The autumn breeze whispered between the old trees of Whispering Grove, drifting along with crisp leaves, warm cider smells - also a faint sharpness like storm-charged air hinting at enchantment. It was Halloween, though folks from Veilhorn named it Spirit’s Eve, when boundaries between realms grew hazy and every breath felt charged with unseen chances. Psique, a horse with a shiny brownish coat that glowed faintly in the night, twitched her ear as soft light caught the fluffy tuft on her forehead. Her golden mane flowed down like liquid honey, tied gently with strands of bright moss - something folks often wore during celebrations. Normally she'd leap right into any party, greeting everyone with warm snorts and playful nudges, always front and center when music started. Yet now, something odd hummed through the ground, buzzing up her legs, leaving her wide awake but kinda restless, too. The Whispering Grove hummed with flickering glow and dark corners. Since lanterns made of bright moss dangled on each limb, they spilled gentle, moving shapes across the ground below. Because pumpkins - carved out of enchanted, swollen moon-melons instead of regular squash - shone with looping star trails and kind-faced ghost figures. While pegacorns flew between treetops, their winged horns glittering, guiding clusters of drifting soul-embers into sky patterns. Unicorns flicked their glowing spiral horns while lifting trays of berry treats coated in frost instead of cake made from acorns. The littlest colts, sporting tiny bumps where horns would grow, darted behind floating sparks that zigzagged away each time they got close. Psique stood there, eyes on her buddy - a shiny unicorn called Helio - trying to lift a bulky moon-melon squash up to the top limb of the old Willow tree. He pushed hard, his horn blazing bright, yet the gourd just shook slightly then dropped with a thump. Despite effort, it didn’t budge far. "Need a hoof, Helio?" Psique offered with a grin, trotting closer. "That one looks like it's got a mind of its own." Hell no, he thought - violet strands slipping across his face. Not budging an inch, that thing’s stuck like glue; stubborn as rocks on a hillside. Could’ve been made for somewhere down below instead. With a chuckle, he let it drop, tapping the melon gently with his snout. Psique, always seeing the bright side, gave it a go. Not built like Helio - no unicorn frame - her horn sprouted feathers, tuned for bending elements, people claimed. Most times, she’d rather fix things with a shove or a cheerful prod. Yet that Spirit’s Eve vibe? Impossible not to catch. She moved toward the giant moon-melon, its scooped-out face smirking playfully in her direction - this one loomed larger than two heads stacked together. "Alright, big fellow," she murmured, nudging the smooth, cool surface with her muzzle. "Let's see if we can get you a better view." She shut her eyes, not aiming for spellwork - just zoning in. Then came the image: the moon-melon rising, airy and smooth, drifting up to settle on the topmost branch of the old willow, lighting up every corner of the clearing. She saw the radiance, nailed the spot exactly. A soft heat crept into her feathery horn, something she kind of blamed on the odd magical vibe buzzing around. Once her eyes popped open, the moon-melon wasn’t sitting on the soil anymore. Instead, it floated - way up, about as high as a hoof reaches, bobbing slow like something invisible tugged it sideways. Psique flinched. Right after, her eyes twitched once more. "Whoa!" she blurted, jerking backward in shock. Helio, busy watching some pegacorns race wildly through the clouds, turned around - his face lit up. "Psique! You... actually pulled it off!" The moon-melon seemed to know it got busted - just plopped down again with a quiet bump. Psique gaped at the fruit, flicked her eyes to her horn, then fixed them on the gourd once more. Her pulse hammered like crazy under her skin. Coincidence, she thought. Maybe it was just Spirit’s Eve acting up, fooling her mind. She chose to look away instead, diving into the "Spectral Chase" - a lively scramble where kids from her horned kind chased glowing mist-bits to trap them in fancy bottles. Wild giggles flew around; magic zipped off course now and then without hurting anyone. Light on her feet, Psique slipped straight into the middle of the ruckus. While racing forward, her feet almost skimming the earth, power shot through her - like gusts were shoving her ahead. One cheeky breeze zipped by, aiming right at some wide-eyed young colts. Instinct kicked in; Psique widened her nose, blowing out an annoyed breath. A blast of air - way too fierce to be real - shot out from her, swirling the tiny light toward the container gripped by a grinning little pegasus kid. While the rest clapped and laughed, Psique stayed stiff, barely breathing. Whoa, Psique! That wind came outta nowhere!" Larkspur blurted - he’s a pegacorn with feathers like the morning sky - as he touched down next to her. "Wait… did you actually call that thing up? Psique just moved her head from side to side, her coppery fur glowing. She didn’t plan it - yet somehow, it did occur. A light tingle hung in the space near her, while a soft wind curled round the feathery spike on her forehead. Later that night, odd things kept popping up wherever she went. The instant she reached for her spirit lantern’s wick, every dark one nearby blazed on at once. She gave a buddy a lighthearted shove - then their skin shimmered faintly, like morning frost catching sun. Each time she laughed, the moss lamps close by lit up more, flickering in rhythm with her joy. Psique, normally laid-back, sensed confusion coiling like a spring inside her gut. Sure, it was thrilling - yet somehow too much at once. Not one of those horned or winged types from high-born spellcasting families, tied to ancient mystical bloodlines. Just plain Psique. When the moon climbed high overhead, bathing the Grove in a soft silvery glow, the Veilhorns met in the open space for their nightly tale session. A seasoned unicorn named Elara - her horn weathered, glowing faintly like trapped stardust - took turns spinning stories about forgotten enchantments, rising strengths, yet odd unexplained abilities showing up around Spirit’s Eve. Psique stayed quiet, sitting on a damp patch of moss, doing her best to blend in. Around her, the air kept vibrating - soft but steady - a pulse nobody else noticed. Elara talked slow, words heavy with old knowing, explaining how Veilhorns were tied to nature, yet every now and then, that bond flared up in unexpected forms. "Sometimes," Elara recounted, her voice dropping to a whisper, "a Veilhorn is born with a heart so attuned, a spirit so vibrant, that the magic of the world recognises them. It doesn't matter their lineage, their horn-type, or their prior gifts. The magic simply… chooses. And on nights like Spirit's Eve, when the very fabric of reality thins, those dormant seeds of power can burst forth into bloom." When Elara talked, Psique started getting it - clear and deep. Not luck. Not just the vibe of the evening either. This came from her alone. Heat flared stronger in her horn, then moved through every part of her, kind of like a soft but lively pulse. She glanced above, where stars sprinkled the wide dark - suddenly she wanted to stretch her arm forward. Maybe grab a flicker of glow. Or let the breeze hit her lips. A moment later, out of nowhere, this little bat - looking totally spooked - came tumbling from some treetop, confused by the glare and noise around. Its wings flapped wildly, barely keeping control; something was wrong, obvious right away - one limb bent weirdly, broken maybe. Then it dropped, landing with a quiet bump on the dirt, letting out a faint cry. A hush spread among the crowd. The Veilhorns cared deeply for every living thing - so spotting one in pain hit hard. Some elder mares began stepping ahead, their horns shining with restorative light, yet they were still far off. Psiq sat nearest, hit by a quick jab of worry. With her usual warmth flaring up, she moved without waiting - just got going. Up she stood, moving fast to the small bat, sunlight glinting off her coppery fur. Closing in, she stretched out on impulse, aiming her plume-tipped spike at the hurt animal. She wasn’t aiming for any particular thing - just hoping the bat would pull through. Hoping its suffering stopped soon. Yet wanting it back in the sky, moving on its own. A hazy, amber shine - nothing like what she’d known before - throbbed from the feathery spike on her head. Not quite the calm beam of a unicorn’s cure, not even close to the flickering heat of a pegacorn’s raw spark. More like a dancing gleam, streaked with bits of emerald and moonlit gray. Wrapped around the small bat slowly, kind of like a quiet hug. Little by little, like magic, the bat's bent wing started to stretch out. The soft crying stopped dead. Right after, letting out a happy squeak, it opened up its two wings wide, twitched with excitement, then shot into the sky - gone among the twinkling stars. The quiet settled over the glade like a hush. All attention turned toward Psique - no one looked away. Even Elara, that old unicorn from long ago, stopped mid-sentence, her tale hanging in the air as her knowing eyes locked onto the younger horse. There she stood, stiff with surprise, her horn dimming slowly from its last warm glow, while inside, fear and excitement pounded through her chest. A hush rolled out, then whispers popped up across the group. A tiny pegacorn murmured - “a magic-user,” soft-like, barely making sound. Elara stepped forward, her ancient eyes twinkling. She approached Psique slowly, her gaze warm and approving. "Indeed, little one. A mage. And a powerful one, it seems, to heal with such purity of intent." Psique seemed totally confused - yet deep down, kinda excited. She mumbled, “I… didn’t plan this,” then flushed, hearing how dumb that came out. It slipped out on its own; truth is, she only hoped things would turn out right Elara chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Precisely. That is often how truly great magic begins. Born not of studied intent, but of genuine heart. You, Psique, have awakened to a rare and beautiful gift. One that flows from the very essence of your being." The other Veilhorns started moving again, surprise fading into clear awe and energy. Helio gave her a soft push. "Knew it - moon-melon? Just the beginning!" Larkspur touched down next to her, pressing against her side. "Your power seems… cozy, Psique! Really alive!" Psique’s blush started fading, making way for a rising thrill that tingled inside. Her gaze dropped to the plumed buckskin horn - suddenly unfamiliar, pulsing like it held its own quiet rhythm. Not merely ornamental anymore, more like a bridge linking something deeper. "So... I’m a spellcaster?" she said, the phrase sounding strange yet awesome rolling off her lips. Her bright, laid-back vibe bounced right back, a big smile lighting up her face. Yet what type - hmm? Any fancy parchment coming my way? Got to rock some silly pointed headgear? She cocked her head, half-joking. Maybe even a long, flapping coat?” Elara laughed, joined by the general merriment of the other Veilhorns. "There are no hats or capes for Veilhorn mages, little one. Your magic is as unique as your spirit. We shall help you understand it, guide you to harness its potential. But know this: you were chosen because of who you already are. Your kindness, your cheer, your genuine heart – these are the wellsprings of your power." When the Veilhorns started telling tales again, their voices jumping with nighttime energy after what just unfolded, Psique slipped into the circle like she’d always been there. She was still herself - the relaxed, warm-hearted mare folks liked right away - only different somehow, as if something bright and gold hummed under her skin. Her eyes flicked to the feathery spiral sticking from her forehead, then drifted upward, landing on the moon-melon that had floated without warning before, now hanging soft-glowing on the treetop limb. A playful curiosity sparkled in her eyes. "I wonder," she mused aloud, a mischievous glint in her gaze, "if I can make the spiced cider float right into my hoof-bowl… without me having to move a single hoof!" A wave of giggles trailed behind her, cozy like sunlight on skin. Spirit’s Eve felt enchanted every time - yet for Psique, now something clicked inside, raw and real. Though the dark grew thick, hinting at morning far off, one truth stuck: being a Veilhorn mage wasn’t ending - it was kicking off, wild-eyed, loose-limbed, wide open to surprise after bright surprise, most likely loud, sometimes messy, always alive.