The Blooming Field was once just a meadow—a quiet patch of wildflowers and soft grasses where fae children played in spring. But now, under Lucky's guidance, it had transformed.
Massive root-spirals rose like watchtowers. Petal-gliders flew overhead, dropping bursts of pollen-fire. Phoenix embers marked the perimeter with warmth. Healing tents were stitched from whisper-silk, each pulse a promise of recovery.
Lucky walked slowly through the heart of it all. Every step was met with bowed heads, soft greetings, and eyes filled with reverence—and fear.
They weren't following her because she was invincible. They were following her because she had never given up.
That morning, she spoke no speeches. She merely placed her hand to the ground and whispered, "Let it begin."
The soil stirred beneath her. The forest had heard.