For ages, Aerwynn had understood change — not as loss, but as passage. When Lady Summer arrived, the forest felt it before the words were spoken. Warmth walked among falling leaves, carrying a story that did not belong to autumn. She spoke of bending light. Of fields that no longer answered the sun. Of shadows that moved without fear of fire. Lady Autumn did not interrupt. She listened the way roots listen to the earth — patient, deep, unshaken. What Summer described was not invasion. It was imbalance. And imbalance does not rush. It waits. Above them, Morr circled the amber sky. Black wings against gold, silent, attentive. He needed no command — the truth had weight, and weight calls the messenger. Lady Autumn raised her gaze. “Change has begun,” she said softly. “And the others must feel it too.” Morr took flight. Toward Vernalia, where beginnings still bloom. Toward Frostreál, where stillness remembers everything. Feathers drifted down as he vanished into the sky — not as omen, not as warning — but as the world quietly preparing to move.
