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“Very funny, asshole,” Tinder retorts.

Puck sighs and gives Cypress a censorious look. “Please, don’t provoke him or belittle the weasels.” Then he quirks a brow at Tinder. “You fancy animals with tusks over ones without? So be it. Just remember, a pair of sharp ivories doesn’t make an animal fiercer. It just means the boars defend themselves differently than the elks.”

Tinder watches Puck carefully, eyes slitting in deliberation. The satyr holds that gaze and coaxes,“Feldun sjünsamlekaet.”

Whatever he’d said, it works. Those sanguine irises glint with admiration. He gazes at Puck like he’s the sun rising over the horizon, throwing light and warmth everywhere.

The Fae nods. “I was telling Cypress you won’t let her get far. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Cypress and Puck’s eyes click toward one another. Then Puck crooks his finger, unclasps his archery, and extends it to Tinder. “Mind this for me on your escapade. Won’t you, luv?”

I gawk. He can’t be doing what I think he’s doing.

Cypress frowns. “The imp has a weapon.”

That’s evident from the set of throwing stars bridled around Tinder’s thigh, the astral blades flashing as though insulted. At Puck’s offer, the youth’s eyes inflate, then narrow. “Handouts are for pissants.”

“Be careful rejecting the favors of others,” the satyr coaches, his tone neither condescending, nor severe. Rather, it’s paternal, affectionate. “It’s only temporary, see? I’ll reclaim it in a few days. Until then, I have an alternative, and I’d rather play with that shiny new toy for the time being. It’s you who will be doing me the favor.”

At length, the Fae succumbs with a prideful grin. He accepts the archery and dashes east into the night, his tail slinging into the shadows.

Puck gave his weaponry to him. He gave up his longbow, just like that.

When Tinder is gone, Cypress shakes his head. “You are foolish. What was the meaning of that?”

“That was damage control,” the satyr remarks, studying the direction in which the Fae had disappeared.

“You have stroked his ego. You have rewarded him for disobeying you.”

“One, disobedience is as much a rite of passage as a first fuck. Two, the lad can handle my bow. Three, don’t piss me off any more than the green sprite already has. My antlers are sore, and it’s all her fault.”

I roll my eyes while Cypress continues, “Take care with him, Puck. He is too eager to pound his chest. He is too eager to idolize you. The more one does, the more one is prone to mutiny should the object of their admiration betray them.”

Puck slides his gaze to the towering centaur. “Are you saying I’m in danger of that?”

Concern folds across Cypress’s visage. “I am saying if you disappoint him, his allegiance may shift. That is the price of being a ruler.”

“I’m aware of that price. I gave Tinder the bow to solidify his faith. It’ll remind the lad that I trust him as much as he can trust me.”

“The problem is, why should you give him a reason to doubt you in the first place?”

“He’s a sapling, which makes him antsy. He’ll grow out of it.”

The centaur’s eyes flit away. “Some attachments do not wane.” At Puck’s inquiring look, Cypress adjusts his helmet and grates, “She is headed northeast.”

My pulse throbs. I retrace my journey here, because how did he draw that inaccurate conclusion? Hypothetically, whatever signs he’d mistaken, they would come in handy. Sadly, I have no way of reading the equine’s mind.

“Northeast? Really?” Puck debates. “Last time I checked the chinks in this environment, she was on a collision course with the north.”

“I think not, satyr.”

“I think so, centaur.”

My attention jumps between them. The centaur’s helmet tips downward, a steep incline that shields his forehead. Puck’s crown does the opposite. The spokes fling backward in a great, flourishing loop.

All at once, the Faeries puff with humor, the sound dependable, unwavering. It’s the modulation of two figures who know one another well, who can laugh unconditionally in spite of their disputes.

Cypress’s hooves clomp. “The moppet is northeast bound.”