The air smelled of damp earth and sweet blossoms, of things growing and things that had long since settled into the soil. There was no glass, no metal, no hum of distant traffic. Only the whisper of leaves and the murmur of water somewhere unseen.

Overhead, the canopy wove itself into a cathedral of green and gold, shafts of light spilling through like molten threads. The trees were enormous. Ancient. Their trunks rose like pillars into a sky that seemed impossibly blue—bluer than any blue you could remember.

And the leaves. The leaves shimmered, faintly. Not with sunlight, but with something else. Something like quiet fire.

Perched on a low-hanging branch, no larger than a sparrow, was a tiny figure with wings like stained glass. It tilted its head, studying you with eyes that gleamed like polished jet. Beside it, another—this one with wings of pale silver—hovered, hands on its hips.