Brilliantly white, bitterly cold, and starkly beautiful—though lovely, I do not think I will ever grow fond of snow’s harsh embrace, Cyrene mused, a lingering shiver shedding plumes of white powder from her wine-stained shoulders. The girl of autumn had blown into Terrastella with winter’s descent, her arrival bringing the Court’s season of gilded leaves and bountiful harvest to a close. She had encountered snow only once before; Pelion had been nestled in a temperate land, where autumn seemed to last half the year before reluctantly releasing its hold to spring. The winter of Cyrene’s first birthday had been peculiar however, a bizarre torrent of snow blanketing the village seemingly overnight—and melting just as quickly. Yet in those few days of winter-white wonderland, the young filly had frolicked like a newborn fawn, delighted at the frosty phenomenon.

But here, where winter sank its teeth deep into the land for an entire season, Cyrene no longer frolicked with mirth; she shivered with dampened spirit instead. It is true that one grows more weathered with the years, she sighed. Though chilled to her bones, not a tinge of regret could be found in the wood nymph’s heart even as her thin pelt tried desperately to keep out the cold—for she had arrived just a few days shy of Terrastella’s lively winter festival. The citizens of the Court had been consumed with holiday fervor for the upcoming festivities, and new as she was to Novus, Cyrene was never one to miss a chance at attending a raucous celebration.

Not surprisingly, the girl had arrived at the cliffs well before sunset, curiously observing the mirthful Terrastellans as they prepared for the night’s festivities. Roaring bonfires, spicy cider, delicate lanterns—it was dazzling, and she had flitted from stall to stall eager to lend a hand wherever it was needed. As the rays of the setting sun basked the craggy landscape in a glorious, molten glow, Cyrene meandered towards the cliff edge with a cup of piping hot cider floating alongside her slender frame. The vendor she’d aided in carrying crates loaded with apples up the cliffs had insisted on providing her unlimited cider all through the night, and the offer had been too sweet to resist.

Now far from the warmth of the bonfires, the hubbub of celebration drifted away like a dream as Cyrene listened to the crashing of the restless depths below. The howling, salty wind whipped dark tendrils of her curly locks against her neck, yet the red flowers she’d wound in her hair remained stubbornly fixed. Eyes of dim amber gazed down at the black sea, as dark and as endless as a celestial sky. She was made of sunlight and constellations; yet a hurricane churned inside her.

The revelry, the joy. Not once did it ease the aching pain that lingered always in the shadows of her bleeding heart. Sorrow was a ravenous beast—try as she might to appease it with constant laughter, to quell it with feigned happiness, Cyrene could not keep the monster from consuming every last drop of her soul. "It is so much harder,” she whispered, lilting voice uncharacteristically somber, "to be left behind. The departed have it easy.”

Perhaps, if he hadn’t arrived, she would’ve inched her hooves closer towards the crumbling edge, lost in a desolate trance. Perhaps, if his crash landing hadn’t pulled her from her thoughts, the desire to feel the wind against her scarred wings would’ve finally consumed Cyrene whole. But like a messenger from the gods, the silver-coated boy tumbled from the skies; and she didn’t do either of those things. Call it divine intervention or just coincidence—for Cyrene swiftly turned away from the beckoning precipice, and rushed to the dazed boy’s side in hasty concern.

"Are you… alright?” she breathed as she neared him, the bitter ocean air burning in her lungs. He looked young, or at least younger than her, and as her gaze swept over his slender frame for injuries, the boy’s dove gray coat sent a jolt through her chest. It shimmers just as Cygnus’s did. Kneeling down, a warm smile crossed Cyrene’s lips as she pushed the still steaming cup of untouched cider towards him. "You look chilled. Here, some hot cider from the festival—I’ve been promised an unlimited amount for the night, and I plan to take full advantage of that offer. Drink up!”

The throbbing pain in her breast had abated—curiosity from the boy’s unexpected arrival had stemmed the monster, for now. Though, it was a shame that she was still so cold. Subduing her shivers as best she could, Cyrene rested her tawny eyes steadfastly on the boy’s wavering expression as she stayed kneeled by his side.

"I am glad,” she replied brightly, delicately disregarding his obvious discomfort. He was young, and naivety still sparked off him in every downturned glance and stuttered syllable—yet he was teetering on the edge of adolescence and adulthood, and she would give him the space he needed to collect himself. As she peered into his clear, emerald eyes, Cyrene recognized a hardness that reflected her own. He already carries a burden far too great for his age.

She did not let her concern show as she flashed another of her classic, rosy smiles towards him. Judging by his surprise of her telekinesis, he must've not originated from these lands. A foreigner overwhelmed by unfamiliar surroundings, just like herself. Cyrene gently lowered the cup of cider towards him before speaking.

"I arrived just a few days ago, so this is quite astonishing to me as well. It’s called telekinesis, I think—the locals mentioned it quite often.” He gazed at the cider warily as she offered it to him, and Cyrene felt a flutter of fondness bloom inside her at his mumbled clarification.

"I’m afraid I cannot charge for cider that I did not pay for myself. What a pity...” Nymph eyes twinkled like the aurum constellations of her wings, as she paused in mock consideration of his payment. “Ah! I know—if you accompany me to the festival, I will consider all debts paid.” Nimble legs raised her slender frame up with ease, and as Cyrene stood, snow cascaded off her wings and hair like a crystallized waterfall.

"And if you come, there’s much more where that came from,” she remarked, noticing the ferocity in which he gulped down the frothy drink. Her keen eyes lingered on the numerous cuts and scrapes that dotted the boy’s silvery body, drops of crimson red staining the unblemished snow like ink on a fresh page. Yet she knew they were not serious, having sustained many herself on a regular basis; and she would not fuss over him like a nursemaid. The boy had already taken enough of a dip to his still fragile sense of confidence.

"My name is Cyrene. What is yours, cider scrounger?” she quipped, amusement dancing in her lion eyes. With a casual touch of her velveteen nose to his side, the starlight girl whispered to the magic within her to subtly aid him to his feet as he stood. This much, she could not keep herself from doing.

“I was going there anyways.”

Stemming the amusement from her too-bright eyes as best she could, Cyrene tried in vain to fix a stern pout upon unruly lips as the boy shook frigid clods of snowmelt every which way, the majority conveniently aimed her way.

They fell like spring raindrops against her crimson skin—gentle and teasing. Hmph, is this how I am to be repaid for my precious cider? With a smooth flick of her wings, the girl leapt lightly back a few paces to evade his sneaky attack. Wild sable curls reluctantly settled in some semblance of order back around her doe-like neck, as she lifted a condemning eyebrow in his direction.

What a cheeky one.

“Do they have other drinks?”

"As much as your heart desires—though I’m afraid most are not as… innocent as cider,” she hinted, amber eyes dancing along the frost-stained earth until they rested amusedly on the forgotten, lonely cup. Though if it’s liquor he seeks, I will not stomp on his fun.

Lion eyes that glinted like honeyed mead smoothly surveyed the boy’s cautious attempts at flexing his newfound powers. As the whispering wind laced its bony fingers savagely through her silken feathers, Cyrene watched as his magic struggled like a fawn on ice, stumbling and skidding every which way until, at last, with a whoosh! the ill-fated mug flew up and over the barren cliffs.

"Perhaps by the end of the night you’ll wield it more expertly than I.” A muted smile pressed against upturned lips, as his endearing excitement saturated his emerald eyes like dawn’s shy ascent above night-soaked mountains. Keen eyes dimmed as they silently observed a shattered sliver of his stolen innocence tumble across the boy's solemn, time-worn shoulders.

She hoped he would smile more often. She prayed that destiny had taken enough from him.

"Then, let us go, Saoirse—I shall show you that the festival is leagues more enchanting than its rumors do it justice,” she sang, curls echoing her will as they bobbed along in agreement.

Yet as she caught the rest of his softly muttered words, Cyrene glanced away in solemn thought. Distractedly, her nebulous gaze rested upon something far, far away, her silvery voice lowering to an echo; as if what she murmured was not intended for Saoirse’s ears to detect. Not for anyone’s ears to detect.

"I have realized… that beginnings elude you when you need them most. So when they come, cherish them. The Fates are prickly goddesses—they will not serve you twice.”

An ever flickering flame, her composure returned to her between one breath and the next—and as Cyrene turned to him again, a bright, ebullient smile settled itself with a sigh upon her incandescent lips. "The drinks must be cooling under our noses as we dawdle. Hurry along!”

It hadn’t seemed possible for the festival to grow ever more raucous, ever more wondrous, in Cyrene’s brief absence—yet as she nestled herself back into its kaleidoscope of smells and shouts and laughter, she marveled at how rapidly it had spread its lantern-lit embrace across all of Terrastella. With a hearty inhale, a cheshire smile wound itself around flushed cheeks as the autumn girl weighed the particularly serious question of which booth to visit first. 

Everywhere she turned, mouthwatering scents of sugared chestnuts, candied apples, and honeyed wine wafted about her like golden butterflies; each tugging and pulling and whispering for her to chase after their gilded, fluttering wings. "You must be famished,” she hummed, golden eyes flashing thoughtfully towards the dove-feathered boy that trailed close behind her. Quickly, however, Cyrene’s fleeting gaze zipped away and perched upon a bustling booth just a few paces east.

"Over there—they sell the most wonderful honey cakes, I’ve not a clue how the syrup oozes out like it does, but you must try it—" Like a wine glass toppling over, she could not keep her zeal from spilling out as crimson wings gestured towards the stall with its buzzing crowd of eager festival goers. Yet as she looked back towards Saoirse’s emerald gaze, there was only air to greet her in the place he had stood moments before.

"What—where did he go?” Clucking her tongue, Cyrene sighed as she watched her glacial breath dissipate into the frosty night. "I lost him so quickly.” No matter—he would not have wandered far, and so she resolved to find him later, with delicious treats in tow. As she waited patiently—or as patient as Cyrene could manage—for the treats, her thoughts wandered back to the things that had transpired in their short encounter. Though the boy’s solemn words and discerning gaze had rendered him mature far beyond his years, the flashing spark of boyhood still glowed within his woodland eyes. She saw it in glimpses; a muted smile there, a subtle hush of excitement and lingering innocence there. 

And in his soft grey feathers and playful, grumbling jabs, she saw Cygnus—startlingly clear. She could not help it. Too clearly did she see the ghost of her sister hiding in the shadows of Saoirse’s lithe frame. When she offered him cider, when she lifted him to his feet—a dark part of her had wished it was Cygnus. Her sister's death was an open wound in Cyrene's chest that refused to close; no matter what she did, how far she traveled, the sorrow would never unsheathe its blade-like claws from her bleeding heart. 

"Saoirse!” She was certain that she had seen a flash of grey through the riotous crowd. Swiftly, Cyrene tucked her wings tightly against her side as she weaved and ducked her way through the labyrinth of drunken guests. As she emerged, breathless, lion eyes widened as her hunch proved correct. There he was, lost to the scents and the colors of the festival’s intoxicating grasp. "It’s quite something, isn’t it? The festival.” Sable curls rustled in agreement as she tilted her head towards him. "I managed to snatch the last ones, what luck,” the girl sang, as two oozing honey cakes floated deliciously in front of him, golden syrup dripping in sticky rivulets. 

"Time to put that telekinesis to work if you want one.”