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Cove thrusts her spear to block a person’s sword. She rotates both weapons into a wide arc and uses the combined hilts to crush her opponent’s kneecaps.

Pain, grief, and instinct glosses her eyes. She hates this, but she must do this.

A dark blot surges toward her. My dagger is flying and hacking through the predator’s throat an instant later. The blot evaporates, the human having landed beside Cove, their frame pinned to the grass by my prongs.

She whirls my way, blood speckling her shoulder and collarbone. I race in her direction. On the way, I spin while stabbing my daggers into the belly of another mortal.

Faeries bellow in agony. Scalded flesh overwhelms my olfactory senses. Some of my kin are burning, others oozing from their wounds.

They should be faster, stronger. But the iron is heavy, dense in the atmosphere. It’s giving the humans an equal chance.

Overhead, a hurricane of wind tosses a pack of mortals into the air. Their cries are airborne as they launch into the sky.

Cerulean is circling, his wings not as robust as they were but still capable of storming through. I hear those quills bristle and dive. Seconds later, a human yowls as they’re plucked from a horse.

The lash of Lark’s whip catches across someone’s spine. The blast of Juniper’s crossbow hails from the oak and impales an enemy. Their father intercepts a lunging pitchfork and stabs its wielder.

As I hew my way to Cove, my ears monitor the disorder around me.

Because Lark is fighting near her, I catch the wisp of white and attach it to a shift in the darkness. Then suddenly, my lady stalls. Cove’s weapon braces as anger cramps her profile.

Whatever she sees, Lark must as well. The female’s blot hovers beside Cove, then disintegrates in flash.

Lark must be charging toward someone. Cove breaks from her stupor and tracks after them. And from her perch, Juniper hollers something furious, though I cannot make out what.

The sisters are targeting a predatory voice that sneers, “Get the traitor bitches!”

Awareness slithers up my flesh. There’s recognition in that mortal slur, plus an emotion I’m well acquainted with—spite.

Cerulean and Puck had mentioned the trade poachers of the sisters’ past, the ones who chased Lark into Faerie, the ones who rallied the town when they caught my brothers. Venom stirs my nerve endings, as if brewed inside a cauldron. My limbs accelerate while I cleave through each form who gets in my way.

Thorne screams his daughters’ names, but he’s too far from them. The whizz and slickness of Lark’s whip chops through the air. She’s fighting the poachers—one in particular. Her movements are quick and fluid, as though she’s been fantasizing about this encounter for centuries.

Her whip, Cove’s spear, and Juniper’s flying crossbow bolt resound as one. They’re battling the men from recent history.

One of them heaves, blood congesting his throat. Another gags from the chokehold of Lark’s whip.

Unlike my brothers and me, our ladies would have shown mercy in another life, in another setting. In this life and in this battle, they relinquish that luxury. The whip flicks audibly, blocking the poacher’s attack, and the bones of someone’s neck snap. I suspect she just brought down their leader.

Cove rams her spear downward. The blur of Juniper’s bolt projects from the outskirts. And the final poacher goes quiet.

My lady’s profile creases with exhaustion, protectiveness, and relief. Perhaps a tinge of remorse.

I twist my daggers in a succinct pattern and lance through an enemy. I pitch blinding gold at another weight hastening toward me.

Except the iron dilutes the effect. I feel the reduction behind my retinas, how the temperature has lessened.

Another nocked bow soars, the distinct quaver belonging to Cypress. At one point, the centaur bucks and rams his hooves against his opponent.

Moth’s battle growl is impossible to miss, along with the mad flutter of her wings. Somewhere else, Foxglove is crossing daggers. Tinder is flinging his throwing stars toward a pair of mortals, the astral blades catching them mid-sprint. And Coral is wielding her harpoon lance, the clang of her weapon familiar to my senses.

But they’re slowing, their outtakes dragging. My head fogs momentarily, the haze compromising my equilibrium.

Too late, a form materializes at my side. A knife snatches across my ribs. I hiss, fire licking my skin as the iron seeps into me.

Mindless, I whisk my arm but strike nothing. My second dagger strokes through open air, as ineffective as trying to cut water in half. In consequence, another scalding gash tears into the side of my neck.

Cove shouts my name. Countless roars eclipse her voice.