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I clench my teeth and fly quicker. My coat flares open like a second pair of wings, the air bracing my naked chest.

My father soars above me, his wings spanning over my form like a canopy—or a shield.

Swiftly, we land on The Wild Peak. Originally, the highest zenith had stood at a lower elevation, but Lark winning her game had changed that. Her victory had forged this new apex, which now tops the range like a crown and has inherited the title.

The instant my boots slam onto the surface, my eyebrows stitch together, and my muscles click in awareness. I set one palm on Tímien’s back, my other hand on the hilt of my javelin, and scan the vacant scenery.

An army of dwellers could populate this precipice. Instead, a single rowan tree dripping with glowing specks resides at the center. The crest is intact, secure for the time being.

Yet a mercenary chill winnows my plumes. The wind shifts, agitated by an unknown disturbance that has nothing to do with this meeting. It might be close or farther away. It might be retreating or approaching. That I can’t decipher which is enough to set me on edge.

I keep my grasp locked around the javelin and glance at my father. A string of unspoken words project between us, the air carrying our thoughts to one another. Despite my verbal delivery earlier, we often communicate through the wind, preferring to keep our exchanges guarded, my words camouflaged by silence.

Tímien’s assures me he will be close and then propels into the air, wings slicing through the fresh night. Above, he circles and keeps vigil. I watch him patrol as twilight descends, teal, white, and gold constellations nipping the sky’s black canvas.

Another fluctuation in the current brings with it the scents of pine and spice.

I loosen my grip on the javelin, and my voice unravels like a bolt of silk. “Come now, don’t be shy. That’s hardly your style.”

A roguish drawl greets me from behind. “You’re late as fuck, luv.”

“I’m fashionably late.” I whip around and quirk an eyebrow. “What’s your excuse, satyr?”

Puck reclines against the rowan’s trunk. His bulky arms cross, a leather vest strains across his broad torso, and his shoulder-length red waves burn through the looming darkness. A pair of honed antlers sprout from his head like a deadly crown.

I might have just arrived, but he’d manifested from The Solitary Forest seconds later. That’s clear. Even if I hadn’t spotted him a moment ago, his scent hasn’t had time to fully permeate the wind. Otherwise, the notes would be stronger.

While I haven’t let go of the javelin, Puck’s longbow and quiver recline against the tree like mere accessories. Evidently, my brother has more trust in our surroundings than I do. Ironic, considering I once ruled this mountain.

Notwithstanding, if Puck needs to arm himself, he can accomplish that in less time than it takes to blink.

The satyr’s mouth slants into a devilish grin. He snatches an arrow from his cache and spins the projectile between the fingers of one hand. “What’s my merry excuse?” he echoes, pretending to mull that over. “If you must know, she has green hair and wears the sexiest spectacles known to Faerie.”

A puff of humor leaves my mouth. “Evidently, that obsession runs in our family.”

“You going to let go of that weapon anytime soon? You’re grabbing it harder than a cock.”

“Did you see or hear anything when you arrived?”

The arrow stops spinning. Puck’s mirth drops, and his brown orbs darken. “Do you see blood on this archery?”

So he hadn’t been followed. Any Fae pursuing him wouldn’t have lasted long. Though putting it mildly, that fact does little to alleviate the shitstorm churning inside me.

I retract my wings and examine the panorama. To the east rises The Congress of Ravens; I’ve promised to take Lark there, show her the landscape once I’m certain it’s safe. Beyond that, an assembly of rocks forms a ramp, the extension suspended above a fermented bog that gurgles and reeks of brimstone.

Hoofbeats thud into the grass and stride across the vertex. The tinkling of Puck’s earrings resounds as he halts beside me and matches my pose by the rampart. Our gazes fix ahead, but I feel his perception, his ability to read me as I can him, a connection long established over these past nine years.

I foresee his question before he voices it.

“What have you got?” Puck asks.

I continue scrutinizing the horizon. “There are many outlying regions of The Solitary Mountain I’ve yet to patrol. It’s never-ending.”

“Send someone else to pick up the slack, then. How about that spunky tumbleweed of a pixie?”

I swing my gaze toward him, my forelocks sloping like curtains across my face. “She hates it when you call her a pixie.”

“She also hates it when Lark calls her a whippersnapper.”