Submission (#615) Approved

The sounds of the Summer Festival echoed dimly through the trees—distant laughter, the chiming clang of games being won, and the hum of music played on layered instruments. But out here, beneath the shaded canopy near the rocky paths of Layer Six’s quieter outskirts, the noise faded like the last echo of a dream. A soft wind stirred the tall grasses, bending them gently around the lone figure moving between the trees.
Dia Novaë’s steps were light, deliberate. A satchel swayed against their side, filled with makeshift bandages, herbal compresses, and a few small wooden tools carved with care. He wasn't at the festival to socialize or shop. His tent—unadorned but functional—was pitched near the ridge where critters often passed through, vulnerable to festival hazards: stray sparks, spilled alchemical drinks, or curious children chasing too far.
Dia’s eyes, dark and watchful, scanned the underbrush as he walked the trail near his tent. Most of the smaller animals had already hidden themselves from the day’s heat. He was just about to turn back when a sudden sharp screech broke the quiet. It came from somewhere up the slope.
His heart jumped, but his body didn’t freeze. He was already moving, legs pumping with urgency but control. The screech came again—metallic and feathered, followed by the rough thump of something falling. He crested the edge of the ridge just in time to see it: a Rockatiel, curled in on itself, breathing hard. Its plumage—normally vibrant with celestial flecks—was marred by ash and burns. One wing was bent at an unnatural angle, the tips of its feathers singed. It hissed and beat its tail in warning as Dia approached.
He crouched slowly, lowering himself to the creature’s level. “Easy,” he said softly, voice low and even. “I’m not here to hurt you.” The Rockatiel's sharp eyes locked onto his, pupils narrow. Dia stayed perfectly still, his presence calm and without threat. After a few tense moments, the bird lowered its head, chest heaving from exhaustion.
Only then did Dia shift, reaching slowly into his satchel. From it, he withdrew a strip of sturdy cloth and a folded piece of soft mesh. He worked gently, hands practiced, movements confident. With care, he fashioned a simple sling, sliding it beneath the Rockatiel’s fractured wing. The creature flinched once, but didn’t fight.
Dia bundled the bird in a thick scarf and lifted it against his chest, adjusting for weight and breath. It trembled with each movement, but he kept murmuring quiet nothings—half-spoken, half-hummed rhythms that weren't quite words but still conveyed meaning. “Let’s get you off this path,” he whispered. “You picked a bad time to land here, huh?”
As he made his way back toward his tent, the Rockatiel stirred once—just enough to nudge its beak under his collar, hiding from the wind.
The sun had begun its slow descent behind the jagged ridgelines of Layer Six, casting golden light across the canvas tents of the Summer Festival. Bright flags rustled in the wind, and laughter rose like fireflies in the twilight air. But tucked just a little ways off the main trail, beneath a grove of lantern-hung trees, Dia’s tent glowed with a more gentle warmth.
Inside, it smelled of crushed herbs, damp linen, and the faint sweetness of boiled fruit peel. Soft padding made from folded grass mats lined the interior, and a row of makeshift perches—crafted from driftwood and lashed branches—stood near the back wall. The Rockatiel rested on a raised cushion near the center, wing still bound but chest rising evenly now. Dia had washed the ash from its feathers and rubbed a salve into the scorched patches. The sling he’d fashioned had been replaced with a cleaner, better-fitted wrap tied with deft care.
Dia sat beside it, weaving thin twine into a charm of protection—a simple talisman shaped like a feather, meant to bring strength to those in healing. His hands moved with quiet purpose, and though he didn’t speak, his presence was steady and grounding. The Rockatiel shifted, eyes blinking open in the low light. It gave a soft warble, quieter than before, more curious than pained. When Dia noticed, he set the finished charm beside it and held out a shallow wooden bowl filled with crushed melon and bits of cool fruit. The bird hesitated. Then, slowly, it leaned forward and took a bite.
Dia let out the smallest smile. “You’re eating. That’s a good sign,” he murmured, his voice barely above the whisper of leaves outside. “You’ll fly again. I promise.”
Outside the tent, festival-goers passed by, some pausing to glance in. The sign hanging from a string above the flap was scrawled with simple charcoal strokes: “Gentle Aid for Injured Wings & Paws – No Questions, No Fear.”
Later, as the lanterns above the grove shimmered to life—casting dapples of gold and orange against the trees—the Rockatiel shifted closer to Dia and tucked its head lightly against his leg. It let out a low, fluttery purr, one of trust. Dia gently reached over and brushed a finger along the edge of its uninjured wing. “Rest,” he whispered. “The festival will still be here tomorrow.” And in that small corner of the bustling celebration, beneath a canopy of gently glowing lights and the rustle of paper lanterns, a healer and a hurt soul found quiet joy—together, safe, and whole.
Morning in Mare Noctis shimmered softer than most places—gentle rays diffused through drifting veils of mist, and the festival grounds were still drowsy from the previous night’s joy. A few early-risers wandered the lanes, cleaning, stretching, yawning. Vendors reheated sweetbread. The scent of dew and citrus lingered in the air.
Inside the healing tent, it was quiet—peaceful. Dia had slept lightly beside the Rockatiel, curled on one of the mats with a thin blanket draped over his shoulders. At some point in the early hours, the bird had shuffled closer again, resting beside him as if keeping watch in return.
Now, with the soft rustle of leaves and the faint coo of morning doves outside, Dia stirred. He blinked once, then sat up slowly, brushing loose grass from his sleeves. The Rockatiel was already awake. Its feathers were puffed slightly in alertness, but its posture had changed. Brighter. Stronger. It looked toward the edge of the tent, then up at the small circle of sky visible between the canvas folds.
“You want to try,” Dia said softly.
It chirped once in response.
He unwrapped the makeshift sling with practiced care, paws deft and respectful. The injured wing unfolded slowly. Still healing—but healed enough. Dia had seen wings like this before. The bones had set well, the burns treated early. It would never be perfect again, but perfection had never been the goal. Freedom was.
“Wait,” he murmured. He picked up the small charm he’d made—the feather of twine and light glass bead—and gently fastened it around the bird’s leg, loose enough to fall away naturally with time. Then, pushing the canvas flap aside, he stepped outside and offered his arm.
The Rockatiel hopped up, talons curling gently around his wrist. Its body tensed—then, with a soft grunt of effort, it leapt. One wing beat faltered. But then both caught the breeze. It soared into the air.
It was uneven. A little clumsy. But it was flight.
The Rockatiel circled once more—then dove gently toward the grove’s edge, perching high in the branches of a fruiting fig tree. It turned its head back toward the tent and gave one last musical trill before disappearing into the early sky.
Dia let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
From the trees above, a feather caught the wind and drifted down—gray and soft, landing near the tent entrance. Dia picked it up, tucked it behind one ear, and returned to his work.

Reward	Amount
Gold	5
Summer Daze Music Festival - Design and MYO Raffles (Raffle Ticket)	1