They slid down thick vines to the soft mossy ground. Sunlight gleamed in golden patches, flickering between the trees like coins thrown to lucky fountains. Shadows tumbled, mysterious but not unkind. Amara spotted a twisting trail of glittering spores. “Fireflies have been here. They love the brightest trees,” she said, hoping this was the clue they needed. Sir Tibb’s eyes gleamed with something like pride. “Your wits outshine even my whiskers, detective. I see my retirement coming soon!”

The spore trail looped them around a clearing, where sunlight painted the old oak tree with gold so bright it looked alive. Its bark pulsed slowly, almost as though it was breathing. High in a crooked branch, a rainbow feather glowed with every possible colour. Amara reached up, hand trembling with hope. But suddenly, a warning growl rumbled out from the roots, and a grumpy badger emerged—his head crowned with tangled moss. “State your business at my tree,” he grunted, nose twitching.

Amara swallowed and met the badger’s stern eyes with all the courage she could find. “The clock in Cloudberry is frozen,” she explained, voice steady. “Without the feather, our time is trapped.” The badger snuffed and tilted his head. “And what’s in it for me, girl?” Sir Tibb dipped forward in a graceful bow. “We promise to clear the brambles blocking your brook,” he offered, his words sincere. The badger eyed them carefully, then grunted. “Deal. The feather’s yours, but keep your promise.”

Amara gently plucked the rainbow feather from the branch, feeling a rush of courage and warmth spark in her chest. “Thank you. We won’t forget,” she said quietly. The badger pointed his broad paw east, where the sky was already starting to blush with sunset. “Hurry, before the magic grows thin,” he advised gruffly. Sir Tibb gave a flick of his tail in thanks, and together, they dashed back toward the village, hearts racing, mission clear.