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His kin and their regal transports infest the area, searching its depths for a puny, weaponless mortal. But they haven’t found me yet.

Soon enough, they’ll see what I’ve done to their trap. Soon after, they’ll realize I’m not there.

My legs pick up speed. I hurtle deeper into this world, putting leagues between us—between him and me.

Yet a new thought occurs to me like a misplaced footnote, marginal yet significant. I’m hunting some unknown animal, and Puck’s hunting me in turn. Except there’s one thing he left out, one question I hadn’t considered until now.

Who’s hunting him?

8

The first animal I’d ever struck down had been an omnivore. I’d been smaller, runt-sized with a mangy nest of green hair and a sunken stomach. The rails of my ribcage had stuck out, a ladder of bones climbing up my tiny chest. Fresh into my sixth year, all I’d wished for on that birthday was to end the gnarling in my gut, to fill my tummy with something other than grief.

I’d made a rickety trap and caught a bundle of twitching fur. If my life had been different, taken on a kinder and softer shape, the creature would have been my friend. Perhaps my best friend. Instead, its carcass had roasted on my spit, and the whole time I had eaten, I’d wept.

I’d let the tears fall until my ducts ran as dry as old wells. That’s how a gang of trade poachers had found me. That’s when they’d decided, in no uncertain terms, that I would be of use to them.

After that, every kill had kept me alive and occasionally on the gang’s benign side. The work provided my belly with nourishment, but none of those meals took away my shame.

I banish the past from my mind and surge into the wild, bearing north. Now instead of pines, sprawling elm trees dominate the environment. Moonlight drips through the canopy and frosts the trees.

Part of me longs to stop and study the details, compare them to what I’ve read. My thoughts leap from the elms to the wild’s mystical animals and the Fables about forest mammals, such as bears with claws and merlons of teeth.

I run faster. Oxygen singes my lungs, and my side splits into a cramp.

An eternity later, the howls peter out. I slow to a jog, then hobble to a standstill and bend over. My palms flatten on my thighs as I heave for breath, my spine bowing in and out. Sweat soaks my bodice, the dress’s hem stained from cherry to maroon.

The pack slumps from my shoulder. I sling it to the ground and kneel. The first object I fetch is my spectacle case, flipping open the lid. Thank Fables, the hardwood and its padded interior has protected the lenses from shattering. I’d purchased the case from the star peddler’s coach several years ago. The merchant had sworn it was crafted by an elf in The Northern Frosts.

Relieved, I snatch the waterskin next, blessed liquid sloshing inside. I wrench off the cap, lift the rim to my chapped lips, and go still. They could have tainted the water, perhaps poisoned or glamoured it.

Indecision stays my hand. I set the waterskin on the grass and search the rest of the pack for trickery—missing or manipulated items.

Everything seems safe. As for my notebook, agenda is the root of every action, so depriving me of those pages is a maneuver. The satyr knows what reading means to me. He knows because I’d let it slip once, back when my lips were smaller and flimsier, still learning how to withhold secrets.

He must have withheld the book as an extra precaution. Not to mention, I had flaunted my intellect when I got here, so Puck must have omitted the tome not only to inflict pain—by taking something precious, as if my sisters hadn’t been enough—but to penalize me for pontificating.

To raise the stakes. To test my aptitude. To make the hunt a tad more diverting.

Spoiled rotten and devious he might be, but never underestimate a satyr. They’re impulsive only half the time, conniving the rest of it.

Leaves rustle, and hooves punch the earth, the sounds causing my shoulder blades to tense. It hasn’t been more than a few minutes, yet I’ve dallied for too long.

I twist the cap on the waterskin and drop it into the pack. Crawling across the underbrush, I use my feet to scatter debris behind me, concealing my tracks as I go. The bushes convulse as I scramble through and tuck myself in.

Three heartbeats later, an equine body plods into view. The giant figure slows to a canter, then to a trot, then to a halt. I trace the grim lines of his face, the rim of his jawline brushed in moonlight.

Does he exhibit any expression other than stoicism?

How many have accused me of having the same countenance?

Beneath his helmet, Cypress’s unflappable eyes prowl across the area. The ink markings around his navel twitch with his movements. His flanks contract, and the whip of his olive tail hangs idly.

I understand this manner of focus and know what it implies. I sink further into the bush’s womb.

Cypress inhales, listens. “I know you are there.”

The words hit me like a slap. I reach toward my boot, clench the dagger’s hilt, and—