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Although partial introductions had been made in haste before the battle, our group eases into the preliminaries: where we’ve come from and who we are to one another. Shaken, bruised, thirsty, and famished as we are, it’s a much-needed respite. Everyone slurps from the creek, bathes their wounds, and contributes to the conversation, each of us telling our story. As the sun arcs from morning to afternoon, our differences in culture seem to disappear and amplify at the same time.

We exchange fortified glances. Hope burgeons among us, that humans and Faeries can communicate like this.

My spirits lift, hardly minding that Moth has found extra time to nose around in my pack. She’s confiscated the posey of dried bluebells—the last of my bartering trinkets—and tied it to her dress like a broach. The ornament incites a peep of glee, so I let her keep it.

Without Puck, our band refrains from conferencing about defensive strategies or where we go from here. Nonetheless, the goals are evident. That much, we acknowledge.

We’ll need to rouse allies from the mountain and forest. We’ll need to find out what’s become of Cove and the status of her game in The Solitary Deep. And we’ll need to unravel the scribe’s message, to decipher the second way to preserve this wild.

Cerulean and Lark have been working on the former. Though to my bafflement, Cerulean informs us that he no longer rules the sky. The mountain fauna have that distinction now, because when Lark’s game had ended, she and her mate had achieved this realization and announced it to the Folk.

But if that’s true, why don’t the woodland fauna rule this land instead of Puck?

Cypress discloses the answer. “The mountain fauna possess a vaster awareness of the feud between humans and Faeries. They have an expansive viewpoint from which to assess their world.” He checks Cerulean for confirmation, and when Cerulean nods, the centaur continues. “Woodland fauna are cloistered and have evolved to be less cognizant. Though, it is not merely that. By nature, they are indifferent to the rift that divides mortals and immortals. As for the river fauna, it becomes even more claustrophobic.”

“I’ve always considered myself to rule beside the fauna, not above them,” Cerulean adds. “That was my choice. In every decision I made, I sought their guidance. Particularly, The Parliament of Owls.”

“Cerulean needed only to stand down, and the fauna adopted their roles organically. That is their way,” Cypress elaborates. “This is not to say the forest fauna may not rule, for they indeed possess the spirit for it. Cloistered they may be, but woodland animals will defend their packs and territories with vigor. So for the transfer of leadership, Puck must not only concede, he must offer the honor, and it must be accepted.” Cypress shifts. “But there is a quandary.”

“Without grasping this dispute between worlds, the woodland fauna cannot lead as Puck can,” Cerulean provides. “He’s willing to relinquish his title to the fauna, but it would make no sense for what’s ahead. The mountain fauna have the mindset to rule amidst this crisis, yet my own influence has been diluted; gaining support has been a slow progression. We need Puck to exercise his authority.”

That stands to reason.

As for the scribe’s message, Cerulean rubs his chin. “Puck, Cypress, and I exchanged a few theories at my brother’s home. We suspect the answer will be simple yet anything but.”

“Two sides of a coin,” Tinder translates.

I mull over riddles, loopholes, and relative terms. Certain Fables suggest the answer is often simpler than it seems. With regard to Tinder’s statement, other Fables advocate for perceiving things from conflicting angles. “If sacrificing humans is one solution, perhaps this other way is its opposite,” I volunteer.

Cerulean nods. “To take revenge on mortals or—”

“—to unite.”

Our group hedges. If that hunch is correct, it’s a key hidden in plain sight. The conundrum is our small band has, in fact, united. Yet nothing has changed, which means there’s a ligament missing. A complicated one.

“Unite in what way, though?” I question.

“That is where we left off,” Cypress says.

But Cerulean’s blue lips press together. “Not quite.”

Five heads swerve toward him. Moth crosses her arms. “Care to enlighten us?”

Cerulean addresses the centaur. “You’d left by the time Puck conjured another theory.” Then his expression grows distant. “There is one Fae who might have the answer. It’s possible he knows what manner of unity is required.”

My sister’s mate doesn’t spell it out, because he doesn’t need to. From the way his eyes jump between all of us, only one being comes to mind.

Elixir.

The creek slithers through the grass, the water channel thrashing over the rocks. I glower at the turbulent ripples, picturing Cove suffering at the hands of that monster. According to Puck, that bastard is the most venomous of the brothers.

Even Moth tenses, worry cramping her face. “You can’t be serious.”

Tinder blusters, “Pick another option.”

Cypress grunts, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Elixir will not help us.”

“There’s no way in hell,” Moth concurs, balking at Cerulean. “You know what that wanker is like. Not only is he a soul-sucking fiend without a redeemable fishbone in his body, but he has a thirst for power, a hunger to rule. Annihilating mortals isn’t just about vengeance and preservation for him—it’s primal. And guess what? His subjects are practically a cult. None of them will turn against him.”