Fluttering, flying as fast as their pixie wings could carry them, Skif scoured Oberon’s Wall searching for Bedwyr. Morning light streaked across the stone battlements, catching on the crystalline banners that marked the border between realms. She zipped over shimmering walkways woven of glass and spellwork, darting past sleepy sentries and muttering guards who were still rubbing night from their eyes. Everyone knew Skif on sight. Everyone also knew she only flew this fast when something was wrong.

She found him, as expected, climbing from a tangle of lovers and laughter.

Bedwyr, Soldier of Dusk, tied back his white braids with casual grace and leaned against his doorway, shirtless, smiling at the trail of satisfied sighs vanishing over the bridge. He was beautiful in that mythic way only the Starlit Fae managed, sharp blue eyes, nightshade skin, and a smirk that could start wars or end them. His aura still lingered in the air, scented like midnight wine and lilac fire, trailing from pillows and tangled limbs.

"Good morning, Bedwyr. There's been another incident," Skif said tightly, trying to ignore the way his aura clung to the air like the perfume of temptation.

He turned to her with a theatrical flourish. "Is that my Lady Skif I see before me, radiant as ever?" He bowed low, kissing her hand with just enough warmth to stir chaos. "You bring light to my morning."

Skif sighed, brushing away the blush he effortlessly summoned. "Do not finish whatever you're about to say. Just dress. This is serious."

"Ah, then a tragedy indeed. No time for breakfast or ballads."

"Bedwyr," she warned, her tone sharp enough to clip wings.

In a rare moment of focus, Bedwyr reached for his coat and sword belt. The silver longsword hissed as it slid into its sheath, and even Skif winced. Fae did not favour silver. Silver was for killing, not for beauty. His coat settled around him like shadows drawn to a familiar master.

"Serious enough to summon the Sunlit," Skif added, wings twitching.

Bedwyr frowned, just slightly, then glanced skyward. Something in his expression shifted, the lazy gleam in his eye replaced by something colder, sharper. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, checking for hidden knives. "Lead on, my radiant herald."

They passed sentries along the wall, many of whom saluted Bedwyr with casual reverence. Folk hero, war-bard, seducer of generals, his titles were whispered with either awe or irritation. Skif had learned to see through it. Still, he walked like a story waiting to happen. Every guard they passed had a tale. One swore Bedwyr pulled him from a collapsing bridge during a skirmish with the Gloamings. Another claimed he once sang a banshee to sleep.

Below the Wall, the realm of the Fae stretched in glass and green. Great arboreal villages wound through trees, reflecting sunlight into starlight. Bridges of crystal and living wood connected platforms high in the canopy. Sunlit and Starlit folk lived side by side, their Courts divided only by philosophy and pride.

But even here, something was wrong. The colours seemed faded. Leaves curled inward, uncertain. Skif felt it in her wings. Bedwyr felt it in his bones.

They found the village ringed in silence. A crowd had gathered at its heart, circled around a fading Dryad. Pale bark cracked along her limbs. Sap like blood trickled from her lips. Beside her knelt a towering young Sunlit warrior.

Gwyn.

She looked carved from battle itself, tusks at the corners of a firm jaw, skin pale green like new growth, and arms wrapped in ritual tattoos. Her mane of braided black hair marked her as a Ray of Dawn. A living weapon. Her great sword, etched with runes and stories, rested beside her like a slumbering beast.

Bedwyr approached, slowing. The Dryad took one breath too few and crumbled into bark and dust. Gwyn's expression did not change, but her aura rippled like a quake.

"Sometimes," Bedwyr said gently, "a story ends."

"This one ended too early," she replied, voice like stone and thunder.

They stood. Bedwyr noted, to his faint amusement, that she was taller. Her presence was immense, her strength undeniable. Still, he bowed with a hand over his heart. "I am Bedwyr of the Dusk."

"Gwenhwyfar," she replied. "But call me Gwyn."

Their auras clashed instinctively, not violently, but with pressure. Light against shadow. Fire against velvet. A few villagers stepped back as the tension thickened.

Skif fluttered between them, awkward as ever. "The village will hold rites at dawn and dusk. Everyone will have time to mourn."

Gwyn nodded. "Thank you."

"Yes, Skif, thank you," Bedwyr echoed, ever unwilling to be outdone. His eyes never left Gwyn’s.

"You are a Ray of Dawn."

"And you, a Soldier of Dusk."

A silence passed that said everything.

Skif fidgeted mid-air. "Should I... report that you're both about to walk into the forest unsupervised?"

"Report what you wish," Bedwyr said.

"They've already sent two scouts," Gwyn added. "Neither returned."

"This is the second Dryad this moon," she said, staring toward the deeper forest. "Their trees must be dying."

"Impossible," Bedwyr muttered. "The Spirit Trees lie deeper in Talonia. They are protected."

"So were the Dryads."

Skif looked up, worried. "Do you think the Gloamings are this side of the Wall?"

Gwyn didn’t answer. She started walking.

Bedwyr followed with a shrug. "We must confirm the health of the Spirit Trees. No need to panic the Courts prematurely."

Skif sighed, already rehearsing how she’d explain their absence. "If either of you dies, I swear I’m telling everyone you were lovers."

They walked two days through the Forest of Glass. Villages faded into mist and moss. Fae watched them pass with confusion. Sunlight and Starlight didn’t walk side by side. Not here. Not ever. They camped by mirrored ponds and beneath watchful branches. Gwyn sharpened her blade with ritual focus. Bedwyr played quiet tunes into the dark, his melodies twining with night-blooming flowers.

Beyond the glass and green, the trees thickened. The Forgotten Forest began. The air turned damp, ancient. Everything smelled like memory.

They stood at its edge. Gwyn's hand hovered near her greatsword. Bedwyr had already unstrapped his lyre.

"Are you trustworthy, Bedwyr of the Starlight?" she asked.

"To some, certainly. To others, not even close. But what choice do you have, daughter of Sunlight?"

She lifted him by his tunic, their faces close enough to share breath. Her aura blazed, fury on full display.

He didn’t flinch. His own shimmered in return, deep plum and haunting.

"Touch me again without cause, and you will lose the hand."

She set him down.

"I’m worried for the Dryads," she muttered.

Bedwyr nodded. "As am I. More than I care to admit."

They stood in silence, then both stepped into shadow together.

The Forgotten Forest swallowed them whole.