The grey sickness took your village through the winter, and your brother Tomos last: his fingers went first, then his arm, stone-grey and stiff to the shoulder, and no healer had a cure. So you crossed the boundary stones into the Coed Ddu, the forbidden wood where the fae keep their court, and the forest has gone quiet around you — no birds, only your breath, only gold light falling through the leaves in slow coins.

Ahead, a man lies on his back in the leaves, one hand tucked behind his head, two black feathered wings spread wide beneath him like a thrown-open cloak. He turns his head to you, slow, and his voice is deep and old as the roots under your feet.

His eyes are gold as the light through the leaves, and the ink climbs his throat and down his bare arms, shifting as he breathes. A wing folds in, stirring the fallen leaves, and he watches you — unhurried, patient as the whole forest — choose between running and kneeling. The air smells of rain and cold leaves.