The raging sun slid under the horizon just as the darkness of the night sky enveloped them. Tiffany was a fairy. Yes a fairy. Though technically she, with her ever so young age, was considered a pixie. She sat next to her beeeeeeeeessssstest friend; Rosalyn. They had been connected since birth when their wings first emerged from their backs like a how a butterfly's would. They had been the epitome of love and friendship even among their amicable, warm-hearted community. 'had' being the key word. Now from Tiffany's side, it made sense, what happened exactly? It starts with a flashback....

It had been midsummer then, the air thick with nectar and the hum of wings. Tiffany and Rosalyn had been racing dragonflies across the lily‑pond, laughing so hard their voices tangled in the reeds. They were inseparable, indistinguishable; two sparks from the same flame.

Until the moment they weren’t.

It began with a shimmer in the air. A wrongness. A ripple that made Tiffany’s wings falter mid‑flight. Rosalyn had felt it too; Tiffany remembered the way her friend’s eyes widened, pupils narrowing to pinpricks of silver.

“Do you feel that?” Rosalyn had whispered.

Tiffany had nodded, but before she could speak, the ripple tore open — not a sound, not a light, but a pull, as if the world itself had inhaled sharply.

And Rosalyn…Rosalyn had answered.

She drifted toward it, wings trembling, as though some ancient instinct had seized her bones. Tiffany had grabbed her hand — tiny fingers clutching tiny fingers — but Rosalyn’s skin had gone cold, colder than any fairy’s should ever be.

“Tiff,” she’d said, voice thin as frost, “I think it’s calling me.”

And that was the moment.

The night after the ripple, Tiffany couldn’t sleep.

Pixies were supposed to sleep easily — their dreams were soft, pollen‑sweet things that drifted like dandelion seeds. But Tiffany lay awake on her moss‑bed, wings twitching, replaying the moment Rosalyn’s hand had gone cold.

By dawn, she’d made up her mind. She had to talk to her.

She found Rosalyn perched on the edge of the dew‑pond, staring at her reflection as though it were a stranger she wasn’t sure she trusted. Her wings looked dimmer. Not dull, exactly. More like the light was avoiding them.

“Rosa?” Tiffany said softly.

Rosalyn didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be here.”

That was wrong. Rosalyn never pushed her away. Never used that voice — low, careful, as if each word had to be weighed.

Tiffany stepped closer. “Something happened yesterday. I felt it. You felt it. And now you’re… different.”

Rosalyn’s shoulders tightened. “I’m not different. I’m just… remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

A long silence.

Finally, Rosalyn stood. When she faced Tiffany, her eyes weren’t their usual honey‑brown. They were silver. The same silver Tiffany had seen in the moment the world had rippled.

“Tiff,” she whispered, “I wasn’t supposed to grow up here.”

Tiffany blinked. “What do you mean? We hatched together. Our wings came in together. We—”

“No.” Rosalyn shook her head. “That’s what they told you. What they told everyone.”

The air around them shifted — not cold, not warm, but heavy, like the forest itself was listening.

“There are different kinds of fae,” Rosalyn said. “You know that. Light‑kin, water‑kin, ember‑kin. But there used to be others. Older ones. Ones the Council erased.”

Tiffany’s heart fluttered. “Rosa… what are you saying?”

Rosalyn’s wings unfurled, streaked with black at the edges, like ink bleeding through parchment.

“I’m a Morrí‑kin,” she said. “A faerie of endings. A keeper of last breaths. My kind wasn’t wiped out by war or sickness. We were… outlawed.”

Tiffany stumbled back. “Outlawed? But you’re not— you’re not dangerous.”

Rosalyn’s smile was small and unbearably sad. “Every ending is dangerous to someone.”

The forest rustled. A crow landed on a branch above them — silent, watching. Tiffany had never seen a crow in the pixie glades. They didn’t come here. They weren’t allowed.

Rosalyn didn’t look up. “The ripple yesterday… it was a summons. My summons. The magic that hid me is failing.”

Tiffany’s throat tightened. “So what happens now?”

Rosalyn stepped closer, taking Tiffany’s hands in her own. Her touch wasn’t cold anymore — it was warm, painfully warm, like she was burning through the last of her borrowed life.

“Now,” Rosalyn said, “I have to choose. Stay here and let the Council find me… or answer the summons and become what I was born to be.”

Tiffany’s wings trembled. “And what about us?”

Rosalyn’s voice cracked. “That’s the part I don’t know how to save.”