The fairy girl's wings were like a weightless transparent fabric, shimmering with all facets even without sunlight.
When she regained her attention, she noticed hundreds... no, thousands... thousands of faeries who were fighting fiercely against the witches. And there was no end to spells and magic, there was no second when a collision did not occur, from which both sides suffered.
Temithea jumped down into the trampled bloody snow with her feet and gasped soundlessly when something crunched under her feet. She lowered her head down and lightly stirred the snow with the toe of her shoe, noticing a flickering wing that was covered in blood and lay torn off by an unnecessary thing.
She was afraid to even imagine the agony in which this fairy was dying, having lost his wings alive. Guilt gripped her, because the faeries were here for her, fighting for her and dying for her.
