The air shimmered with emerald light as Lyara stepped into the Hollow Grove, her translucent wings catching the sun’s dying rays. Each flutter of her delicate, gossamer appendages sent motes of light swirling in her wake, like tiny spirits dancing in reverence. Her presence was striking, nearly otherworldly. Fiery red hair cascaded down her back in unruly waves, the curls occasionally catching on the fragile crown of pale blossoms that adorned her head. Beneath the radiant glow of her wings and hair, her form stood tall and lithesome, wrapped in an outfit that seemed to span both grace and power.
Her armor was pastel-hued but gleamed with the strength of tempered steel. Intricate patterns of vines and flowers were etched into every metallic curve, flowing from her shoulders to her slender waist where the plates gave way to a diaphanous skirt of soft pink and lavender. It billowed lightly around her long legs as though a breeze hidden to mortal men followed her steps. A tulle-like sash adorned her hips, and every motion of her body sent the fabric glinting with embedded crystals. To all who might witness her in these cursed woods, Lyara would seem more a goddess than a warrior.
The grove was dying. Where once the luminous trees hummed with life, their branches now hung gray and brittle. Shadows moved at the edges of her sight, crawling between the root-knots of ancient, forgotten oaks. Even the air around Lyara held a kind of oppressive stillness. But her hand, clad in gold-laced gauntlets, did not falter as it rested on her weapon—a delicate staff tipped with a jagged bloom of glass-like crystal.
“Should you anger the forest further, it will swallow you whole,” came a sharp voice behind her. Lyara spun, her wings flaring outward in alarm. A man melted from the shadows. He was dressed in a cloak the color of twilight, his boots soundless over the brittle foliage. He bore no weapon, only a faint smirk that made her chest seize with irritation.
“You stalk me?” Lyara demanded, her tone frosty. “Reveal yourself. State your name.”
“I am merely the guardian of this place,” the man replied lazily, though there was a predatory sharpness to his gaze as his eyes roved over her form. Lyara straightened. His clothing was unremarkable in the way his movements were anything but—fluid, predatory, and far too sure for one so young.
“A dying place needs no guardian,” she scoffed, though her hand remained tight on her weapon. The man’s smirk widened.
“And yet it demands one. Perhaps it demands two, if you’ve come here to save it.”
“I’ve come for the Bloom,” she said sharply. The man’s smirk vanished, replaced by something darker.
The Bloom. It was more than a relic. Deep within the heart of the Hollow Grove lay the crystalline flower said to hold the essence of all life. Whoever controlled the Bloom could bring revival or ruin to the land. It was the only thing that could undo the growing rot that had threatened to destroy her homeland. But… it was also the reason so many had died in these woods, victims of greed, ambition, or the merciless magic that protected it.
“You know nothing of the Bloom’s power,” the man snapped, stepping closer. His calm demeanor cracked, revealing depths of anger that made Lyara pause. “If you take it, you’ll doom yourself.”
“Or I will save thousands,” Lyara countered, tightening her grip on the staff, the crystal at its tip sparking faintly in the dim light. “And if you get in my way, guardian, I will leave you to the shadows.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smirk this time, but something softer. Sadder. “You don’t understand what it demands.” His expression hardened as he gestured to the desolate woods around them. “Pay attention, fairy. These trees aren’t dead—they are trapped. Cursed by those who came before you, who also sought the Bloom.”
“And what of you?” she demanded. “Are you trapped too?”
The question hung in the thick, unnatural silence that settled between them. The man did not answer, but his gaze fell briefly, almost guiltily, to the forest floor. That was all the confirmation she needed.
“Then help me,” Lyara urged, stepping closer. Her voice had softened, though her fiery presence hadn’t dimmed. “If you would see this cursed land set free, guide me. Show me what must be done.”
For the first time, his confidence faltered. He looked at her, truly looked, as though weighing her offer. It only lasted a moment before he turned away with a low laugh that sounded more bitter than amused.
“You’ll regret it,” he said, beginning to walk deeper into the grove. “Follow me, if you believe your wings strong enough to bear the truth.”
Lyara hesitated only a moment. Then, holding her weapon tightly, she followed him into the shadows, her steel and silk gleaming faintly in what remained of the light.
The air grew colder. Elongated shadows danced along her exposed arms and legs, and though she exuded warmth, she felt their icy touch. Her wings pulsed faintly behind her as though trying to warn her, but she ignored their panic. There was no going back now.
“I hope, for your sake, that you do not love your reflection in that armor too much,” the man finally muttered, his voice carrying over his shoulder.
“Why?” she asked warily.
“Because nothing—” He stopped and turned, eyes gleaming like obsidian. “Nothing beautiful leaves the Bloom unchanged.”
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Art of Ethereal Cosplay: How to Channel Fairy Realms Through Your Look
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