Chapter Three: The Grove of Puffs and the Golden Drift
Jasper stirred.
The songs reached him first—soft, wordless melodies sung in tones that sounded like the wind through reeds and the chime of bells in rain. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with dreams not yet released, and his limbs lay draped in a blanket that smelled of honey and lavender. The snug nightshirt clung to his chest, and his socked feet, once aching from travel, felt light and strangely weightless.
He blinked awake.
Above him, the sky was no longer ceilinged by timber but open and painted in twilight purples and glowing golds. Trees grew in spirals, and the canopy was alight with dancing lights that may have been fireflies or simply magic given form. He was lying on what felt like thick moss, but when he sat up, he realized it wasn’t moss at all—it was the soft fuzz of a giant dandelion puff.
Nearby, Flame shifted with a low purr, curled upon another massive puff. Her golden fur shimmered under the delicate sunlight that filtered through the dreamlike canopy. She yawned, confused, a sliver of pink tongue flicking between gleaming fangs, and blinked around at this strange new world. With a twitch of the stem beneath her, her puff began to float slowly upward, lifting the jaguar like a drifting thought on the breeze.
Jasper, still groggy, found himself smiling in awe.
Pixies—flickering, winged, laughing—fluttered about like bees in a summer garden. They plucked the great dandelions gently, humming as they worked, and sprinkled silvery powder on the stems. The dust shimmered, sparkling as it caught the wind, and like balloons, the puffs rose into the air, carrying both man and beast higher.
Jasper gripped his own stem tightly, not out of fear but wonder, and allowed the magic to carry him.
Below, the Fey Realm sprawled in dazzling layers: a winding stream that twisted like liquid glass through the fields, golden meadows filled with gigantic blossoms of every hue, and strange mushrooms glowing gently at the edges of groves. Tiny bridges arched over creeks where other pixies carried bundles of herbs or danced in rings of light. A dragonfly the size of a hawk zipped past, ridden by a trio of whooping fey children.
Upward they went, the wind tugging at their puffcrafts, guided gently by the pixie escort. Jasper turned his head as Flame blinked at him across the space between their drifting thrones, calm once more, content in the current of magic.
Then, far off in the horizon—at first like a mirage in the haze—a silhouette formed. Turrets spiraled like seashells. Balconies bloomed with crystalline flowers. A waterfall fell upward, drawn by some strange reversal of gravity. The Pixie Castle, radiant and mysterious, revealed itself in stages, its towers rising like notes in a crescendo.
Jasper, cradled in dream and dawnlight, whispered aloud, unsure if he was still dreaming.
Behind him, deep within the old world, the mirror now hung quietly from a great oak, its glass dark once more. The Shadow Guardian, duty fulfilled, watched no longer—for his charge had passed into the hidden folds of the world. The realm of men forgotten, for now.
Here, Jasper death of runes had entered the realm of the pixies.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter Four – The Fall and the Brambleshin
The group drifted high above the world, wind-swept and wide-eyed, clutching their dandelion puffballs as the pixies zipped beside them, guiding them toward the distant castle, its spires glinting like dew in the sun.
Then—the breeze betrayed them.
From a sigh to a shriek, the wind turned wild. Dark clouds tumbled across the sky, curling like ink in water. With a howl and a hurl, the gusts shattered their flight path. The pixie escort scattered like startled fireflies.
“Hold on!” Jasper cried, his mane whipping, his hooves gripping tight.
Flame let out a fierce yowl as her puffball spun wildly beneath her. Her paws dug in, claws tearing the fluff, before she was flung sideways, vanishing into the swirling gloom.
Jasper shot upward—higher, higher still—his puff zig-zagging, spiraling into the heart of the storm. Rain spat down. Thunder growled. His soaked mane clung to his neck as the winds hurled him through the clouds like a toy.
Then silence.
He burst from the darkness.
And there—rising from the underside of a black cloud like a ghost—was a creature of thorns and menace.
The Brambleshin.
Its cloak was stitched from twisted petals and nettle-threads. A hood of purple foxglove drooped over a face wreathed in shadows. Eyes burned like sap on fire. In one clawed hand: a dagger dripping with black pixie dust.
“This realm is not for hooves,” the creature hissed. “Sky-thief. Storm-stumbler. Dream-walker. You’ve come too far.”
With a flash, the Brambleshin slashed Jasper’s puffball. It shredded with a soft pwhuff—dark dust spiraled outward, glittering and grim.
“Nooooooooo!” Jasper howled as the wind caught him and flung him down—tumbling, screaming, heart hammering like a war drum.
But the dust—the dark, cursed dust—curled around him like a cloak.
He didn’t crash. He drifted. Softly, slowly, like a leaf in a dream.
When he opened his eyes, the Brambleshin was already fading, whispering into the mist:
“We will meet again, Equinari. And next time… your fall will not be softened.”
And he was gone—swallowed by the storm.
Jasper lay dazed among the wildflowers and jagged thistles. Strange blooms pulsed with color. Beetles hummed in harmony. The ground sparkled faintly, charged with the odd magic of the fey. On the horizon, curling smoke whispered from a lopsided wooden shack, nestled beneath a crooked willow.
He stood, mane dripping, eyes sharp with fire.
“Flame,” he growled. “I’m coming.”
And with thistle-pricked hooves and a burning heart, the Equinari warrior stepped into the unknown.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
