At the treeline, the green lane shivers wider, and & slips back under the bough shadow. The ash behind her still steams, but the dead earth no longer bites quite so hard.
Other fairies drift in from the leaves, brief sparks in bark-brown and moss-green. They kneel over the scorched soil, dusting it with pollen and bead-bright dew.
The Moss Sprite
No farther, ash-borne one. This ground is ours to mend.
The ancient sprite lifts a hand, and a hush of leaves-wind rises around & like a shield. The wasteland’s hunger presses, then thins at the barrier’s edge.
The Woodcutter
By the roots... there are more of them.
The fairies thread their magic into the soil. Lichen spreads in silver mats, and pale shoots spear through the ash in quick, trembling lines.
The Ash-Fairy
You drag life into a grave and call it healing. Step away, little spark, before this place learns your name.
The Woodcutter stares at the stranger, then at & and the widening green. The ash-fairy’s wings glint like burnt glass as the first roots curl around their feet.