The first sign was the humming.

Not loud, not frightening—just a thin, trembling note that threaded through the trees like a silver needle. Most people in the village slept through it. A few stirred, frowning in their dreams. Only one person woke fully: Lira.

She sat up in her narrow bed, heart thudding, the sound vibrating in her bones. It wasn’t coming from outside. It wasn’t coming from inside either. It was coming from above—from the sky itself.

Lira pushed aside her blanket and crossed to the window. The night was clear, the moon a pale coin hanging low. Everything looked ordinary. The rooftops. The quiet fields. The distant line of the forest. But the humming grew stronger, and the air felt charged, as if the world were holding its breath.

Then the sky cracked.

A thin line of light tore across the darkness, silent and sharp, like someone had drawn a glowing blade through the heavens. Lira gasped and stumbled back. The crack widened, spilling white-gold radiance that washed over the village, turning shadows into silhouettes.

And from the light, something fell.

It wasn’t a star. Stars didn’t fall with purpose. This thing—this shape—descended slowly, almost gently, as if choosing where to land. Lira pressed her face to the glass, breath fogging the pane. The shape drifted toward the forest, trailing sparks that fizzled before they touched the ground.

When it vanished among the trees, the crack in the sky sealed itself with a soft sigh, and the night returned to normal. No humming. No light. No sign anything had happened at all.

Except Lira knew it had.

She grabbed her boots, her cloak, and the small knife she kept hidden under her bed. She didn’t know why she needed it—only that she did. Something in her chest pulled her forward, a tug stronger than fear, stronger than reason.

Outside, the village slept peacefully. Lira moved like a shadow, slipping between houses, crossing the empty square, and heading toward the forest path. The trees loomed tall and dark, their branches whispering secrets she couldn’t quite hear.

She hesitated at the edge.

Everyone knew the forest was strange at night. Old strange. Before‑the‑village strange. But the pull in her chest tightened, and she stepped forward.

The moment she crossed beneath the first branch, the air changed. It felt thicker, older, aware. The forest watched her. Not with malice—just curiosity, as if it had been waiting for her.

Lira followed the faint trail of sparks left by the falling shape. They glowed softly on the ground, like embers that refused to die. The deeper she went, the brighter they became.

Then she reached the clearing.

At its center lay a figure.

Not human. Not entirely.

It was curled on its side, breathing shallowly, its skin faintly luminous. Wings—tattered, shimmering—were folded against its back. And around its wrist was a shackle made of dark metal, etched with symbols that pulsed like dying embers.

Lira’s breath caught.

A being from the sky. A prisoner. A fallen something.

Its eyes opened.

They were bright, ancient, and full of pain.

“Help me,” it whispered.

And Lira knew—without understanding how—that the night the sky cracked was only the beginning.

Lira blinked, and crossed herself urgently.

“Hello?” She called.

The figure stirred gently, rolling over on its side to face her.

“My name is Lirathelle Baker,” she continued, though she wasn’t quite sure whether she should introduce herself or back away. In any case, she thought she might as well give it a fake name, given that this creature may as well have been fae.

The creature’s face was gilded, its body glowing faintly like moonlight. It groaned as it turned to sit up. Their wings, tattered and patchy, like that of a street-pigeon who had seen one too many avian influenza outbreaks, folded behind them like torn twin fans. It extended a silvery, slender arm to greet Lira.

“Calyphis Regimen,” it said, voice melodic and croaky all at once.

Against all better jugement, Lira shook Calyphis’ hand.

“Are you hurt?”

Calyphis shook their head.

“Can you walk?”

Calyphis tested the ground beneath them, then rose on long, slender, unstable legs. They were a head taller than Lira, and Lira could not be described as short by any means. They stumbled slightly, leaning on Lira’s shoulder for support.

Lira nodded. “Then we’re going to my inn. You’ll have a bed for the night, and we can talk about what the fuck that just was.”

The walk back to the village was mercifully short, though it felt twice as long with Calyphis leaning on her like a weary swan. Their steps were uneven, their breath thin, and every so often their wings gave a faint, involuntary twitch, as if attempting to take off again. Lira kept her pace steady. She didn’t dare look too closely at them; every time she did, she felt that same tug in her chest, like a hook had lodged behind her ribs and was reeling her towards their lightful eyes.

The village was still asleep when they reached the outskirts. Good. The last thing she needed was Old Man Harrow peering out his window and shrieking about sky‑demons at three in the morning.

Lira’s Ale and Lodgings sat at the end of the square, a squat stone building with a crooked sign that creaked in dawn's breeze. She’d inherited it from her mother, along with a talent for brewing and a penchant for trouble. Tonight, she suspected only one of those would be useful. She pushed open the door, guiding Calyphis inside. The inn was dark except for the embers glowing in the hearth, and the lavender candles she'd set into the sconces to keep the place from smelling like sweat, beer and peat.

Calyphis paused just past the threshold, blinking slowly.

“This is… your nest?” they asked.

Lira snorted. “It’s an inn. People sleep here. Drink. Occasionally vomit. Try not to do the last one.”

Calyphis nodded solemnly, as though she’d imparted sacred wisdom. She led them up the narrow staircase, wincing at every creak. The guest rooms were small but clean, each with a bed, a washbasin, and a window overlooking the square. She chose the one at the end of the hall, with the faulty shutters that didn't open, just in case her new guest decided to sprout extra glowing limbs in the night.

Calyphis sank onto the bed with a soft exhale, wings drooping like wilted petals.

Lira crossed her arms. “Alright. Talk. What are you? And what was that crack in the sky?”

Calyphis looked up at her, eyes luminous and tired. “I am… was… a Warden of the Upper Veil.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It is very real."

Lira decided not to argue. “And the sky?”

Calyphis hesitated. Their gaze flicked to the window, to the moon hanging low and pale. “The Veil is thinning,” they murmured. “Something is breaking it from the other side. I was sent to stop it.”

Lira felt a chill crawl up her spine. “And it hurt you?”

Calyphis lifted their wrist. The dark metal around it glinted, the symbols pulsing faintly like a heartbeat, chain dragging slightly behind it. “I was intercepted. Bound to...your realm.”

“By who?”

Their wings shivered. “Not who. What.”

Lira swallowed. “Well,” she said, forcing her voice steady, “you’re safe here. For now. Get some rest. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

Calyphis nodded, curling slightly on the bed like a wounded bird. “Thank you, Lirathelle Baker.”

Lira grimaced. “Just Lira.”

Calyphis blinked. “But you said--”

“I lied. It’s what we do when strange glowing sky‑people fall into our forests.” She turned to leave, hand on the door.

“Lira,” Calyphis said softly.

She paused.

“The thing that broke the sky… it will come again.”

Lira smiled, despite herself. "I know, Calyphis. And when it does, you need to be well-rested and well-fed. Now, what is it that Wardens of the Upper Veil eat?"