A red fox trotted across his path without a glance. A gray wolf, lying in a patch of sun, merely watched him pass with lazy yellow eyes. The creatures of this wood had long since learned he was not a threat. He was just a man gathering sticks, his movements weary and routine.

Five years. The silence should be a comfort by now. It’s not. It’s just… quiet.

Laughter? Out here?

Philza’s hand stilled. He set down his bundle, the brushwood landing with a soft thud. He moved forward, pushing a low-hanging bough aside with a feathered wrist.

In a small, sunlit clearing, three wolf cubs tumbled over each other in a fuzzy heap. Chasing them, laughing breathlessly, was a child. A small girl with messy hair, dressed in simple, earth-toned clothes.

And from her back, small and downy, unfurled a pair of wings.

Philza’s breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to tilt, the colors of the forest sharpening to a painful clarity. The shape of the wings. The way she moved. The sound of that laugh, buried deep in a memory he’d tried to seal away.

It can’t be. It’s a trick. A spirit. A cruel dream.

But she was solid. Real. A wolf cub nipped playfully at her ankle and she squealed, spinning around to scoop it up.

She’s so small. Six? Five? Her wings… they’re just like…