Black Butterfly

The butterflies brought death. It came as quietly as its messengers. It took months to see the first signs: dying plants, dry grounds. Finally, the plague spread. It consumed meadows, forests, fields. What was left behind was so dry that a single spark was enough to burn everything down. Smoke and fire spread, followed the way the black harbingers of death had prepared for them. The fire died down eventually, once it found no further nourishment. But the smoke and ash remained. Smoke and ash. They formed a new sky, that prevented the rays of sunlight as well as the longed for rain from reaching the earth. The only thing that still moved among the ashes were the butterflies, that kept bringing death with their black wings.

Intro of a dystopian story I once intended to write with some added fantasy sprinkled in by having the culprit be a dark fae.