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

The eerie silence that followed the arrival of the Nightwraith was deafening. The air itself seemed to recoil from the shadowy figure that emerged from the treeline. Lyra could feel the weight of its presence in the pit of her stomach, as though the very essence of the forest was holding its breath. The village that had once been filled with laughter and joy now felt still, suffocated by the ominous arrival of something ancient and malevolent.

Lyra’s heart raced in her chest, the rhythmic beat echoing in her ears as her wings instinctively flared, catching the faint light from the distant lanterns. She looked around the clearing, the once warm atmosphere now tainted by the unnatural chill that had spread like a fog. The fae around her stood motionless, eyes wide in fear, their faces pale and slack with disbelief. They were no longer the lively, carefree beings Lyra had seen earlier, but statues of dread, frozen in place.

Eryndor’s body was tense beside her, his tail low, his fur bristling. “Nightwraiths are not something to face lightly,” he muttered, his voice tight. His amber eyes, usually filled with playful mischief, were now filled with caution, scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement.

The Nightwraith’s cloak seemed to absorb the light around it, as if the darkness itself was drawn to the figure. Lyra’s gaze flicked to its face, but it was hidden beneath the hood. There was something wrong about it—an unsettling aura of corruption and malice that clung to the air, like a poison creeping through the trees. Her wings twitched uneasily as the creature’s presence pressed down on her chest, suffocating her with its unnatural force.

“Who dares to enter the sacred land of the fae?” one of the village elders called out, his voice strong but strained, as if he was trying to mask the fear rising in his throat. He stepped forward, his wings flaring to display the faint shimmer of magic that pulsed around his body. The elder was a tall figure, his face lined with age but still sharp with the wisdom of many centuries. His wings, though delicate, were imbued with a glowing aura that could light up even the darkest corners of the forest.

The Nightwraith didn’t respond. It merely stood there, still as a statue, yet exuding a sense of malevolence that made the ground beneath Lyra’s feet seem to tremble. She felt an overwhelming sense of dread wash over her, a coldness that seemed to seep into her bones. It was like the world itself had gone silent, as if the creature had stolen the very heartbeat of the land.

“What does it want?” Lyra whispered, her voice trembling. She could feel the unease building inside her, a gnawing instinct telling her that the creature was no mere wanderer, no lost soul. There was purpose in its presence—a dark, twisted purpose.

“I’m afraid it’s not here for peace,” Eryndor replied grimly. His fur rippled, and Lyra could feel the magic swirling around him, thick with danger. He was preparing, readying himself for whatever came next. “This creature is ancient, born of darkness. It seeks to corrupt, to destroy.”

The air grew heavier, and the Nightwraith’s presence seemed to grow even more oppressive. It took a slow, deliberate step forward, and in that moment, Lyra felt the oppressive pressure tighten around her chest. The magic in the air seemed to flicker and sputter as if it were struggling to stay alive. The trees, the very life of the forest, felt as though they were wilting under the creature’s influence.

“You are not welcome here, Shadow of the Forgotten.” The elder’s voice was louder this time, filled with a strength that seemed to push back against the darkness. The elder raised his hands, his wings glowing brighter as he gathered the magic of the forest to him, creating an aura of light around him.

The Nightwraith tilted its head slightly, as though considering the words. Then, with a voice that was both distant and chilling, it spoke.

“I come for what is mine.”

The words sent a cold shiver down Lyra’s spine. Her wings fluttered, and she instinctively took a step back. Eryndor’s hackles were raised, and the air around him crackled with power. Lyra could see that the fae around her were preparing for a confrontation, their wings glowing with various hues of magic—pale blues, silvers, and even a deep, forest green. Their faces, once calm and serene, were now filled with anxiety, their expressions taut with the realization that the creature before them was far beyond anything they had encountered in centuries.

The Nightwraith raised a skeletal hand from within its cloak, its fingers long and clawed, and the air around it seemed to freeze. Lyra felt a sudden weight in her chest, like the creature’s hand was reaching into her very soul. It was draining the life from the forest, from the fae, from everything around them.

Then, the Nightwraith’s head jerked up, and its hood fell back.

Lyra gasped. The face beneath the hood was not human, not fae—it was an abomination. The face was a pale, hollow mask of features, the skin stretched thin over sharp, jagged bones. Its eyes were black voids, empty and endless, and Lyra could feel the cold emptiness within them. The creature was not merely an enemy—it was the death of all that it touched.

“You are not welcome in this world.” The elder’s voice was fierce, his wings glowing brighter as he summoned the power of the forest, calling on the magic that bound the land and the life within it.

The Nightwraith didn’t respond with words this time. Instead, it extended its hand, and Lyra watched in horror as the ground around it began to wither. Grass turned to ash, trees bent and cracked, their branches shriveling and falling as though struck by an invisible force. The air seemed to warp and distort, and Lyra could feel the magic around her growing weaker, being drained into the dark creature.

Eryndor growled lowly beside her, his fur standing on end. “We can’t fight it here, not with the village so exposed.”

The elder, his wings trembling with the effort of holding back the creature’s power, turned to Lyra. “You must flee, child. There is no shame in running. The Nightwraith is not something to fight unless you are prepared.”

Lyra felt her breath catch in her throat. Run? She had come here seeking strength, seeking answers. But what was she supposed to do now? The forest was dying around them, and the Nightwraith would not stop until everything was consumed in its darkness.

Her wings fluttered, the wind swirling around her in a chaotic dance of magic. She could feel the power within her stirring, like an ember struggling to catch flame. But it was not enough—not yet.

“I won’t leave them,” Lyra said, her voice steady despite the fear rising within her. “There must be something I can do.”

Eryndor looked at her, his eyes soft but filled with understanding. “You are not ready, Lyra. This creature—”

“I’m not running.” Her voice was firm, and in that moment, something inside her clicked. It was more than just a desire to fight—it was the realization that she had a responsibility to protect this place, these people.

With a deep breath, Lyra summoned her power. Her wings spread wide, and she closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the wind whip around her. She reached out to the magic that surrounded her—the magic of the forest, of the fae, of the very life that thrived in this land. The winds obeyed her call, the air around her thick with power as she poured everything into one singular focus.

She was going to fight.