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My pulse drums in my throat. I swing my gaze east and west, but there’s no point. I wouldn’t get far against the speed of a centaur. If I hadn’t toppled down that ravine, he would have caught me.

Running will only divert Cypress, then grant him an excuse to be harsher. Doubtless, Puck gave him leave to do so, should I misbehave.

The centaur clomps into the glade, with candlelight from the branches dousing us in ochre. The tapers cast a sheen on the central trunk and highlight the interior’s wooden cords, the bonds dangling like manacles. I know the makings of traps and snares, and I’ve handled enough of them decipher what this is. Despite the open threshold, that redwood is no mere alcove. It’s a cage.

I cannot panic.

I will not panic.

I have never panicked.

With the elasticity of a feline, Cypress twists in my direction—how does his anatomy manage this?—and plucks me from his back. He deposits my weight unceremoniously, releasing me without care, so that my boots smack the forest floor. I grunt, stumbling in place. My hands find purchase on his hindquarter, but he slaps my palms away.

He must have been a granite bust in his former life, dark skin pulling taut over his countenance. His eyes match the olive hue of his coat, while a complex pattern of olive ink encircles his navel. Lastly, a leather hoop pierces his nostrils, the nose ring visible both at the bottom and where it perforates the bridge.

Out of nowhere, a longbow and quiver materialize, shuddering into being across his spine. It’s a classification of wood that must be native to this realm. Scrolls carve through the limbs and nocks, and the arrow fletchings glow like beacons.

He whisks the longbow from his back and an arrow from his quiver, nocks the weapon, and jerks it toward the central tree. “In you go, moppet.”

I suck in a breath and hold it fast. Then I exhale and turn.

The cage gapes at me, its maw waiting to swallow me whole. I suspect this recess has no door for a merciless reason. It’s a torment, flaunting to prisoners a freedom just out of reach, all the while exposing captives to the elements and the wild’s carnivores. If a hungry animal happens upon this glade, there’s no barrier to discourage the creature from a free meal. Hence, the human blood stains.

My heart thrashes about, but my head stays level. I avoid looking at the crimson flecks and step inside—then yelp as my warden spins me toward him.

This trunk is expansive, able to accommodate Cypress’s girth. He’s disarmed now, the weapons harnessed as he snatches my arms, thrusts them over my head, and seals the bark cords around my wrists. Some form of natural hinge cracks into place, the cords’ tether rising into the redwood’s crown, into the darkness.

The shackles force my body to stretch. My gilded leaf bracelet flashes—the only bright thing in this darkness.

I flex my shoulders as best I can. “Is this how you treat all your mortal prey?”

“No,” Cypress says, a lattice of shadows cleaving his face into slices.

At which point, he vacates the dank compartment and gallops back the way we came. The percussion of retreating hooves assaults my ears, then fades altogether. My senses perk, attuning themselves to the environment beyond the redwood. Claws scuttle across the branches, and the candles wink from the needled mesh, the flames crackling, fizzing.

The funk of rotted wood conflicts with the incense of conifers. The cords dig into my pulse points, the extensions forcing me to maintain a locked position.

I languish there, violated, confined.

Like an animal. Like the fauna I’ve saved. Like the ones I haven’t saved.

I bow my head, inhaling the aromas of home wafting resiliently from my blouse. Baked bread, windy mornings, and jasmine. Papa Thorne, Lark, and Cove. My eyes clench shut, and I take solace in the scents of my family.

So much has happened. So much, in so little time.

Only several days ago, Lark was ambushed by a group of trade poachers intent on doing her harm. She’d had no choice but to flee into the Solitary wild—home of the Solitary Faeries. The intersection of the mountain, forest, and river is forbidden to humans. Regardless, Cove and I had pursued Lark there, desperate to protect her.

The trade poachers had wisely aborted the pursuit, aware that incurring the Faeries’ wrath is never worth it. My sisters and I hadn’t been so fortunate. Less than a day after we’d rushed home from the ensorcelled realm, we’d received separate messages ordering us back into the wild.

A deer had delivered mine. The animal had appeared out of nowhere, trotting onto my family’s property with the note in its mouth.

Mortals don’t trespass into Faerie without being punished by the Folk, and refusing their will is fatal. My sisters and I had no alternative but to leave home, knowing we might never return. We’d set forth while our Papa Thorne slept, unaware of our departure.

The moment we’d returned to the borderline, our fates had shifted yet again. Additional letters had awaited us there, addressed to each sister and containing vague instructions about our impending fates.

Ergo, the two leaflets in my possession: the first one dispatched by the deer—which I’d filed in my pack—and the other currently inside my pocket.

My sisters and I hadn’t been allowed to share the details of our missives with one another. Worse, we’d been forced to separate—Lark to the mountain, Cove to the river, and me to this forest—each of us sentenced to pay a price, customized by the individual realms. Specifically, the rulers of these realms.