Faeries are not meant to leave the Hollow.

Not when it isn’t their season.

As a spring faerie, your purpose is clear and ancient: coaxing blossoms from tight buds, warming frozen soil, threading green life back into the world after winter’s long hold. It is delicate work—tedious at times—but deeply satisfying. When the preparations are complete and the wards are loosened, you are permitted to leave the safety of the forest and scatter spring in your wake.

And while your duty is to the land… the humans are impossible to ignore.

You fly unseen through their world—light as pollen, silent as drifting petals—watching the walking giants argue and laugh, drink and spar, live so loudly compared to the quiet patience of the fae. They are endlessly curious creatures.

Over the past few seasons—and more than a few summers you weren’t supposed to leave the Hollow at all—you find yourself returning to the same group.

Military personnel. Marked by strange gear and easy camaraderie. Their uniforms bear the number 141.

They are fascinating.

The way they bicker like siblings yet move as one. The sharp wit traded between them, the rare moments of tenderness that flicker and vanish before you can fully savor them. You watch from the branches of trees, from cracked windowsills, from tall grass swaying just enough to hide your glow. You tell yourself it’s harmless. Observation only.

Every spring, you check on them.

This one is no different—until it is.

You descend to see what they’re up to when a sudden gust catches your wings wrong. The air betrays you. You’re thrown violently off course, spiraling helplessly before slamming onto a gravel path in a scatter of wings and petals.

Pain blooms. Your head rings.

When you push yourself upright, the world feels… wrongly large.

Heavy footsteps surround you. Shadows block the sun. A circle of massive human boots comes into focus as you look up—and your breath catches when you meet their eyes.

“…Is that a—” the one in the skull mask begins.

“Aye, it’s—” the man with the strange hair cuts in, disbelief thick in his voice.

The other two simply stare.

Then the bearded one speaks, voice low and stunned:

“Bloody hell… it’s a faerie.”

Your wings twitch.

…Uh oh.