the trees—unnatural for this side of the border. Frost‑magic always traveled ahead of the winter fairies, like a polite knock before entering. The leaves around them shimmered with a thin dusting of ice that melted almost instantly in the warmer air.

Then they appeared.

Dozens of winter fairies glided into view, riding atop snowy owls whose wings beat in slow, powerful strokes. The owls’ feathers sparkled with frost, and the fairies themselves were dusted in shimmering ice crystals. Their wings had already been frosted—necessary to keep them from melting in the warmer seasons. Without that protective layer, they couldn’t cross the border safely.

Baxter felt the temperature drop as the owls descended. His breath puffed faintly in the air, and his forest‑green eyes reflected the glittering frost swirling around the winter fairies. He’d always admired their magic from afar—so different from his own earthy, grounded talent, yet just as ancient.

The snowy owls landed gracefully, talons sinking into the moss with barely a sound. The winter fairies dismounted, their movements elegant and crisp, like snowflakes falling in perfect patterns.

Baxter stepped forward with the others, offering the first basket. The winter fairy who took it gave him a polite nod, her frosted wings chiming softly like tiny icicles.

He returned the nod, but his attention flicked briefly to the owls. One of them—a young one, feathers still slightly fluffy—tilted its head at him. Baxter couldn’t help smiling. Animals always seemed to sense his connection to the forest, even those from the Winter Woods.

As the exchange continued, the clearing filled with the soft sounds of winter magic meeting autumn warmth: the crackle of frost, the rustle of leaves, the gentle hoots of snowy owls. Baxter moved through the tasks with practiced ease, but there was a spark of excitement in him too. The seasonal shift always stirred something in his chest—a reminder of how deeply he was tied to the cycles of the forest.

Winter was coming, and the Hollow was ready.

And Baxter, as always, was right in the heart of it.