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The Faeries collect their fallen—including the dryad—and deposit the bodies beneath a spruce tree, where the lifeless figures fade into the earth. Most of the Folk remain in this clearing afterward, save for Tinder and Cypress along with a handful of volunteers. They offer to transport Sylvan to The Herd of Deer, where she’ll recover.

Puck inclines his head toward Foxglove in gratitude. Though, the gesture isn’t without reservation. From what I’ve gathered, the nymph hadn’t gleaned why the dryad had targeted Sylvan. Her interference had been merely instinctive.

Regardless, Foxglove had attempted to spare the deer’s life. I won’t forget that.

Before the convoy departs, I stroke Sylvan’s head once more. Puck whispers to the doe in Faeish, his tone that of a promise.

I want to accompany Sylvan to her home, but current events demand my presence. Privately, I vow to see her later.

Puck appeals to the Faeries, advocating a ceasefire. Negotiating to abolish sacrificing mortals is jagged terrain, especially after the tumult with so many wounded, bereaved, dumbstruck, confused, and perhaps ashamed by the dryad’s actions. The latter proves that, when in a vulnerable state, even Faeries can lose their connection to the fauna, whereas a mortal’s bond with that same animal might strengthen. It’s a difficult conclusion for them to digest.

The satyr’s proposal for an intermission affords our opponents time to reflect. Alongside Lark and Cerulean’s story, this game has challenged the beliefs the Folk have harbored about humans. Plus, there’s the original Book of Fables to consider.

Unfortunately, Puck and I still have no idea what exactly the scribe’s message about preserving the Solitary wild is referring to. I had sworn to reveal the passage, promising to share it. Since I don’t have the book with me, I recite the contents:

“Immortal wild. Immortal land. Dwellers of the mountain, forest, and river. You are born of eternal nature—of the wind, earth, and water. Yet that which is everlasting is not unbreakable. And should you wither by the hands of others, look not merely to sacrifice, for another path to restoration lies in wait. Therefore, follow your Fables, heed your neighbors, and look closer.”

The crowd stares at me, expecting more information. But there isn’t any. When I had made that bargain with them, I’d been twisting my words, because I’d never said the contents would yield specifics, much less a solid answer.

Lark, Cerulean, and Moth—to whom I’d recapped the details after caring for Sylvan—respond with mystified grins, impressed by my nerve albeit disappointed about this cliffhanger.

As for the rest of my audience, protests flare across The Gang of Elks. Notwithstanding, they can hardly deny my tactic emulates what they would have done in my position. In fact, several faces reevaluate me with a modicum of respect.

Even Foxglove relents. Her eyes still flash my way, but a grudging appreciation curbs the nymph’s resentment.

Amidst the hubbub, Puck sighs and snaps his fingers. The fervor dies quickly.

“We have a chance,” he tells the battered crowd. “Given time, we can figure out this merry riddle. If there’s another way out of this plight, I like to think we’ve got the knack. We’re crafty Folk, after all.”

A fraction of the mob accepts Puck’s words and departs in peace, agreeing to conference once they’ve tended to their injuries and regained their strength. Others stomp away or merely evanesce, their anger burning a trail through the flickering fir trees. After centuries of seeing humans as inferiors, consensus can’t be achieved overnight, not in any region of The Dark Fables. It might take a lifetime to reach some measure of accord.

Puck watches through cautious eyes as they leave. At the onset, everyone had reached a temporary understanding and disarmed. Now, a segment of his kin may as well have denounced him as their ruler.

Cerulean leans into Puck and murmurs,“Feir joma vvjótleka aftur.”

Puck nods, his gaze pinned to the Faeries’ backs. “If that happens, we’ll be ready.”

And just like that, I know: There’s no going back to Reverie Hollow. Not for me. Not yet. As much as I want to race to my family’s sanctuary, to fling my arms around Papa Thorne, our father would understand my decision.

If Lark’s here, I’m here. If Cove’s here, I’m here.

And if Puck’s here…

My ribs contract. Well. If anything, I can stay with my sister and Cerulean. They’ve offered me a room in his tower, situated on a promontory in the mountain, a haven tucked within a wildlife park.

The satyr is anxious to see Sylvan. In the gleam of candlelight and sunlight, he glances at me once. He’s a Fae, and I’m a human. Not for the first time, my practical side knows such a combination has no future.

Lark and Cerulean are bonded, but the satyr and I haven’t been graced with that luxury. Puck will live forever, and I will age. He belongs in this realm, among the stags and foxes, and I’m destined for Papa and the Fable Dusk Sanctuary, where I’m needed. When this battle is over, when his world is preserved, and when Cove wins her game—dear Fables, let her win—the chasm between me and this Fae will widen. We’ll fight as allies from this point on, but that’s all.

In spite of this, Puck’s body angles my way, about to defy the rules once more. I know him too well. He wants to say, “Fuck it,” and grab me.

My yearning to let him is so overwhelming, I step back. If I have to choose between suffering now or later, I choose now. Gingerly, I shake my head, pleading with him to be sensible, rational.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He shrugs. “It was worth a try,” he says, his eyes warm on mine. “See you later, luv.”

And he fades into a wisp.

***