Obsidian Nightwhisper spread his grandmother's map across the crystal table, and the ink told him nothing. He had studied it for years, hunting the moonlit grove his family lost generations ago. But exile had rubbed the names away. The old lines pointed everywhere and nowhere. He traced a faded curve with one finger. His silver hair fell across the parchment. Somewhere out there stood the grove his bloodline once ruled, and he could not find a single path to it. He lived alone in a treetop palace of crystal and pale wood. Lanterns swayed on chains below the balcony. The place was beautiful, and it was not his home. His true home had a name no one alive remembered. A soft light pulled his eyes to the window. Below the tree, a strange creature stepped from the shadows. It had the body of a white unicorn, a horn like glass, and wide wings marked like a butterfly's. Colors ran across those wings in slow ribbons. Obsidian gripped the railing. He had heard stories of such a beast from his grandmother. She said it walked only the oldest paths. He climbed down the roots and approached with slow hands. "You know the way," he said. "Don't you." The creature dipped its horn. Then it turned and walked into the trees. Obsidian followed on foot, wings folded, afraid that flight would lose it in the dark. The beast never hurried. It led him past streams and fallen logs for hours. His legs ached. He did not stop. Then the trees opened, and he saw them. A cluster of bluebells glowed on the forest floor. Their petals gave off a soft blue light, and pale dust drifted up from them like sparks. The creature lowered its head and touched a flower with its horn. The light spread. More bluebells woke across the clearing, marking a ring of ground long hidden by weeds and time. Obsidian knelt. Under the glow he saw carved stone, half buried. He brushed the dirt away with both hands. The stone showed a crest he knew by heart. It was the mark his family wore before the exile. His breath caught. This was it. The grove. He had found the place his blood was cast out of. He pressed his palm to the cold stone and felt the ground answer with a faint hum. But the clearing was ruined. Vines choked the old markers. The stone had cracked. And past the bluebells, torchlight moved between distant trees. Others were here. Someone already held the grove he came to reclaim. The creature lifted its head toward the far lights and went still. Obsidian rose. He had spent his life searching for this ground. Now he stood on it, and it was not empty. Finding the grove had been the easy part. Taking it back would not be.