A warmth crept through Veilheim, soft as breath on glass, after months locked in frost. Water moved slowly over stone, its chill edged with the last of winter’s glow, while patches of green clung tighter each day. Pink branches rose up, reaching not quite straight, into a blue so clean it looked borrowed. Smells wove together - damp soil, flowers thick with nectar, a whisper of something sharp and growing between cracks. Underfoot, rock held echoes, almost singing, like the land itself had just let go of holding its breath.

Morning light slipped through reeds as Liora lifted her head inside the low wooden hut. Not sight - but air moving slowly across her nose told her the sun had climbed. Blue soaked into her fur, yes, yet also something sharper: ice-light shimmering under the surface, streaks like frozen stars pressed just below. Tan points flickered when she turned; a glow pooled along her side, quiet as breath. Gray dots marked her face, scattered as if someone tapped ash onto wet clay. Wind spoke first, always - then water giggling over stone, then trees tapping secrets to one another. Ground hummed where her feet rested, steady pulse rising up through bone.

Fangs, made of ivory, showed on each side of Liora’s upper jaw; poking down. Roots deep in frost-spirit blood, horses born under snow-heavy skies long before maps named the land Veilheim. Talk didn’t come easily; voices in market lanes, kids shouting games - it scraped, somehow. But if hands reached out, something older than thawing ground stirred beneath her ribs. She’d step forward anyway, even when slow steps dragged, especially then.

Fresh light washed over the fields beyond her cottage, yet within, breathless fear curled around each delicate new beginning.

A sliver of morning light slipped through the cracks in her wooden shutters, warm like old honey. Not silence, but sound - her ears caught the thin song of a wind chime above the door. Up she got, bare hooves meeting stone that bit with its usual chill. Coolness filled the small house, mixed with sharp pine and the ghost of last night’s herb-steeped drink.

Into the glow of the firelight she stepped, each exhale painting faint mist across the old timber above. That smell hit next - not familiar, nothing like home - more like cold iron left out overnight. The air carried a crispness, yes, but also fragments, echoes of what once fit together. A quiet signal that things had shifted while she looked away.

Clicking across the wooden planks, Liora followed the sound into the room. A simple space met her eyes - one curved table standing low in the middle, some handwoven baskets tucked to one side, and along the wall, a ledge of rock stacked with glass containers full of shriveled plants. Near the entrance, scattered on the ground, rested bits of snapped branches and autumn’s leftover foliage; nestled within that mess though, something odd caught the light - shiny, rounded coverings shaped like eggs, only much bigger than what any hen could lay.

That quiet drum inside her chest suddenly raced, uneven and sharp. A hove rose, brushing the smooth arc of something small. Warmth met her touch - odd, given how chill hung beneath new leaves overhead. Specks of pale purple dotted its surface, soft like mist. From deep inside came tiny knocks, steady as breath.

Liora remembered climbing the oak just after dawn touched the moss. Not sight but touch guided her hooves through strands of silver-grey weave tangled in branches wide as doors. Feathers softer than sparrow-down lined each curve where the young nestled. Her nose found every shift in texture, even those made by tiny claws scratching gently under moonlight. Something hooted once, low and close, then silence fell again. She stayed still while sounds moved around her - rustling leaves, distant snaps, one muffled giggle too loud for forest peace.

Later came stomps shaking bark loose. Spriggans crashing like storms across roots, drawn to glimmers caught in webbed twigs above ground. A mother owlcat hissed near Liora's shoulder without fear. They knew her scent now, trusted steps slow and sure on fragile limbs. When chaos passed, warmth pressed briefly against her leg- no words needed.

Out there among the roots, where the owlcats curled tight, she’d gone off like always with frost-berries on her mind - the kind that glimmer under thawing ice. Only this time, snapped branches whispered something different, while heat rose from eggs tucked too neatly into her old hollow.

A soft laugh, light as song, slipped in through the open pane, drifting on warm air. Toward the yard her ears turned now, pricked by motion. Between flowering bushes zipped tiny glowing shapes, wings humming fainter than breath. Not quite seen clearly, they spun - fair folk of old: pixies, sprites, even sly brownies - dancing without thought, their joy ringing sharp, like glass bells shaken hard.

Floating through air like dust, she caught meaning eyes never could. Tiny hands scrubbed corners where humans seldom look - those voices again, chirping their chore song just two days past. "Toss out what's stale," piped the chorus, "make room for fresh!" But one note bent sideways each time, sharp enough to snag quiet thoughts.

Liora moved into the open, sunlight tracing the slope of her shoulders, frost spiraling softly from her hooves with every motion. Color exploded across the garden - ruby tulips stood tall, golden daffodils nodded, while a few violet crocuses slipped quietly through dark earth. Bees stirred the air, their drone weaving through the faint shimmer of fae wings nearby.

A soft chuckle came from beside the lilac. There stood a tiny figure, wings shimmering like colored windows in sunlight. Busy hands had cleared last season’s tangle, making space for what's now peeking through. Fresh petals open wide under morning light. She spun midair, sending tiny beads of moisture flying - each catching the sun just right before vanishing into grass.

Liora dipped her chin toward her chest, breathing in the lilac around her. Quiet filled the air after she spoke - “Good… fresh” - so gentle it barely stirred the stillness. Her words came slow, almost caught in her throat: “I… saw a few... eggs.”

A flash of blue lit up the tiny face, sunlight catching the wide stare. Eggs? Surprise spilled into words, quick and high. Those belong to the owlcat, surely - such things are never just found. The sound slowed, stumbled. A breath passed, thin and quiet, while something dimmed behind the eyes. Maybe we did it, that whisper came, maybe we took what was there

Frost curled beneath Liora's hooves, then peeled off like old paper when she shifted. Around her, the fae hunched lower, their laughter fading into breathy silence. "Taken?" Her voice dipped, rough at the edges. What had driven it?

A small, grizzled brownie, his beard as tangled as roots, shuffled forward. “We were… cleaning, you see. The nest was… messy. The wind had blown twigs into it. We wanted to tidy, to make it nice for… for the owlcats. We… lifted the eggs to sort them, but then the wind - ”

A hush ran through the fae as they spoke at once, their voices thin like dried reeds. Above, patches of cloud turned slow circles, held aloft by air that felt too still. Their gaze lifted, fixed on the gray bits gathering weight. Rain seemed near, though none had expected it would come so soon.