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That is true. Yet without bargains or guarantees, the notion strikes me. Either their neighboring provinces worried about being the Faeries’ next victims or…the people simply cared to help, as Cove would.

On the other hand, I suspect it is both.

“Each one has a torch,” Puck continues. “And I’d wager an iron-tipped weapon.”

I seethe. “The humans could not have forged that many defenses so quickly.”

Not since concluding Lark and her sisters have taken to our side. The intermission hasn’t been long enough.

Puck’s silence agrees with me. That amount of weaponry would have required an extensive period to amass. The mortals have been stewing on this moment for longer than we’d anticipated.

I trade looks with Cove. The dread strung across her face confirms as much. There must have been a select number of mortals plotting this revenge for a while, limiting the knowledge so that we wouldn’t get wind of it through whispers and rumors.

Shifts in the thicket and the croaks of branches signal a legion of additional Fae nearby. Coral appears at my other side, her inflection catching as she grips her harpoon lance. “Sire.”

“Describe it,” I tell her.

She lists the allied Solitaries who currently wait in the vegetation. The winged and horned figures of the mountain, nymphs and dryads and leprechauns hunkering the bushes, and river Folk coiled near the stream, including merfolk bobbing over the surface and ready to leap from the depth.

According to Coral, Thorne has been armed with a pair of knives and is stationed among the shrubs with Foxglove, who’s outfitted with a stockpile of daggers.

Cypress is further back and aiming his own longbow. Moth is squatting overhead on the hawthorn’s bough, papery wings tense and fists balled. Tinder is waiting below her, with throwing stars bridled around his thigh.

Looming within The Triad’s canopy, Cerulean is kneeling on his own branch. He’s leaning into the void while gripping the hawthorn’s trunk with one hand and his javelin with the other. Like a raptor, he’s suspending himself and scanning the horizon beyond our world.

His father is nowhere to be seen. The Parliament of Owls is away, still looking for him. And Lotus and Sylvan have been left out of this, both tucked in their realms.

The whereabouts of our Fae enemies is anyone’s guess, for Solitaries are masters at hiding themselves. Even so, they know the mortals are coming. They must smell it and taste the iron on their tongues.

Feasibly, they’ll wait out the bloodshed. After that, they’ll wade through the havoc and target the leftovers, the ones who haven’t been butchered.

Speaking of which, my brothers’ iron wounds are mending, but they’re hardly suitable for combat. “How are you?” I ask Puck.

“Could have used another week or two,” he answers. “But I’m not complaining.”

Neither is Cerulean. Their bodies have weathered trauma, and now this before they’ve had a chance to fully recuperate. Yet they’re alive for this event, Cerulean’s once again capable of flying at least marginal distances, and Puck doesn’t audibly wince as he wields the bow. Not only has The Mer Cascades done them well, but their resilience is a blessing.

Cerulean’s wings twitch, the quills partially healed. A whispering growl ushers from his mouth.“Feir eru jér.”

Despite the murmur, his warning travels.They’re here.

Puck mutters, “Fuck.”

He describes the rest in greater detail to me. Through the fringes and across the fields stretching from The Faerie Triad, torches rise like stalks. Balls of black flame writhe from the tips, the handles gripped by figures that multiply from dozens to hundreds.

Infinite footfalls coalesce with a percussion of hooves. As Puck had said, they’ve brought their equines, as humans do. Fables be damned.

Where mortals are usually shouting and chanting, this army of villagers is quiet. They have nothing left to scream. Indeed, they’re done screaming for us.

My head thrashes toward Cove. I want to kiss her. I want to shove her behind me. I want to throw a tsunami at those who would touch her. But she just brands me with a brave smile that reaches her damp eyes.

Her whisper reaches out, not only to me but her sisters and each being standing with us. “The wind is a force, the tree rises high, and the water runs forever—just like us.”

From within the oak, Juniper recites, “Whatever happens to one of us, happens to each of us.”

Lark finishes, “Together. All or nothing.”

And I am forever changed.