par Bill Tiepelman
Guardian Cub of Enchanted Realms
The Branch, the Bright Eyes, and the Bad Timing The first rule of the Enchanted Forest is simple: don’t lick anything that glows. The second rule is more of a gentle suggestion—try not to insult the wildlife, especially if it has wings large enough to fan you like a celebrity at a summer gala. I broke both rules within ten minutes. I was tracking a strand of sunset that had slipped between the trees—a lazy, honey-gold ribbon that pooled across a moss-covered branch. That’s when I saw her: a winged snow leopard cub, all spotted velvet and impossible featherwork, perched like a secret the forest had been dying to tell someone with the right kind of ears. Her eyes were the glassy blue of mountain air, bright enough to make the shadows admit they’d been exaggerating. “Hello,” I said, because this is what you say to miracles if you’re polite and over thirty-five. “You’re not in the product catalog.” The cub blinked slowly—the feline equivalent of an elevator door that has decided it will not close while you are still telling your life story. A single feather unhooked from her wing and spiraled down, luminous as frost in candlelight. It landed on my boot and melted into a scent like snow at the moment it forgives the sun. You took your time, a voice said inside my head, breezy as chiffon. There’s a prophecy, and also a schedule. I looked around, because the etiquette of telepathy never really stuck with me. “You… talked?” Talked? Please. I upgraded to direct transfer after the owls kept live-tweeting my secrets. The cub stood, every tuft and whisker suddenly photo-real under the latticework of golden light. My name is Lumen. I’m a Guardian. Of the Realms. Junior edition. Probationary, technically. “Junior edition?” I repeated, because sometimes your brain just idles. I haven’t had my Ascension Nap. Bureaucracy. She flicked her tail, ringed like a moon seen through lace. But someone has to fix the tear between winter and summer, and the elders are allergic to urgency. I sat on the branch opposite her, careful not to test the load-bearing capacity of myth. The forest breathed around us—glow-mushrooms hemming the shadows, dust motes drifting like confetti that forgot the party ended in 1492. “So there’s a tear. In seasons.” In everything, really. Lumen stretched her wings, and the feathers drank the light before giving it back brighter. The Frostbound Choir thinks the world should be permanently iced—easy to manage, aesthetically consistent. The Ember Syndicate wants a forever-summer with more sizzle than sense. If they finish their tug-of-war, there’ll be no spring to fall into, no autumn to gather. No home for the enchanted forest or the quiet places where hope sprouts like weeds. “Let me guess,” I said, “you need a human who can follow instructions, keep calm under supernatural pressure, and absolutely not lick the glowing things.” Lumen tilted her head. Realistically? I need a human who can improvise. And who carries snacks. I offered a bag of trail mix with the air of a knight presenting a holy relic. She nosed it, selected exactly three almonds, and somehow made it a ceremony. You’re hired. Somewhere above us, a bough unspooled from shadow and dropped a drip of resin onto my forehead, the forest’s version of a notary stamp. The gold fleck spread warm across my skin and sank in, humming like a distant choir that had learned to keep its arrogance to a whisper. Contract sealed, Lumen said. Clause one: you will walk with me. Clause two: you will laugh when fear tries to be funny. Clause three: hope is not optional; it’s equipment. We moved along the branch like co-conspirators, the bark a patchwork of emerald and old stories. Beneath us, the forest opened into a clearing where sunbeams stitched the ground into a warm quilt. Dragonflies skimmed the light, wearing jeweled harnesses of dawn. I felt the world thicken with meaning, the way soup does when you’ve finally added enough potatoes. “Where are we going?” I asked. The seam, she said. Where winter leaks into summer and vice versa. We’ll patch it with laughter, ritual, and reckless competence. And possibly a needle made of moonlight. “Straightforward,” I said, bravely lying. “And the odds?” On paper? Unkind. In practice? Her eyes glimmered like ice deciding to behave. We’ll win by making better mistakes than our enemies. We entered the clearing—and the air split with a sound like glass learning to sing. The temperature plunged. Frost raced along the edges of leaves, sketching filigree so perfect it hurt to look at. On the far side, heat shimmered off the earth, the color of apricots and audacity. Between them, a silver rift unstitched the world from ankle to sky. “If this were a merch photo,” I muttered, “we’d call it Celestial Leopard vs. Art-Directed Catastrophe and sell prints until the moon filed for royalties.” Focus, beloved chaos, Lumen said, though I felt her amusement purr through my ribs. First, we listen. From the cold side came a thin, sacred harmony—voices stacked like icicles—sharp, beautiful, and merciless. From the hot side throbbed a bass-heavy chant that smelled of citrus and mischief, a music that would dance you into a good decision and then dare you to dance again. The two songs warred, and the rift widened by the width of my regret. “Can we… harmonize them?” I asked. Eventually, yes. Tonight? Lumen’s feathered ear twitched. We start smaller. The Choir sent a scout to intimidate us—do not be impressed. The trick with bullies is realizing how boring they are. Something stepped from the winter side: tall, cloaked in hoarfrost, antlers veined with trapped starlight. Its breath scribbled the air into equations that solved for despair. I felt my knees reconsider their career choices. “Name yourself,” the figure intoned, the syllables so cold they cracked. Before I could speak, Lumen hopped onto the midpoint of the branch like a child claiming a stage. I am Lumen, Guardian Cub of the Enchanted Realms, Assistant Manager of Miracles, and today’s customer service representative. You’ve violated seasonal policy, subsection ‘Don’t Be a Drama Blizzard.’ Kindly take a number. If a frost-wraith can look offended, this one achieved it with gusto. “You are a cub.” And you are late to your own downfall, Lumen said, fluffing to approximately twice her already fabulous volume. Behold my associate: human, resilient, snack-enabled. “Hi,” I said, because sometimes bravery just means showing up. I stepped forward and, without overthinking it, began to hum the warm song I’d heard leaking from the summer side. Not loudly—just enough to set the air vibrating like a list of good ideas. Heat ghosted across the clearing, a hum of peaches and sunset. The frost-wraith flinched. Yes, Lumen murmured. Hope is a temperature. The wraith hissed and raised both arms. Snow spiraled into a spear, elegant as malice. “You will be corrected.” “We prefer edited,” I said, and reached instinctively for Lumen. Her wing cupped my palm. A current ran through us—cold and hot and utterly right—like being plugged into the original power outlet of the world. Feathers flashed. The spear shattered into harmless glitter that fell as soft as applause. The rift shivered, surprised by our refusal to be predictable. The frost-wraith steadied. “Child,” it said to Lumen, “do you know who you are?” Lumen’s eyes went so bright the forest leaned closer. I am the savior no one scheduled, the joke fate tells to heal itself, and the Guardian who brings spring to the stubborn. She bared tiny, polite teeth. And I am not alone. The wraith stepped back toward the winter veil, reconsidering its life choices. It lifted one long finger. “Tomorrow, at moonrise. We end your hopeful nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense,” I said, voice steady for the first time. “It’s a plan.” The figure dissolved into falling frost that spelled a rude word in four languages, then blew away. The clearing exhaled. The rift still burned and glittered, but it no longer growled. Lumen sagged, suddenly just a cub with oversized promises. I knelt and pressed my forehead to hers. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Oh, absolutely, she said, tail curling around my wrist like a bracelet I’d keep forever. Tomorrow we persuade a war to become a duet. Tonight we practice—and you’ll need to learn how to stitch moonlight without stabbing yourself in the optimism. “Is there a manual?” There’s a vibe, she said. And snacks. Don’t forget the snacks. The forest lights brightened in soft approval. Somewhere, the summer side laughed into the leaves; the winter side polished its pride to a shine. Between them, a small, winged celestial feline and a woman who had aged into her courage made a promise the world could hear if it wanted to. The Moonlight Needle and the Fine Art of Panic Morning in the Enchanted Forest has the decency to be both unrealistic and aggressively on-brand. The light doesn’t just shine; it drizzles down like melted sugar, pooling in the creases of bark and the hollows of moss. Birds trill arpeggios that would bankrupt Broadway if they ever sold tickets. And in the middle of it all, I woke up with a winged snow leopard cub standing on my chest, lecturing me about moonlight embroidery. Hold still, human, Lumen said, pawing through my pockets with the determined subtlety of a TSA agent. We need something sharp, something steady, and something profoundly unnecessary. “Like, say, a life coach?” I wheezed under her eight pounds of destiny. Funny, she deadpanned. No, we’re making a Needle of Moonlight. Frost rifts don’t close themselves, and celestial thread doesn’t exactly come prepackaged at the craft store. She leapt to the branch above, feathers brushing my cheek like the world’s fanciest alarm clock. The canopy still dripped silver from last night’s duel. Lumen gathered it the way children gather excuses—messy, abundant, and with suspicious joy. She nudged a thread of liquid light toward me. Hold it. It was cool, electric, and whisper-thin, like clutching a sigh before it could escape. My hands shook. “Feels fragile.” It is fragile. Like truth, or soufflé. Don’t drop it. She shaped her wings into a cradle, focusing, her eyes twin glaciers set on fire. The thread sharpened under her gaze until it gleamed needle-fine, humming with that particular frequency of things that rewrite the rules. “This is either witchcraft,” I muttered, “or the world’s most elaborate Etsy tutorial.” Both, Lumen said. Now, about the panic—you’ll need it. I blinked. “I thought you said hope was the equipment.” Yes, but panic is the engine. Hope without panic is a fairy tale. Panic without hope is a headline. Together? You get improvisation with teeth. We descended into the clearing where the rift still yawned, half winter, half summer. The air was drunk on contradictions—snowflakes sizzling into steam, leaves burning themselves back into green. The seam shimmered, wider than before, as though last night’s frost-wraith had returned home to file a complaint. “We’re early,” I whispered. The Choir’s icicle-hymn was faint, the Ember Syndicate’s bass-beat more like warm-up rehearsal than full brawl. Good, Lumen said. Gives us time to practice stitching. So I did what any reasonable person does when handed cosmic thread and told to patch the fabric of reality: I stabbed at the air like I was trying to embroider the world’s most judgmental pillow. The needle hummed, each puncture leaving behind a faint glow, as if the universe were politely humoring me. Straighter, Lumen urged. And with less apology. “I’m sorry!” I said, immediately proving her point. My hands trembled, the thread wobbled, and I accidentally stitched two snowflakes together. They fused into a butterfly made of frost and fire that immediately flew off to find an open mic night. The rift laughed at me in three languages. Better mistakes, human, Lumen said. Don’t aim for perfection; aim for hope that looks ridiculous until it works. So I stitched faster, clumsier, letting panic push my hands and hope steady them. The rift flickered, resisting, its silver edges sparking like an overcaffeinated welding torch. For a second, I thought we were making progress—until the Choir and the Syndicate noticed. From the frost side, figures emerged—antlered wraiths, dozens this time, their voices braiding into a blade of sound. From the ember side, silhouettes swayed, all heat and hips, their laughter oily with charm. They converged on the seam, each determined to rip it wider. “Lumen,” I hissed, “we have company.” Correction: we have audience. Her fur bristled, wings arched, every inch of her a celestial guardian who’d forgotten how small she was. Keep stitching. I’ll handle the dialogue. The first frost-wraith stepped forward, spear gleaming, voice slicing. “Child Guardian. You cannot resist the Choir.” I can resist anything, Lumen said sweetly, except free samples. The Syndicate’s lead swayed in next, dripping heat like perfume. “Darling cub, why bother with balance? Melt it all, let pleasure burn forever. Your human already sweats in our favor.” I wiped my forehead, mortified. “That’s… just genetics.” The Choir hissed. The Syndicate laughed. And I stitched faster, the seam glowing, shaking, resisting. My thread snagged, caught—and in that instant of clumsy panic, the rift jolted wider, a roar splitting the clearing. Frost and fire lashed out, colliding. The air filled with shards of ice and ribbons of flame, clashing so loud the trees covered their ears. The ground buckled. The rift was no longer a seam; it was a throat, screaming to swallow both seasons whole. Lumen leapt onto my shoulder, her eyes incandescent. It’s time for the climax, human. We’re done patching. Now we perform. “Perform?” I squeaked. We make them laugh and we make them sing—together. Or we’re all soup. The Choir surged forward. The Syndicate swayed closer. Frost and flame reached for each other, eager to annihilate. And I stood in the middle, clutching a moonlight needle that hummed like a joke I wasn’t ready to tell. “Do you even know the punchline?” I asked Lumen. No, she said, voice trembling with mischief and awe. But if we deliver it with enough hope, the world will write it for us. The Punchline That Healed the World The rift howled like a cathedral organ in a fistfight with a nightclub subwoofer. Frost crystals needled my cheeks; heat licked my neck with the unsubtlety of a bad ex. Perform, Lumen had said, which is a charming way to describe bargaining with physics while two elemental unions boo you in stereo. I raised the moonlight needle like a conductor’s baton. Lumen hopped to my shoulder, a celestial feline with wings flared wide, her breath bright and steady. On the frost side, the Choir lined up their antlers and judgments. On the ember side, the Syndicate stretched like summer on a chaise, equal parts invitation and arson. My knees panicked. My heart hoped. Together, they discovered rhythm. “Okay,” I told the universe, “let’s make some better mistakes.” I beat a quiet three-count—tap, tap, tap—like rain learning manners. Lumen chimed in with a thrumming purr that tuned the clearing to the key of possible. The Choir’s leader sneered, which is tenor for I’m listening against my will. The Syndicate’s lead smirked, which is contralto for I’m listening, and you’re lucky I styled my hair. “Here’s the deal,” I said, voice shaking and a little theatrical. “You’ve both been singing solos so long you forgot harmony was invented to keep egos from ruining parties. Winter has structure. Summer has soul. The forest needs both—or we end up with either a museum you can’t touch or a dance floor that never closes and eventually smells like regret.” Lumen flicked her tail, a glittering metronome. New rule, she announced, her voice ringing to the canopy. You get a duet or you get nothing. The Choir hissed frost. The Syndicate hissed steam. A snowflake landed on my lip and evaporated into the taste of relics. I took a breath, lifted the needle, and stitched the first bar of twilight. Twilight is where the jokes land—half shadow, half confession. I jabbed and drew, jabbed and drew, the moonlight thread sketching an invisible staff across the air. Lumen sang—not words, but that belly-deep, spine-lit sound cats make when the world gets precisely the amount of attention it deserves. The Choir’s harmonics shivered toward us, cold and precise. The Syndicate’s percussion swaggered in, hot and shameless. “Together,” I said, and brought my baton down. What happened next was not polite. It was right. The Choir’s crystalline syllables didn’t break the Syndicate’s bass—they braided it, each sharp edge finding a groove to ride. The Syndicate didn’t melt the Choir’s architecture—they lifted it, turned corners into curves and rules into dance steps. Frost-lace unfurled in time with a velvet drumline. Heat shimmer traced runes over the brittle beauty, granting it pulse. I sewed like a mad saint. Lumen flew loops, wingbeats flicking accents into the score—here, here, here. The rift convulsed. Instead of widening, it listened. Silver edges curled under my thread like hems finally ready to be finished. I tied a knot of dawn at the far end—ridiculous, radiant—and felt the seam hold. The Choir’s leader stepped forward, antlers ringing like chilled crystal. “Blasphemy,” it whispered, but it sounded like reverence misfiled. The Syndicate’s lead swayed closer, soft heat blooming over my cold-stung skin. “Naughty,” she purred, but it sounded like bravo. Lumen landed between them, tail curling with queenly patience. You both claim to love the world, she said. Prove it by sharing custody. The clearing hushed. In that silence I heard the forest itself—the roots trading gossip with the rain, the ferns muttering choreographies, the old bark clicking its arthritic approval. Even the glow-mushrooms dimmed to let the moment breathe. The frost-wraith from last night emerged, sheathes of ice spiraling around its arms. It studied the repaired seam, then bowed, something ancient cracking free from its posture. “We hate mess,” it admitted. “But we hate absence more.” It raised its spear and—delicately, almost tenderly—touched the knot of dawn. The spear iced over with sunrise. The Syndicate’s lead pressed two fingers of flame to the other end of the seam. “We hate limits,” she said. “But we hate boredom more.” The flame cooled to a coppery glow that felt like the last good song at a wedding when everyone still has their shoes on. The rift closed. Not with a slam, but with a satisfied sigh, like a curtain drawn at the end of a show that knows it nailed the landing. Snow settled on one shoulder, heat kissed the other, and for once I didn’t feel split between opposites. I felt—ridiculously, entirely—at home in the enchanted forest. Then the trees began to clap. Not metaphorically—their leaves smacked in leafy applause, trunks thumped root to root like drum talk. Lumen tucked her wings and, to my considerable relief, laughed, the sound bright enough to vector-map my cynicism into confetti. “That’s it?” I asked, a little dazed. “We… did it?” We did it, she said, and then she collapsed into my arms like a furry comet that had discovered gravity’s seductive side. Her body went heavy with the luxurious surrender of safety. Ascension Nap, she mumbled. Don’t let anyone monologue while I’m out. I cradled her, breathing in the scent of snow that forgives the sun and pine that forgives the calendar. The Choir and the Syndicate stood together, awkward as exes at a bake sale. I cleared my throat. “So. Terms?” “We rotate,” said the frost-wraith. “We respect thresholds. No more raids into spring.” “We celebrate,” said the ember lead. “We bring festivals, not fires. No more tantrums in harvest.” “And if either of you cheats,” I added, because adulting is mostly adding consequences to poetry, “you answer to the Guardian Cub of Enchanted Realms—who bites gently but effectively—and to her human, who wields weaponized customer service and a very pointy needle.” A chorus of dignified grumbles signified acceptance. The treaty sealed itself with the same golden resin that had notarized my life yesterday. Lumen’s ear flicked in her sleep, as if signing in dream cursive. When she woke, dusk had purled the sky into silk. Her eyes opened, bluer than a promise. Feathers reshaped, brighter, an iridescent gradient that held both frost and fire without flinching. She yawned, showing a kitten’s teeth and an archangel’s work ethic. Title upgrade, she said, blinking at me. Guardian. No “junior.” They said I demonstrated “impact.” “I’ll be insufferable about this for months,” I said, and meant it. We took the long way back across the branches, past golden forest light pooled like honey in bark-bowls, past dragonflies that had traded their harnesses for halos. Everywhere we went, the world looked a bit more in focus—as if a lens had clicked from almost to exactly. My mind, always editing, framed and reframed: the curve of Lumen’s wing against moss, the delicacy of her paws, the pattern of her spots like constellations that never forgot their origin story. If I were the sort to make fantasy art prints and fine art wall decor (perish the thought), this would be the moment I’d sell hope in archival inks. We stopped in our original clearing. The branch that had first held her secret was warm now, forgiving. Lumen settled, and I sat beside her. It felt like sitting at the edge of a story that had finally decided to love its reader back. “Teach me,” I said, surprising myself with how easy the surrender sounded. “Not just the needlework. The… guardian stuff.” Lumen studied me with that gaze cats use to measure whether you’re suitable for promotion. Clause four, she said. You’ll collect ordinary miracles: hot tea at the exact right second, strangers who hold doors with their whole heart, children who decide a stick is a starship. You’ll inventory them. You’ll tell people. You’ll make it art so they remember. “I can do that,” I said. “I can do that with embarrassing enthusiasm.” She bumped her head against my arm. Clause five: you’ll rest. Heroes who refuse to nap are just villains with anxiety. I lay back on the branch, the canopy stitching itself into a quilt of patience. Lumen curled against my ribs, the weight of her a promise I hadn’t known to ask for. Across the newly-mended seam, winter prepped its lace and summer tuned its brass, each waiting for its solo in the symphony we’d forced them to remember. The forest breathed. The world, ridiculous and holy, held. And for the first time in a long time, I believed in a future that could be framed. Epilogue, in which we keep receipts: The Choir now hosts austere winter concerts that end with hot chocolate so scandalously rich the Syndicate claps. The Syndicate throws summer festivals where every bonfire has a fire marshal in a snowflake lapel pin. The treaty stands, pestered by mischief and maintained by better mistakes. Lumen patrols the canopy like a sherbet-colored comet, and I follow with my moonlight needle tucked into a case labeled Hope, Heavy-Duty. We mend things. We tell jokes that fix small cracks. We make enchanted realm feel like a place you can visit just by breathing kindly at a tree. When people ask who saved the seasons, we shrug and say: we performed. If you ever find a feather on your windowsill that smells faintly of snow forgiving the sun, keep it. That’s Lumen signing your guestbook. That’s your reminder that hope is a temperature, balance is a duet, and some of the best miracles arrive disguised as a nap. Bring the Guardian Home If the Guardian Cub of Enchanted Realms stirred something magical in you, you can carry a piece of that enchantment into your own world. This photo-realistic fantasy artwork has been transformed into stunning, high-quality merchandise that blends whimsy, majesty, and everyday usefulness. Adorn your walls with a Metal Print or a classic Framed Print, both designed to showcase the vivid details of the winged snow leopard cub beneath golden forest light. For those who prefer contemporary brilliance, the Acrylic Print adds depth and modern elegance to this celestial masterpiece. Carry a touch of magic with you by choosing the enchanted forest design on a practical Tote Bag or let the cub’s wisdom inspire your creativity with a Spiral Notebook. For those who dream big, wrap yourself in celestial comfort with a Duvet Cover that turns your resting place into a sanctuary guarded by hope itself. Every product preserves the intricate detail of the photo-realistic fantasy art—from the cub’s luminous blue eyes to the enchanted forest atmosphere—making it more than décor or utility; it’s a reminder that hope is a temperature, and balance is a duet worth framing. Explore the collection, and let the Guardian watch over your everyday spaces.
