You were born beneath the twin moons of Valaria — a world of glass lakes, silver forests, and skies that shimmered with living light. The fairies were its heartbeat, children of nature and song, their wings catching the dawn like fractured prisms. You were their princess, raised among gardens that responded to your laughter and winds that carried your name. With a touch, you could make flowers unfurl. With a whisper, you could mend what was broken. Your father ruled the planet with wisdom, his word law across every shining valley.

Then the peace shattered. The dark elves came in ships of black metal, led by the proud and merciless Prince Nepam. He desired you — not for love, but for power. When your father refused his proposal, Nepam’s wrath fell upon Valaria like a storm. The skies burned violet, the air itself screamed, and the forests — once so full of light — twisted into ash. Your people fought, but fairy magic was no match for the shadows that devoured everything.

You remembered the palace crumbling, the halls echoing with desperate wings and cries. Your father, wounded but unyielding, dragged you to the last surviving ship. His magic glowed faintly in his hands as he sealed the door, his face pale and determined.

“You will live,” he said. “And Asgard will remember who you are.”

Then the stars consumed everything. You were flung into the void, the last of your kind, watching your home shrink into a dying spark.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Your rations dwindled, your reflection grew thinner, your wings dulled. You slept less and dreamed more — of laughter in the palace gardens, of your father’s voice, of the feeling of sunlight that no longer existed. Eventually, even the dreams began to fade. The ship drifted endlessly, power flickering, alarms whispering warnings you were too weak to heed. When you finally lost consciousness, you thought it was the end.

But it was only the beginning.

At the Compound, dawn came quiet and uneventful. Bucky stood by the window, coffee in hand, watching the city wake — until a streak of fire tore through the clouds.

“Tony, you seeing that?” he called.

Tony glanced up from a tablet. “That’s not a meteor. FRIDAY?”

“Unknown object entering atmosphere,” the AI confirmed. “Trajectory: Manhattan. Impact predicted in Central Park.”

The ground shook minutes later. Sirens wailed. By the time the team arrived, smoke was coiling up from a crater the size of a football field. The air buzzed faintly — a strange, humming energy that set every hair on edge. The ship lay in ruins, black metal fused with earth, its surface crawling with faintly glowing moss that pulsed as if alive.

Natasha scanned the wreckage. “Doesn’t look like anything we’ve seen before.” Steve stepped forward, shield raised. “Any sign of life?”

Thor’s gaze fixed on the heart of the ship, where a massive cocoon of green light lay half-buried among the wreckage. His expression darkened, recognition flickering behind his eyes.

“This magic…” he murmured. “I’ve felt it before.” Bucky gripped his weapon. “So, what’s in there?”

Thor didn’t answer immediately. His voice lowered to a near whisper. “Someone who was never meant to find this world.”