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He catches my brother’s eye. “Cerulean.”

My brother nods. He gives Lark a swift kiss before a set of midnight plumes snap from the back of his long coat. He takes to the sky, his shape as thin as a knife as he cuts above us, vanishes for a handful of minutes, and then swoops back. Hovering over the thorns, Cerulean points along the route in confirmation, then vaults ahead to keep watch from above.

Sylvan shrinks just enough to maneuver through the web. Because I don’t have the same advantage, Cypress sways forward while advising over his shoulder, “Puck, mind your antlers.”

I groan under my breath. “I swear, you and my woman are two of a kind.”

“I consider that a compliment.”

“You should because it was.”

“I’m wondering less about Puck’s hard rack and more about your colossal size,” Lark comments to the centaur. “Here I was, thinking the satyr was bulky.”

“The centaurs of old know how to navigate the confines of this wild,” Cypress intones. “It is inherent in us, more than any woodland Fae. I will manage.”

Bloody true. He’d done fine while slipping through that webbed trap earlier, as I knew he would.

While stalking behind him with Lark, I glimpse Foxglove beside Cypress. Contrition lines her profile as she peeks at him and mouths,Sorry.

He merely shakes his head, indicating she shouldn’t blame herself for what I assume was that outburst earlier, when she’d publicized his feelings in front of me.

We filter under a threaded arch, the brambles as honed as tusks and whittled enough to pierce the bones of an elk. Knowing the thorns of this forest, if the tips don’t kill their quarry, the poisonous sap contained inside them will.

Any fauna with an established habitat in this area might attempt to pilot through, despite the confusion. Not only is the land fading, but certain parts of its nature are doing so in a mighty fucked-up way. The thought churns my gut.

It’s a tight squeeze at first. But sure enough, a channel materializes in the clutter of shoots, the path disguised like a riddle.

Lark grouses, “Son of a bitch.”

Foxglove hisses as she jerks to avoid a bramble.

Sylvan has no trouble, whereas I duck my head more often that I’d like to admit, my antlers in danger of getting hooked in the mess, which would probably ensnare me for a while. These thorns aren’t easy to saw through.

At the possibility, a vignette flips like pages through my mind. The black teeth of a trap sinking into my calf. A human forest shivering around me. My blood dribbling onto the leaves. The acidic stench of iron burning into my flesh. The distant sound of fauna and Fae cries, and the cold slam of cage doors.

I blink, tearing myself out of the heinous memories. As my eyes readjust, I glance around in surprise.

We’re through.

The timberland spreads outs, emitting the succulent whiff of fruit trees. The Seeds that Give materializes. Golden orbs shaped like strawberries droop from the branches, their aroma heady. If I had the time to feel nostalgic, I’d take advantage.

Except I can’t. We’re through. And we’re close.

I hustle past the group, my limbs plowing into the dell and its orchard. Everyone brings up the rear. Sylvan gallops, her muzzle pumping in tandem. Cerulean’s wings crimp and vanish into his body as he lands and races across the ground, Cypress’s hooves kick across the earth, Lark’s boots crunch twigs, and Foxglove’s bare feet slap the underbrush.

Right outside the dell’s southern border, a cul-de-sac ends in a vertical rock facade. We skate to a halt.

I pivot in a full circle while muttering “What the fuck?”

“It should be here,” Cerulean says, his wings already retracted.

“The flower?” Lark asks. “Where?”

Finally, I see the next obstacle. I seethe and point upward, along the slab of rock crowned in heaps of foliage. “There.”

The Evermore Blossom grows at the top of the woodland’s only cliff. It’s a modest elevation compared to the mountain range in Cerulean’s home. Common knowledge speaks of an incline leading to it, enabling Faeries to pay the flower worship or—on rare occasions when a Fae is feeling desperate, planning to turn a raven against its kin, or trying to save his pregnant lover—clip a piece of its eternal petals, which grow back.

But the upward slope isn’t there. At some point, it must have collapsed. Chunks of it are piled at the summit’s base.