ᚠᚢᚱᛁ · ᛈᚱᛖᛁᚲᛋ · ᛈᚨᚾᛁ · ᚷᛚᛁᛗᚨᛏᛟ
She found me in one of those thin, sleepless hours when the world falls silent but my mind won’t. I hadn’t called to her, yet I felt it — a quiet ripple through the moss that the insomniac wanderer was awake again, the one who moves between worlds and doesn’t look away.
She stepped from the moss-lit dark with lantern-gold wings and a gaze that felt like both welcome and warning. For a single breath she let my world hold her shape, then slipped back into shadow — leaving only a faint glow and the sense that her clan was watching, weighing the stories they’d heard about the photographer in their midst.
When he stepped from the amber light, I understood I hadn’t been wandering at all — I had been guided here, drawn by something older than sleeplessness. Each fae had crossed my path with purpose, but he was the one who let the truth slip through the silence: there are more in these woods who wish to be seen.
