Two days have passed since Willow entered the Veil, and the residents of Aurora Hallow are crestfallen.

The moss paths' glow has dimmed beneath the hooves of those who continue to watch the Veil for signs of Willow's crossing. The fireflies no longer spiral with the frantic hope they carried the first night. Now they drift in broken clusters, blinking in and out like tired stars.

The youngest fawns, including Willow's sister, Rosemary, still crowd among the ferns, but their whispers have changed. At first, they asked what would happen if Willow made it through. Now they ask what will happen if she does not.

Rosemary is understandably upset by their inquiries. A moment ago she lost her temper and yelled at her friend Snow, "Shut up! Willow will make it through the Veil." An outburst very unlike her.

Snow replied that she was just being realistic, ignoring the obvious pain Rosemary is experiencing.

With tears streaming down her face, Rosemary looks to her mother, Ivy, who stands exactly where she stood the first night. Her eyes fixed on the Veil, as if the force of her watching might keep Willow from being lost.

I have spent my life teaching fawns how to survive the Shadow. I've taught them emotional processing, executive function, boundaries, and communication skills. I've taught them that what remains unnamed becomes a place for darkness to hide.

But now, with Willow still trapped inside the realm between worlds, my teachings feel suddenly too small. The Hallow is looking to me, and for the first time in many seasons, I do not know what to say.

This evening, when the Meadow Council adjourned and the glimmer stone dimmed, I walked past dens of sleeping foxes and Athena the owl on her nightly patrol, toward the pond where no fawn goes unless they are ready to ask a question they cannot answer themselves.

When I approach Aurora's Pond, it's still as glass.

The surface reflects no stars. Only the Veil's pale light in the distance and the faint movement of fireflies gathering low over the water.

I step to the edge and bow my head.

"Aurora," I say softly. "I need you."

For a long moment, nothing moves. Then the fireflies rise.

One by one, they lift from the reeds, their small golden bodies blinking in a rhythm older than language. Above them, the night sky begins to loosen. Green and violet light unfurls across the darkness like silk, spreading in slow waves over the pond.

Aurora arrives as color and light. As the hush that falls over the forest when every living thing remembers it is being held.

I do not look away.

"What is happening to Willow?" I ask.

The aurora borealis shimmers across the water. The fireflies gather closer, forming a trembling halo around the pond's edge.

When Aurora answers, her voice does not come from one place. It comes from the light above, the insects below, the reflection between them.

"Willow is on her journey. Time does not move in the Veil as it moves here."

"Is she suffering?"

The lights shift, green folding into blue.

"She is facing what must be faced."

I close my eyes for a moment. "Can I help her?"

"No," Aurora says.

The word is gentle. That makes it worse.

I open my eyes. "She may believe she's been abandoned."

"She must discover the difference between being alone and being unloved."

The words strike me so deeply that I cannot speak. Across the pond, the fireflies pulse once, as if marking the truth of it. I think of Ivy at the edge of the Veil. I think of Willow as a young fawn.

"She has carried that wound her whole life," I say.

"Yes," Aurora answers. "And the Veil will not let her carry it unseen."

I look back toward the distant glow of the Veil.

"Then what do I do?" I ask. "If I cannot reach Willow, what do I tell the fawns? Their faith is fading. Their strength is turning against itself. They are afraid, and fear is making them forget who they are, hurting each other in ways I don't know how to repair."

The pond goes still. Then Aurora's light spreads wider, touching the reeds, the stones, and the moss path behind me.

"Then bridge deeper connections among them by grouping them with others they align with."

I lift my head.

"There are four truths in the Hallow. The first are Embers. They lead with feeling. Brave, expressive, drawn toward intensity. In conflict, they move toward what hurts. They burn to act, to speak, to protect, to be witnessed. But when afraid, they may overextend until nothing is left but ash. Teach them to channel their fire into purpose."

The fireflies assemble themselves into a flame that explodes into ash.

"The second are Lumen. They seek understanding. Thoughtful, observant, drawn toward truth. In conflict, they search for meaning beneath the fear. But when afraid, they may think themselves into darkness. Teach them to share their wisdom before it becomes a cage."

The fireflies form a star streaking across the pond that flickers and dies out.

"The third are Vines. They move with purpose. Calm, grounded, strategic. In conflict, they build structure and try to hold what is breaking. But when afraid, they may grip too tightly. Teach them that strength comes from connection, not control."

The fireflies branch into streams like roots grounding a tree.

"The fourth are Feathers. They nurture peace and belonging. Gentle, loyal, harmony-centered. In conflict, they create safety where others can rest. But when afraid, they may withdraw, believing their needs are too much to ask for. Teach them that caring for the Hallow begins with caring for themselves."

The fireflies pulse like a heartbeat as they gently cascade down to the water like a feather in the wind.

Ember.

Lumen.

Vine.

Feather.

For the first time in two days, I feel something inside me settle.

Aurora's light warms. "When with peers they align with, they'll give each other strength."

"And Willow?" I ask.

"Willow must walk her path alone," Aurora says. "But if the Hallow remembers its shape, she will have a Hallow to return to."

That's the answer. Not the one I want, but the one I need.

At sunrise I will share the Orders with the Hallow and begin a new way for us to fight the Shadow.