Reincarnated as a Fairy: My Magic Wings Will Soar Above This Fantasy World!

The winds had grown fiercer, swirling in gusts around Lyra and Eryndor, but neither of them flinched. The air was thick with magic now, like a tension that filled the space between every breath they took. The forest seemed alive—no longer just a backdrop for their travels, but a force in itself. The ancient trees stood still but echoed with secrets in the cracks of their bark, their leaves whispering under the pressure of unseen forces.

Lyra’s wings twitched, an instinctive reaction to the rising power around her. The winds had become more than just a call; they were an overwhelming pull, a force she couldn’t deny. Eryndor’s hand tightened on his sword, though his eyes remained focused on Lyra, watching her every move as if she were the key to a great puzzle that only she could solve.

They stood in front of the altar, the crystal now glowing brighter than before. Its hum was a deep, resonant sound, like the heartbeat of the forest itself, its rhythm syncing with the one inside Lyra’s chest. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the glowing pedestal, her mind filled with the ancient words spoken in her mind.

“The time is near. Only together will you face the storm.”

The voice was gone now, but its weight hung in the air like a thick fog. Lyra felt a deep, instinctive knowledge stirring within her. This moment was pivotal—everything that had happened until now had led her to this point, and the crystal in front of her seemed to hold the answers to questions she didn’t even know she was asking. The pull was too strong, and the call too intense to ignore.

“What is this place?” Eryndor whispered, his voice cutting through the silence. “It feels like we’ve stepped into a realm that isn’t bound by the world we know.”

Lyra turned to him, her eyes reflecting a mixture of determination and uncertainty. “I don’t know, but I feel like... like I’m supposed to be here.” Her voice was barely audible, the wind stealing the words away. She stepped closer to the crystal, the magic thrumming in her fingertips as they brushed its smooth surface. She could feel the heartbeat of the world pulse beneath her skin.

“The storm comes with the winds. Only the chosen will rise.”

The words vibrated through her body, the prophecy echoing in her mind. It wasn’t just about her, she realized. There were others. She wasn’t alone in this fight. The storm was coming, and it wouldn’t be fought alone.

“What storm?” Lyra whispered to herself, but her words seemed to vanish, absorbed by the winds around her. The air grew colder, and the sky above darkened. A flash of light flickered between the branches of the trees, as though something powerful and unseen was watching them.

Suddenly, a piercing howl echoed through the forest, sharp and desperate. It sent a shiver down Lyra’s spine. The howl came again, closer this time, and then another joined it. The wind howled louder in response, and Lyra felt it—the unmistakable pull of something wild and untamed, something that was both a danger and an opportunity.

“Lyra,” Eryndor’s voice was tight with concern. “We need to leave. Something is approaching.”

But Lyra didn’t move. Her feet were rooted to the ground, and her wings were spread wide, as if she had no choice but to face what was coming. She looked around, her senses heightened, and that was when she saw it—figures emerging from the shadows of the trees.

The wind howled louder, and the figures revealed themselves. They were tall, humanoid shapes, with eyes that gleamed like molten gold. Their bodies were draped in tattered cloaks made of shadow and starlight, their features half-hidden, but their presence was undeniable. Lyra felt the weight of their gaze upon her, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Who are they?” Eryndor muttered, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

“Wraiths,” Lyra whispered, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay composed. “Ancient guardians. They protect the heart of the forest... and they’re not happy to see us.”

Eryndor’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting into one of readiness. “Do you know how to deal with them?”

Lyra shook her head slowly. “No. But I’m not leaving. Not now.”

The wraiths began to move toward them, their movements like smoke swirling in the air. They didn’t speak, their presence speaking volumes in the heavy silence that followed. The air around them grew thick with power, and Lyra could feel the wind around her shifting. The wraiths were not of this world—they were ancient protectors of the magic, and they were here for a reason.

“I am Lyra Everleaf,” she said, her voice steady, though the weight of the wraiths’ presence pressed heavily on her chest. “I seek the truth. The winds have chosen me.”

The wraiths stopped in their tracks, their golden eyes piercing her with an intensity that made her heart race. For a long moment, there was silence, the only sound the wind whispering through the trees.

Then, one of the wraiths stepped forward. Its voice was a soft rasp, like wind through dead branches. “Chosen...” it said, the word stretching like a curse. “You bear the mark, child of the winds. But you are not yet ready. The storm comes, and with it, your trials.”

Lyra felt a chill run down her spine. The storm—she had heard the wind speak of it, but this was the first time someone had mentioned it directly. The wraiths knew something she didn’t.

“What trials?” she demanded, her wings fluttering with agitation. “I am ready to face whatever comes. The winds chose me for a reason.”

The wraith’s gaze softened, and for a brief moment, Lyra thought she saw something like pity in its eyes. “The winds do not choose lightly, but they are fickle,” it said. “They lead you down a path, but the end is not certain. Prepare yourself, Lyra Everleaf. The winds have chosen, but the storm will test you in ways you cannot yet understand.”

With that, the wraiths turned, disappearing back into the shadows of the forest as quickly as they had come. The howl of the wind faded with them, leaving a silence that was almost deafening.

Lyra stood motionless, her heart pounding. Eryndor was beside her now, his hand on her shoulder.

“What do we do now?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with concern.

Lyra took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She didn’t have all the answers yet, but she knew one thing for certain: The storm was coming, and she had no choice but to face it head-on.

“We move forward,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “The winds have chosen me. And I will not fail them.”