The warrior's severed wings lay on Elara Moonpetal's table, and Elara had never mended a wing in her life. She was a fairy who healed cuts and fevers, nothing more. But the fae warrior on her cot had lost both wings defending Elara's grove, and no other healer would come. Elara pressed a wet cloth to the torn stumps on the warrior's back. The warrior gritted her teeth and did not cry out. "Can you do it?" the warrior asked. Elara did not answer. She had studied the old healing lore only in fragments. Wings were living magic, not flesh. Mend them wrong, and the scars would twist. The warrior might never fly again. Elara looked at her small hands and knew they weren't enough alone. She left the cottage and crossed to her greenhouse, where she grew the herbs that fed her magic. There she found her oldest friend waiting among the ferns. The unicorn stood white and calm, its spiral horn catching the light. Elara had raised it from a foal. It lowered its head to her shoulder. "I can't heal her," Elara said. "I don't know the wing lore. I could scar her worse." The unicorn stamped once and turned toward the door. It wanted her to follow. Elara understood. A unicorn's horn held the deepest healing magic in the grove. Alone, her hands would fail. Joined to the horn, they might not. She led the unicorn back to the cottage. The warrior watched them enter, her jaw tight with pain. Elara knelt at the cot and laid one hand on each ragged stump. The unicorn pressed the tip of its horn between her wrists. Warmth ran down Elara's arms. "Hold still," Elara said. "This will burn." The warrior nodded. Elara closed her eyes and let the magic move through her. She felt the broken threads of the wings, frayed and wrong. She could not grow new wings from nothing. She could only seal the wounds clean, so no scar would twist the flesh. She worked slowly, matching each torn edge, smoothing what she could. The warrior's breath came ragged, then steadied. When Elara opened her eyes, the stumps were healed. The skin was smooth and whole. No scar marred the warrior's back. But the wings were still gone. Elara had saved the flesh, not the flight. The warrior reached back and touched the healed skin. Her face fell. "They're closed," she said. "But I still can't fly." "I know," Elara said. "I couldn't grow them back. Not with my magic. Not with the horn." She sat down hard, drained. "To make new wings, I'll need something more. A creature strong enough to give part of itself." The unicorn shook its mane and stepped back. It had given all it could. Elara looked at the smooth, wingless back and knew her real work had only started.

The unicorn had given all it could, and now it lay in the greenhouse ferns, breathing slow. Elara knelt beside it. Its white coat had gone dull. Its horn no longer caught the light. She stroked its neck and felt the tremble under her hand. Without its strength restored, she could not draw the wing magic she needed. The warrior still waited in the cottage, wingless. Elara's oldest friend could not stand. "I asked too much of you," she said. The unicorn did not lift its head. Elara pressed her palm to its horn and tried to give warmth back. Her magic sputtered. Healing a fever was one thing. Refilling a well this deep was another. She had nothing strong enough to spare. A scrabble of claws sounded at the greenhouse door. Elara's fox nosed it open. He had followed her everywhere since he was a kit, and he came now with his ears flat, sensing her fear. He circled the unicorn once, then tugged Elara's sleeve toward the door. She followed. The fox led her across the grove to the round wooden gazebo where creatures came to rest. Soft cushions ringed its floor. A pool of still water sat at its center. On the rail perched a bright owl, its feathers shifting from red to blue as it watched her. "You feel it too," Elara said. The owl's colors dimmed to a worried gray. It hopped to the pool's edge and dipped one wing. Elara understood. This place held its own gentle magic, meant for weary things. She ran back for the unicorn. It could not walk, so she half-carried it, her small arms straining, the fox pushing at its flank. Together they eased it onto the cushions. Elara laid the unicorn beside the still pool. She placed her hands on its horn again. This time the water answered. Warmth rose from the floor, from the cushions, from the quiet air. The owl spread both wings and its colors brightened to a steady gold. The fox pressed close, lending his own warm weight. Elara poured her magic in and the haven poured with her. The unicorn's coat began to shine. Its breathing deepened. After a long while its horn caught the light again and glowed clean and sharp. The unicorn lifted its head. It got its legs under itself and stood, steady now. Elara pressed her face to its neck and laughed once, shaking. "You're back," she said. But the fox whined and looked toward the cottage. Elara turned. Restoring the unicorn had cost her the whole day and most of her own strength. The wing magic waited, ready at last. Yet she still did not know what could give enough of itself to grow new wings. The unicorn's horn could seal wounds. It could not make what was gone. She needed a creature far more powerful. And she had no idea where to find one.

The unicorn stood strong again, but Elara had no idea where to search. She sat on the gazebo step while the sun dropped. The wing magic waited inside her, ready and useless. She needed a creature powerful enough to grow new wings, and she had never seen such a thing. Her fox pressed against her knee. The owl watched from the rail, its feathers dull with her worry. "I don't know where to look," she told them. "I don't even know what to look for." The owl's feathers flared. Red, then blue, then a sharp bright gold. It launched off the rail and flew a tight circle over the pool. Then it dove past a mushroom-roofed fairy house tucked among the ferns and landed on its glowing windowsill. It tapped the sill with its beak, hard, three times. Elara crossed to the little house. She had passed it a hundred times and never opened it. Inside, on a shelf, lay a folded cape. It shimmered like dew on morning grass. She lifted it. Beneath it sat a scrap of old parchment. The drawing on the parchment stopped her breath. A dragon. Blue and black and purple scales, wings wide as a barn door. Someone had written beneath it in faded ink. The words named the creature and named a place among the high crags where it slept. Her fox growled low at the picture. He did not like it. Elara did not like it either. A dragon could burn a grove to ash in one breath. But a dragon had wings, real wings, more than any creature she knew. If any living thing could give enough of itself to grow new wings, it was this. The owl hopped to her shoulder. Its colors held steady gold now, calm and certain. It had led her to the unicorn's cure. It had led her here. Elara trusted that gaze. She unfolded the cape and drew it around her shoulders. The cloth settled light as mist. It would hide her, she hoped, from eyes that hunted in the dark. She rolled the parchment and tucked it away. "A dragon," she said. The word felt heavy in her mouth. "We're going to ask a dragon." The unicorn came to the gazebo door and lowered its head. Elara laid her hand on its warm neck. She had a lead at last. She had a name and a place and a creature strong enough to answer. She also had a long climb toward something that might kill her before she said a single word. She would leave at first light. The fox stayed at her heel. The owl kept its gold. Somewhere in the high crags, the Azure Umbral Dragon slept, and Elara meant to wake it.