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An owl’s hoot pierces the sky, slicing above the canopy. The horned raptor and nightingale have returned. Presently, they circle overhead, the owl’s cry alerting Cerulean first, then Lark. They listen to the birds, then bank their heads north.

The rest of us follow suit, whipping our gazes toward the place from which the stampede had come. The Faes’ tapered ears perk, and their features pull taut. They feel it nearly a full minute before I do: earthen tremors.

It’s the same cacophony from the first battle. Only this time, the onslaught magnifies tenfold. It ripples into a quake, shaking the ground off its hinges and flinging candlelight across the clearing.

The owl and nightingale dive our way while shifting, their bodies contorting into larger forms.

Moth pops into the air. Her bare feet slap atop the branch as she crouches into a fighting stance.

Cerulean draws his javelin, rotating it into a windmill of movement. He spins the weapon behind his head and goes still.

Lark unspools her whip. Cypress nocks his bow.

Puck arms himself with the axe he’d take from the leprechaun. I retrieve the staff I’d dropped.

Beside me, the satyr clicks his head to loosen a kink. “Guess we’ll find out what happened to our archery.”

I concur. The Solitaries must have the bows in their possession, and they’re presumably about to use our weapons against us.

Earlier, they weren’t retreating. They were gathering reinforcements.

The soil ruptures beneath our feet, and the dawning firmament thrusts my memory to the surface. Puck’s profile blanches, the recollection hitting him, too. His attention veers, landing on me. It’s the last day, with minimal time remaining to fulfill my three tasks.

Hunt an animal that can’t be hunted.

Hunt Sylvan, the doe who isn’t here—but whom Puck had summoned.

My stomach plunges. It’s a visceral free-fall, dread threatening to bowl me over.

Firs split as armed Faeries spill into the clearing. Leprechauns swing axes and hammers. Centaurs, fauns, and satyrs wield their weapons and surge across the divide.

Cerulean spins the javelin and hurls it into the air, skewering an attacker and tacking him to the nearest tree. Cypress looses his arrow, his expression placid, steadfast.

I peek at Lark, who mutters to me, “Love you, hun.”

I hike up my chin and mouth the same words.“Love you back.”

With that, she twists ahead. Our gang charges, including the raptors. I hear Puck’s frenzied breath pumping next to me. “Remember, luv,” he pants. “I’ve got you.”

And I’ve got him.

We race faster—and collide. Razor-sharp noises explode around me. The world swirls with movement, arms and limbs interlocked, hollers in my language and in Faeish, arrows flying, and steel clanging. Blood splatters the ground. I whirl and duck, block and parry. Something hard rams into my side, and something pronged rips through my sweater.

My vision jolts into focus. Lark and Cerulean fight back-to-back. Moth clashes midair with a clique of nymphs balancing on the branches. Cypress ejects a succession of arrows. Puck’s got his hands full with leprechauns.

Foxglove hasn’t returned, but Tinder has. The youth blasts into the scene and scans the mess. Locating Puck, Tinder hurls a throwing star with a backhanded thrust that pierces the neck of Puck’s adversary.

The satyr pauses, then gives the youth a grateful nod. In the midst of that, a lone elk gallops through the clearing as if startled by the cacophony, then swerves back toward the firs. At which point, Puck also notices something within the crowd and grins. He runs toward the departing elk, bounds onto the animal’s rump, and uses the momentum as a springboard to catapult into the air and plummet into the horde.

For a moment, he drops out of sight. Then he emerges at my side, his archery attached to his back, and tosses me a familiar crossbow and quiver.

“On the count of three?” he suggests.

Side by side, we jump atop a boulder between two firs. I count, then we let the weapons fly. They strike true, felling the Faeries who get near our gang.

After fastening another bolt in place, I aim—then stall.

The doe gallops into the scene, shamrocks budding from her antlers. From across the scrimmage, Sylvan’s head turns and finds us.