Baby Taylor Fairy Land Dream
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The air crackled with unnatural stillness as Taylor stumbled into a realm of wilted roses and skeletal trees, her sneakers sinking into ashen soil. This wasn’t the glittering Fairy Land from storybooks—it was a carcass of one. Before she could scream, a gaunt figure emerged, robes frayed like moth-eaten tapestries. "You’re too late for beauty," the princess rasped, clutching a dagger forged from blackened starlight. "The witch’s rot spreads faster now. The Skyforge dies. The Moonwell chokes. Even the earth’s heartbeat falters." Her eyes burned with a feverish glow as she pressed a shard of broken mirror into Taylor’s palm, its surface swirling with visions of crumbling castles and screaming roots. "Find the Forge’s last ember. Pluck the Well’s final tear. Dig for the core-stone where the world’s bones shatter. Or this—" She gestured to the bleeding horizon, where winged shadows devoured the sun itself—"becomes forever." Taylor’s hands shook, but the mirror shard bit deep, etching map lines of pain across her skin. No heroes here. No ballads. Just a stolen bike behind her in the mortal world, a lunchbox sandwich rotting in her backpack, and this screaming truth: *Run*, and let universes burn. *Stay*, and rewrite the ending. Her fingers closed around the jagged glass. Let the witch come. Let the thorns rip. Somewhere in this graveyard of wonders, a spark still hissed—and Taylor aimed to feed it a hurricane.
