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“The Unseelie witch lived long enough to sire a child, which led to my mother Lorelei’s line,” he answers. “Then she perished alongside her Seelie nemesis during the scrimmage between the Pegasi and the dragons.”

Puck grunts. “Not to detour, but if there’s any behemoth more antiquated than a witch—or Pegasi, or Faeries—it’s a fucking dragon. They’re as old as nature itself, which makes them the strongest race.”

“We know a thing or two about that event,” Lark contributes. “The Pegasi lost that battle. That’s how they became extinct in your world, apparently along with the last remaining Fae witches. Seems the latter tidbit didn’t make it into the Book of Fables, though.”

“Actually.” Juniper flips the pages. “It did.”

She halts on a Fable that uses fauna as a metaphor. Yet as she interprets the paragraphs aloud, the meaning becomes so clear it’s an embarrassment that we Faeries hadn’t made the connection.

Puck, Elixir, and I have the decency to look contrite. Our kin have spent eons calling ourselves the superior race, believing ourselves so impervious we never gave credence to the Fables. We never took it seriously enough to delve in, other than perhaps Puck, and even he hadn’t uprooted this information.

The Fable is a retelling of the witches’ demise.

As for the human editions, Juniper reasons the story fell into obscurity when copies were created and distributed to mortals over generations. Seeing as this is the first true edition, with tales that aren’t in the later volumes of my mate’s world, it makes sense that humans wouldn’t have known about this, either.

Juniper claps the book shut, her wan complexion competing with those vivid green orbs, which sparkle with bookish intoxication.

“You look like you just read the longest smut scene in your life,” Lark says.

Juniper ignores her. She tucks the book under her arm and counts off her fingers. “One: The witches played a major role in the scribes writing the Book of Fables. Two: The witches allied with the Pegasi against the dragons. So three: The Pegasi were around during the scribes’ era as well. And four: The Pegasi told Cerulean the first way.”

Hence, they might know something else. After they died, those winged horses had transformed into a landmark of nature, and that’s where their apparitions exist to this day.

“The Horizon that Never Lies,” I say.

“Correct.” Juniper glances at everyone. “I mean, it’s mortifying that we didn’t draw this conclusion right away. The Horizon told Cerulean the first way. Why wouldn’t they know the second?”

My hopes crash to the ground. I sigh, not eager to inform Juniper she’s grasping at straws. “I hate to be the bearer of unfavorable news, but I’ve already asked the Horizon about this. After you revealed a second way existed, Lark and I went to them.”

Elixir frowns. “You did not tell us.”

“We were gonna,” Lark defends. “Everyone was busy doing their parts. We went to the Pegasi a few days before the raven attack, but we were out of luck. Cerulean and I didn’t know how to tell everyone without mucking up our sense of hope. And then everything else happened…”

Thus, there was never a good moment to rub salt into the wound.

I glance at Juniper, rueful. “Although we thought Elixir would be able to bring the second way to the surface, I wanted to exhaust the possibilities. Sadly, my attempt didn’t work. The Horizon had no answer.”

To that, Juniper whisks off her glasses. “But what did you offer?”

The prompt gives me pause. The Pegasi won’t provide answers unless the asker makes an offering.

To further complicate matters, the question may only pertain to the offering itself. It can’t be random or unrelated.

“We offered the only thing we could—a piece of the mountain, a stone from the range’s highest peak where Lark won her game,” I tell them. “Our question was about saving this land, so offering a segment of it seemed the most promising option. Needless to say, it hadn’t sufficed.”

An alternative crosses Juniper’s face. While there’s triumph in her expression, there’s also sacrifice.

More than anything, Puck sees this and more. “What have you got?”

“Something the Horizon will accept.” Juniper’s eyes glisten with resignation as she holds up the book. “We have this.”

11

Wildflowers carpet the ancient summit. The flora sways as we stand in a row across the rampart.

Our gazes aim toward the sun crawling up the sky. Elixir’s acute senses pick up the warmth of its rays and hear the changes in scenery, the environment shifting from eventide to daybreak. The rest of us study the tapestry of zeniths, ochre and rose hues marbling over the range.

The Horizon that Never Lies.