Mycella by the River

Mycella settled herself upon a smooth, sun-kissed stone at the river’s edge — the very one she visited each morning when the mist still lingered low upon the water. It was her custom to bathe there at dawn, for fairies held cleanliness as both comfort and quiet ritual, a way to keep their wings bright and their magic clear.

Yet today she did not slip at once into the flowing stream. The strange unease that had followed her through the forest would not loosen its grip. It clung to her like a cobweb spun of shadows and whispers.

She glanced about, slow and cautious.

The reeds swayed gently. The river sang its silver song as always, curling around stones worn smooth by centuries. Dragonflies hovered like living jewels above the surface. Nothing seemed amiss.

Still, Mycella’s heart would not settle. She tilted her head and pricked up her small, delicate ears, listening as only a fairy can — for the creak of a hidden step, the hush of breath where none should be, the subtle tremble that danger leaves in its wake. But the forest held its silence.

At last she drew a slow breath, though it did little to ease the flutter in her chest. The world appeared peaceful. And yet the feeling remained — faint as a distant storm, waiting just beyond the horizon.