The familiar scent of pine and lavender filled the air as Fip wandered the narrow, cobblestone streets of Frandlyn, his hometown nestled in the heart of the Faerie-touched woods. It had been too long since he last set foot here. The swirling energies of magic that seemed to naturally permeate the town brought a sense of comfort, but also reminded him why he was here. The threat of the wing-cutting person still loomed, and Fip’s mind buzzed with a flurry of thoughts and plans. He knew he needed to be prepared—better prepared—for whatever may come. His spells were powerful, but what if he ran out? What if, in the heat of battle, his magic dwindled, and he was left defenseless?   The solution, of course, was simple: spell scrolls. Scrolls would allow him to extend his magical arsenal, giving him that extra edge when things got dangerous. With that in mind, Fip found himself walking towards his family’s magic supply store—a cozy little shop that sat on the corner of the marketplace, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. The place had always been his home away from home, filled with the faint crackle of magical energy and the smell of old tomes and exotic ingredients. His parents ran the shop, and it had been in their family for generations, long before Fip was even a spark of magic in the wind.   Stepping inside, the bell above the door jingled softly, and the warmth of the shop embraced him. His mother, a spry faery with sharp eyes and a welcoming smile, looked up from behind the counter.   "Back again, my little whirlwind?" she said, her voice filled with a playful lilt.   Fip grinned. "Need to stock up on some things. Got a bit of a project in mind."   His father, an older satyr stood nearby sorting through a stack of enchanted quills. "A project, huh? What’s going on this time?" he asked, knowing full well that Fip’s “projects” usually involved some sort of impending danger.   “I need enough supplies to make three spell scrolls,” Fip continued. “One for Misty Step and two for Silvery Barbs. I want to be ready—just in case.”   His mother raised an eyebrow, her expression momentarily serious. "The wing-cutter, huh? Nasty business. But if anyone can outwit them, it’s you. We’ve got what you need."   After gathering the necessary parchment, ink infused with powdered silver, and a few other rare ingredients, Fip spent the next week crafting his scrolls in the quiet moments he had. It wasn’t easy work—spell scroll creation required patience, precision, and a deep connection to the magic being woven into the parchment. He spread his tools out on the old wooden desk in his childhood room, the room still cluttered with books and trinkets from his younger years and got to work.   By day, he immersed himself in the intricate process of inscribing the Misty Step scroll first. His faery half lent itself to the work easily, the magic flowing through his fingertips, delicate and swift as he wrote. He could almost feel the arcane energy building up within the parchment, waiting to be released. The Silvery Barbs scrolls were trickier, requiring careful focus to capture the spell’s sharp, reactive nature.   When he wasn’t pouring over his scrolls, Fip spent his time with his family and with Temperance, who had accompanied him back to Frandlyn. The two of them walked through the familiar glades and forests that surrounded the town, the trees singing softly in the background. There was peace in those moments, a kind of serenity that Fip had been missing for some time. Even though danger still lurked in the future, here, with Temperance and his family, things felt... right.   On the final evening of his week at home, Fip inspected his completed scrolls—three perfect pieces of magical craftsmanship. He felt a sense of accomplishment as he rolled them up and secured them in his satchel. Now, if the wing-cutter struck again, he’d be ready. The thought brought him comfort, but even more than that, it brought him confidence. He wasn’t alone. He had his magic, his friends, and his family.