AZALIYAH RISE OF THE FAE

Twilight did not fall over the fae realm. It pressed into it, heavy and suffocating, as though something vast had settled across the sky and refused to lift. The forest beneath mirrored its misery. Trees stood tall yet empty, their once-living bark dulled to ash, their branches twisted outward like desperate hands too weak to grasp salvation. Leaves that had once shimmered with quiet magic now hung matte black, slick with rain that gathered at their edges before slipping free in slow, measured drops. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound echoed too loudly, as if the forest had lost everything else worth hearing. Azaliyah moved through it without urgency, not because she was blind to what was happening, but because she had grown used to it. Her boots sank into damp soil that no longer felt truly alive. The air clung to her skin, thick and wrong, like breathing something exhaled too many times by dying lungs. She scarcely looked around. There was nothing new to witness. Everything wore the same expression, waiting to die. Everything except one thing. The portal. It stood where it always had, embedded between two massive trees that had long since forgotten how to grow. Its surface shimmered faintly, though even that light had weakened, as if it too were struggling to remain open. Still, it worked. Azaliyah stopped before it, folding her arms loosely across her chest as she stared into its shifting surface. Earth. Color. Movement. Life. People drifted through crowded streets laughing, talking, existing without ever wondering if the ground beneath them might split open and swallow them whole. The sky there was not heavy. It did not loom like something alive, watching from above. Azaliyah’s jaw tightened. Must be nice. She tilted her head, watching a girl not much older than herself stroll down the street, headphones in, lost in a private world and utterly unaware of how quickly silence could devour everything. “No collapsing realms,” Azaliyah muttered beneath her breath. “No cursed magic trying to kill you.” A beat passed. “Yeah,” she murmured dryly. “Sounds terrible.” Her eyes lingered too long. What if I just... Her weight shifted slightly forward. Barely an inch. Just enough to matter. Just enough to change everything. No one would even stop me. That thought landed differently, heavier than the sky itself. Would they even notice? The question never found an answer. Something screamed. The sound tore through the forest, sharp and raw. Not clean like an animal. Not controlled like magic. Something wounded. Something in pain. Something was trying to hold on. She froze. The portal flickered behind her. Still open. Still waiting. Not my problem. Another cry rang out, louder this time. Closer. Azaliyah shut her eyes for a brief moment. “Of course,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “The one time I consider leaving...” The sound cut her off again, worse now. Fractured. Breaking. She sucked her teeth, annoyance flashing across her face. Frustration followed close behind. She already knew what she was going to do. “Yeah, okay. Fine.” Then she ran. The forest did not welcome her speed. Branches snapped beneath her passage. The ground shifted unevenly underfoot, as if it could not decide whether to carry her forward or swallow her whole. The deeper she went, the worse it felt, as though something had already passed through and poisoned the air behind it. Her chest tightened. Not fear. Instinct. Something was wrong. Then she broke through the trees. And stopped. Whatever she had expected, it was not that. He lay twisted against the ground like something that had been thrown there. Not placed. Not resting. Discarded. At first glance, he made no sense. Her eyes moved slowly over him, trying to piece together what she was seeing. His upper body was human, male, powerfully built, though strained now. Muscles flexed tight beneath skin split open in places where something else seemed to exist underneath. Scales. Not fully formed. Not fully hidden. They pressed through his skin like something unfinished, catching what little light remained and casting it back in fractured glints. His lower half was something else entirely. A Kirin. Not whole. Not right. His legs were powerful but failing, silvered fur darkened with blood. Cloven hooves clawed weakly at the earth, as if he were trying to anchor himself to something that could no longer hold him. His mane, once likely something magnificent, now hung tangled and damp, streaked with dirt and rain. He looked ancient. And broken. At the same time. Azaliyah’s stomach twisted. “What the hell are you?” His eyes opened. Sharp. Alert despite everything. And locked onto hers at once. There was intelligence there. Too much of it. “You going to help,” he rasped, his voice rough and ragged, edged with something dangerously close to sarcasm, “or just stand there judging?” She blinked once, then tilted her head slightly. “Not with that attitude.” A pause followed. Then, despite the blood, the damage, and the fact that he looked like consciousness should have abandoned him long ago, the corner of his mouth nearly lifted. “Figures.” She stepped closer and crouched beside him slowly. Not soft. Not gentle. Careful. Her hands hovered above him, close but not touching. Not yet. Because she did not trust herself. That was the problem. Light flickered anyway. Gold. Unsteady. Uninvited. “I swear,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him, “if I didn’t know what I was doing, you’d already be dead.” “That supposed to make me feel better?” he said dryly. She did not answer. She pressed her hand down. And the magic reacted. She held his gaze a second longer than necessary. Not out of kindness. Assessment. “You always talk like that,” she said flatly, “or is this just your charming near-death personality?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Depends. You always hesitate this much before helping, or is this a special occasion?” Her eyes narrowed. “Careful,” she said, her voice dropping just enough to carry weight. “I could still leave you here.” “Mm,” he breathed, shifting slightly despite the pain written through every movement. “You won’t.” That irritated her more than it should have. “Confident for someone bleeding out.” “Observant for someone stalling.” She exhaled sharply through her nose, a blade of sound in the silence. “Alright,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “Say less.” This time, she did not hesitate. Her hand pressed fully against his side. And the magic surged. Gold light spilled from her palm, not soft, not controlled, but sharp and violent, flickering like it did not fully belong to her. It did not flow into him. It drove itself forward. Forced. Unrefined. He tensed instantly. Every muscle locked. “Yeah,” he hissed, jaw tightening against the pain, “you definitely don’t know what you’re doing.” “Then stop reacting like that,” she snapped, “and maybe it won’t fight back.” “It’s not fighting back,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s reacting to you.” She paused. Just for a second. The light faltered. Then flared harder. Unstable. “Don’t,” she warned under her breath, more to her magic than to him. Because it was starting to do that thing again. That thing where it refused to listen. The glow shifted, gold twisting into something brighter, hotter, as though it were trying to become something else entirely. His hand shot up and caught her wrist. Not hard. But firm enough. “Hey,” he said, quieter now, the sarcasm gone and something sharper taking its place. “Either you control it... or you stop.”