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That’s the thing my stomach can’t handle—another night without food.

“You’d better not fuck this up, urchin,” one of the men says under his breath.

Really, the lout should muzzle himself. He ought to be quiet, lest he foil this hunt. They’ll blame me for that, too.

I drag my arm across my brow, mopping away the sweat. A stunted whine builds on my tongue. In the distance, leaves shiver like cymbals, tossing a great green wave of hush-hush-hush through the field.

As to their threat, the men are bluffing. They like me because I’m small, because I can fit into small places, and because I make small noises. The kinds of noises animals are less likely to hear. Animals worth a fat sack of coins to trade poachers.

Even if I could run away and find the means to live, these brutes won’t let me go. They’ll track me down, catch me. That’s what trade poachers do. Like an animal, I’m worth a little something.

Sure, they’ll eat the meat. But that’s not really what they’re after. They want the ligaments, fangs, tusks, antlers, and coats that patrons will display in cases, mount on walls, and wear as accessories.

The high grasses rustle. A fluffy tail pops above the stalks, then a snout swims between the blades, followed by a face. The female looks at me through the glass beads of its eyes. I see myself reflected in those pupils, a little girl scuffed and famished.

Then I see the litter traipsing behind her, a gaggle of fluffs trotting and yipping her way.

Cubs. She has cubs.

I sense the gang tensing, festering like an infection. The muffled echo of a curse jabs my ears. Hunting takes patience, poaching takes an iron stomach. Yet she’s in my direct line of sight. If I’ve learned anything about using this weapon, I’ve learned this vantage point is foolproof, easy to strike true.

What am I waiting for?

The cubs encircle her. She bristles, registering my apprehension, my indecision. The creature bares her teeth and growls, the noise scraping from her end of the field to mine, then to the dusty pack of males bringing up the rear.

Another crossbow locks from several leagues away. Because if I can’t finish the job, one of them will.

No. I shake my head, whipping it from side to side. I can’t, I can’t, Ican’t.

I could scare her, make her flee. But if I do, they’ll see it. My belly’s an empty well, and if I muck up this target, it will stay empty for another day or so.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Whimpers teeter on my lips and form the words, “I can’t,” but I don’t know if that’s directed to the gang or the mother.

Tears leak down my cheeks, the field and those beady eyes blurring. As my finger curls, a bolt flies free.

And I thrash awake. I lurch upright, my limbs flailing. “I c-can’t,” I stutter. “I can’t, I can’t—”

Hands cup my shoulders, wrestling to steady me. An earthen tenor speaks rapidly over my babbles, “Juniper-Juniper-Juniper!”

A stag materializes. Flaming red hair whisks around his visage. White and black streaks line a pair of wild, worried eyes.

The world sharpens, bringing him into stark relief. “Puck,” I say.

The satyr hunches before me, violet sickles lurking beneath his eyelids. “It’s me, luv,” he professes. “It’s me.”

I leap into his arms. They strap around me, pining me tightly to him.

It was a dream. It was only a dream, a nightmare.

Puck combs through my hair and murmurs in a language I don’t understand, the words causing me to sag in relief. I pull back, bleary.

I’m curled into a ball against this Fae, his longbow and quiver resting beside us on the grassy floor. Instead of a field, a weald of strange tube trunks surrounds us, as straight as pencils, as thin as sticks. If I concentrate on them long enough, they remind me of the bars of a cage.

Then I remember. My trembling body reminds me of the forest convulsing earlier. An uncharted peak had sprouted from The Solitary Mountain. When that happened, I’d discovered something else, something awful—something Ican’tdo.

Puck cradles my jaw. “Are you hurt?” He looks exhausted, his hair unkempt and his vest half-clasped, the leather stained with dirt.

I shake my head. “I-I don’t think so. Did you feel the quake? Did you see the mountain?”