Finn trudged along the moonlit path, his feet carrying him toward Crimsonshores as if by instinct. Whether it had been days or weeks since he’d left the farm, he no longer knew—nor did he care. He let the hours blur, wandering aimlessly, too intoxicated to keep track. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost himself entirely, in both mind and purpose, until neither his surroundings nor his own feelings mattered anymore.

  The night air bit with a sharp, unforgiving chill, but Finn barely felt it. Grief had numbed him far more than the cold ever could. His thoughts circled, relentless, always returning to Woods—his brother, his twin. Gone.

  It hadn’t sunk in. Not truly. It lingered at the edges of his mind, a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. And every time the weight of it threatened to press down—to become real—he took another drink, drowning the truth before it could take hold.

  His feet carried him forward, past twisted roots and low-hanging branches, dragging him back to the shores like flotsam caught in an unyielding tide.

  Woods was supposed to be the strong one. The survivor. Even after he’d been inflicted with corruption sickness, he’d fought through it, adapted and endured. It should have been impossible for him to die like this, so suddenly, so... final.

  A hollow ache spread through Finn’s chest. If only he’d been there instead of Woods. If circumstances had been different somehow, if he could’ve been the one to die. If only…

  Cold trails tracked down his cheeks, and Finn lifted a hand to his face, surprised to find tears there. He hadn’t cried like this since... since the culling of the sprites. Since watching his people die while he ran away like a coward, leaving Woods behind.

  Finn took another step forward, only to hit something hard and immovable, as if he’d run into an invisible wall. Instead of the obstacle merely stopping him, he was thrown backward, almost violently. He landed hard on the ground, as though something unseen had hurled him down. He scrambled to his feet, confused as he searched for whatever had stopped him—yet nothing was there. He looked around for a few heartbeats, but nothing happened. Unease rising, he took a cautious step forward. Then another, and another. Had he somehow tripped over his own feet?

  Something pressed against his shoulders, solid yet intangible, blocking his path. Finn tried to step around it, but the pressure followed, keeping him rooted in place. Through blurred vision, he made out a dark shape, more void than substance, its edges bleeding into the night. Even with sprites ability to see in the dark, something Matt had teasingly called “darkvision.” Finn strained to see the being in front of him, but this… this thing defied his physical senses, a void more felt than seen, chilling him as it stood like a dark sentinel in the night.

  “Go home,” the thing, the void, commanded.

  Finn wiped his face with the back of his hand, squinting at the shadowy figure. “I’m trying to.” His voice came out rough, broken.

  “Go home,” the voice repeated, its ethereal tone sending a chill down Finn’s spine.

  “My home is in the shores.” Finn’s voice cracked. “It’s been a few years, but I was born there. It’s where I belong.” The words felt hollow even as he spoke them, a truth that had grown stale with time. Or maybe it wasn’t the truth anymore. Finn narrowed his eyes at the darkness that stood before him, deeper than night, its edges fraying like smoke against the shadows. Why did it stand at his own height? Was this strange entity mirroring him, meeting his eyes as if purposefully aligning itself? Finn shook his head, half-wondering if he’d consumed a bit too much muddleleaf on the journey back home.

  “Go back to the farm,” the voice pressed. “You belong with the others. You belong with Skye.”

  The mention of her name cut through his grief like a knife. Finn’s heart skipped, his muscles tensing as he peered into the darkness. “How... how do you know about Skye? What are you?”

  The pressure against his shoulders vanished. The night air stilled, leaving only cricket chirps and his own ragged breathing. The presence had disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

  “What the—?” Finn spun around, scanning the empty path. Moonlight filtered through the trees, casting strange shadows that played tricks on his eyes, but the mysterious figure was gone.

  Finn’s hands shook as he reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, his fingers closing around the cool, smooth glass of a bottle. Enchanted glass. It was simple on the outside, yet held far more liquid than its size would suggest—a clever crafting trick from Reed. Moonlight caught the liquor inside, casting a faint, ghostly glow across his hand. He’d taken a few swigs on the way, each one meant to dull the edges of the grief gnawing at his chest. But like most things that promised escape, it barely made a dent. He yanked the cork free and upended the bottle. The precious liquid splashed onto the dirt path, soaking into the earth.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “Never again,” he muttered, tossing the empty bottle deep into the underbrush. The glass shattered somewhere in the darkness.

  His shaking hands found the familiar leather pouch next, the one containing his prized muddleleaf. He’d collected this batch himself from the southern isles, where it grew wild and potent.

  Finn opened the pouch and scattered its contents to the wind. The dried leaves danced away on the breeze, disappearing into the shadows between the trees.

  “Done with that too.” His voice was rough but determined. He stuffed the empty pouch in his pack and squared his shoulders.

  Without the weight of the bottle and herbs, his pack felt lighter. Or maybe it was something else that felt lighter. Finn turned on his heel, facing back the way he’d come. Back toward Matt’s farm. Back toward the other sprites. Back toward Skye.

  He took a step forward, then another. His feet found their rhythm on the moonlit path, carrying him home.

  ***

  Clay stood at the cliff’s edge in his owl form, looking down at the drop below, his new metal wing catching glints of afternoon sunlight. It wasn’t a sheer height by any means, but he could see why Titus looked apprehensive. For a human, a fall from this distance would be disastrous—for a sprite, maybe a broken leg and a day in bed. And only if he landed in a weird way. Clay felt a flicker of reassurance.

  Beside Titus, Reed examined the prosthetic intently. It was their third attempt, the latest in a line of carefully crafted prototypes, and today was the day to test if their work had finally paid off.

  The group was joined by Rock, Flint, and—unexpectedly—Skye, who had probably come along purely out of curiosity. The others exchanged glances at her arrival, but she just shrugged, as if challenging anyone to question her presence.

  Clay glanced down the cliffside, taking a steadying breath before spreading his wings. The new metal wing extended alongside his real one, seamlessly matching its span and weight. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, each piece engineered to perfection. Reed and Titus had put their hearts into this. Now it was time for Clay to test it. His heart hammered; it had been years since he’d flown.

  “Hey, Clay,” Reed’s voice cut through his focus, grounding him before he could take that final step off the ledge. “Remember when Woods taught you how to fly?”

  Clay froze, his wings lowering as he took a cautious step back from the edge. The memory drifted back like a distant echo. It wasn’t vivid, yet it was there, as if tucked into the corners of his mind, waiting for this moment. None of the sprites had an avian form, not even Woods, but Woods had insisted, time and time again, that Clay should learn. He could almost hear their laughter echoing from the memory of them both climbing up the tallest trees in the forest together.

  In Clay’s mind it had always felt like a small thing—something Woods would’ve done for any of the sprites. But now, standing here with a new wing that Woods would never see, it struck him as something more.

  Reed chuckled, his gaze softening as his eyes grew glassy. “You know, he never told you, but Woods was terrified of heights. He hated climbing those towering trees.” Reed’s laugh was a bittersweet sound, carrying both warmth and grief.

  “Rock,” Rock added, nodding to Reed’s words, confirming them.

  Clay blinked, stunned. Woods, afraid of heights? The idea felt impossible—Woods had always seemed invincible, untouched by fear.

  “I never would’ve guessed,” Flint said. “He wasn’t afraid of anything.”

  Reed and Rock exchanged a look, a shared understanding passing between them. “No, he was scared,” Reed said softly. “But he wanted you to learn, so he did it anyway.”

  Clay turned back to the cliff’s edge, feeling the weight of Woods’ legacy settle in his chest. His heart pounded, but now it carried more than fear—it carried resolve. Woods hadn’t just shown him how to fly; he’d taught him to leap, to risk falling for the chance to soar. And now, even in his absence, Woods was showing him one final lesson—how to do it scared.

  With Reed’s words echoing on the wind and in his head, he ran and leapt off the cliff. Heart pounding, he whispered a prayer that Titus and Reed’s creation would hold.

  The leather stretched across the metal frame held firm, catching the wind exactly like his other wing. Clay took a breath, looking out over the vast expanse, heart thundering as he flew. He was doing it—really doing it. The air rushed past, carrying away years of pain, pulling him back into the sky. He hadn’t felt this rush in so long, and the ache of those lost years mingled with exhilaration, as if Woods’ quiet courage was right there with him, lifting him higher.

  ***

  “Are you crying?” Reed asked, casting a sidelong glance at the blacksmith. Titus shook his head, quickly wiping a calloused hand across his eyes.

  “No, not crying—the sun’s just in my eyes,” Titus muttered, quietly sniffling.

  Reed raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder at the sunset behind them. Rock met his eyes and simply shrugged, but he knew they were all feeling it. There was something deeply moving in watching Clay finally become airborne again, after years of pain caused by the loss of his arm—and, with it, his wing. Seeing him now, wings against the sunset, felt like a part of all of them had taken flight too.

  Flint sniffled next to Rock. “I just wish Woods could’ve seen this,” he murmured, casting a somber shadow over the experience.

  A quiet settled over them, the weight of Woods’ absence weighing heavily on their hearts as they watched Clay soar. Each of them felt it, that bittersweet ache, knowing how much this moment would have meant to him.

  “He would’ve been proud.” A figure appeared next to Rock and Flint, silhouetted against the setting sun and making them all jump. Skye shot to her feet, squinting at the familiar slouched shoulders and messy, curly hair.

  “Finn?” she whispered.

  Before anyone could react, Skye darted to him. She crashed into Finn, wrapping her arms around him tight enough to make him stumble backward.

  “You idiot,” she said. “I thought you’d left for good.”

  Finn’s arms slowly came up to hold her. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he murmured into her hair.

  It had been weeks since anyone had seen him, and now, here he was—though he looked like he’d wrestled with the shadows themselves. He looked terrible. Worn and haggard, yet there was something lighter in his gaze—an acceptance, though tempered by the sadness they all carried.

  It was great to have him back home.