Nyx Greenwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Nyx pressed her fingers against the rough bark of the oak, listening for spirit whispers through the muffled frequencies that plagued her skull. The stranger would arrive soon—the forest had been humming warnings since before dawn, the kind that made her chest tight with both dread and hope. She saw him through the trees at first light, his dark cloak catching on brambles as he stumbled forward. He carried something wrapped in torn fabric, cradled against his chest like a child. When he cleared the treeline, she saw the creature—scales that shifted between copper and ash, wings folded tight against a body no bigger than a rabbit. A pyrwing. She'd only seen sketches in her mother's journals, notes about how they vanished two generations ago. The stranger's eyes met hers, desperate and exhausted. "It's dying," he said. "The forest said you could help." Nyx led him to the stone circle where flames already flickered with that strange blue-green glow. He knelt on one of the worn benches surrounding the fire, still holding the pyrwing close. She could see its breathing now—shallow, ragged, each exhale releasing tiny sparks that faded before they fell. This was why she'd built her sanctuary in the first place, for creatures like this, the ones everyone thought were gone forever. The stranger looked up at her, waiting. The pyrwing's scales dulled further. She had maybe an hour before it stopped breathing entirely. She ran to the greenhouse, her boots sliding on dew-soaked grass. Inside, the air smelled of soil and mint and something sharper—the herbs she'd been preparing for exactly this kind of emergency. Her hands shook as she gathered willow bark and moonflower petals, crushing them together in her mother's old clay bowl. The pyrwing needed more than medicine though. It needed the old ceremony, the kind that had nearly killed her last time. She grabbed three glass vials of tears—owl, fox, and deer—and a handful of obsidian dust. The stranger watched her return, hope breaking across his tired face. She knelt beside the fire and began mixing the paste, her scar aching as phantom frequencies screamed through her skull. The pyrwing's eyes opened, just barely, reflecting the enchanted flames. It was still alive. That meant she still had time.