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“You have elected to speak with confidence, then.” From there, the Horizon muses, “A second way. If such a thing exists, it is a marvel and could be a triumph. But we cannot tell you the way. That is our answer.”

Several variations of “What the fuck?” project from two visceral voices behind me. A softer voice unfurls a dismayed breath. And the last voice seethes.

Juniper’s profile collapses. “But…that can’t be.”

“You told me the first way,” I grate. “How can you not know the second?”

“Because both ways have originated from different sources, Cerulean. Just because we speak truths about our world does not mean we have all the answers.”

“Bullshit,” Puck gripes, aligning himself behind Juniper. “You know something else. Say it.”

The Pegasi flutter their wings and remain quiet for a moment. “You’ve always been a canny one, Puck of the woodland. It’s rather annoying but attractive. How do you accomplish that?”

“I’m a satyr. Need I say more? Now give my woman the leftover detail you’re withholding.”

A collective sigh filters through the wind. “We do not know the second way, but you do—no, not just him,” they scold when everyone turns to a flummoxed Puck. “All of you know. Or rather, you will know once you tap into the capacity.”

“Oh goody,” Lark says. “More riddles.”

Juniper’s gaze becomes remote, as if she’s in shock for being wrong.

“Forgive me, but this makes no sense.” Cove approaches, the scalloped straps of her dress swimming in the breeze. “If you can’t tell us the answer, how can you assume that we know?”

“Because each of you radiates with the knowledge. That much is clear.”

“Please. At least tell us how the scribes knew about this second way but not you? How did mortals know something so archaic?”

“Because they got their information from an age-old source,” answers a raspy baritone. “One older than the Horizon.”

We turn to Elixir, who stands apart from everyone. In the wake of his response, his gaze travels across the ground in thought.

“Correct,” the Horizon vouches. “We don’t know the second way, nor who supplied this information to the scribes, because the solution predates our existence. The second way is something far older than us. It is something that has existed since before our time, as has its source. That is the only possibility, and this is our answer. Do what you must with it.”

The wind snatches the parchment from Juniper’s fingers and carries it toward the Pegasi. When the leaflet reaches them, it vanishes, as though consumed in their grasps.

After that, their forms bleed into the firmament, their wings and manes beating until those disappear as well. A draft of wind passes through us, billowing our clothes and the surrounding wildflowers. All is quiet on the crest apart from my father’s quills cutting through the air with The Parliament.

Instead of yielding an answer, more questions have arisen. And we’ve lost the page.

In silence, we process this. Anger spreads over the vanes of my wings. Elixir scrapes through his hair, tousling the black cascade. Cove and Lark slide worried glances toward Juniper, who teeters on her feet, as though the conversation has yanked the ground from under her.

Once more, she doesn’t look well. Her complexion has lost its luster entirely, dulling it to a chalky pallor. The only facets that retain their brightness are her irises.

Not that she’s been looking sprightly lately, but it has worsened since the Horizon spoke. It’s hard to tell whether something else is wrong with her, or if the news has made her ill, or if she’s reeling from having surrendered the Fable.

In an instant, Puck is at her side, his face cinching. “Luv?” But when she makes no reply, his jaw hardens. “Fuck this. We’re leaving. Now.”

But we don’t return to the tower. Instead, we travel to The Solitary Forest. I fly while Tímien, members of The Parliament, and Lark’s nightingale arrive to ferry everyone there.

The aromas of woodsmoke and fur permeate the environment as our fleet lands. Oaks canopy the wilderness, their muscled trunks capped in awnings of green that splay over the ground. Acorns litter the floor like small, brown studs.

Lark jumps from the nightingale’s back. My boots hit the ground beside her, and my plumes condense against my back. The woodland is a compression of thickets and gnarled trees, with many areas less accommodating to my wingspan. Though to say the least, it’s nowhere near as claustrophobic as Elixir’s domain.

The moment I take a step, my heel releases a chunk of dirt, which crumbles into powder. I furrow my brows. The soil flakes beneath my soles, dehydrated as though it hasn’t drunk from a downpour in ages.

“Shit,” I mutter to the ground.

“Son of a bitch,” Lark whispers, following my gaze.