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Suddenly, we’re awake. So very awake.

“Hmm,” the satyr muses. “If that’s the case, your body must have been overwhelmed, ripe from all that tension needing a release.”

Although he keeps his hands to himself, his breath coasts over my neck. I gulp, silently berating myself to move. Yet I stay put, inexplicably cemented to the ground.

“Do you know what I do when that happens?” His tenor drops to an indecent volume. “I touch myself.”

Fables almighty. What have I done to get stuck with this shameless being? And why won’t my legs budge? Why does my ear tick closer to him?

“If my shaft rises, I clutch it and drag my hand over its length. Such as with a female, if she’s damp, she fills herself. Have you ever done that?” he inquires. “Ever pressed between your legs and found the seam of your body?”

Of its own volition, an unacceptable rush of moisture courses to that private place.

“If you rub there, it creates friction,” he murmurs, the words tapping my nape. “The ache builds and tightens, until your core throbs like a living thing, like a pulse point. Then you hunt down that feeling, scavenge for it within the sweet, wet clutch of your thighs. You massage the nerve endings, especially that tiny stud of sensation at the very center.”

My temple pounds. Everything he describes accumulates in my pelvis and nudges my ankles apart. An aggressive, unforgivable urge sparks within me, prying my thoughts open and setting my morals aflame. I want to squirm, to do something, anything to cease these impulses.

“And if you crook a finger into your cleft, you’ll locate the root of that tension, and you can chase it, ride it out,” Puck whispers. “If you’ve never fucked yourself, I highly recommend it. Such a lovely way to wake up.”

I muster the willpower to twist and meet his feral eyes. “Why are you saying this?”

“Why are you listening?” he wonders.

I don’t know why. By nature, this is what satyrs do. Yet revulsion isn’t truly what I feel, nor aversion. That’s the scariest part.

Likewise, his intonation lacks daring. His features crimp, overwhelmed, muddled.

Some type of potent energy suffuses the pit, hastening my intakes. A breeze slips into the cubicle, rustling my hair.

And then a grizzly noise rumbles from above. Puck and I exchange alert gazes. The distant wild call snaps us to attention, the noise identifiable.

“That alpha’s a long way from The Sleuth of Bears,” the satyr muses. “His territory is at the southeast end of the forest.”

I stockpile this bit of information, marveling that he would offer it so freely.

Thankfully, this particular bear sounds too remote to fret about. Still, another hungry omnivore could happen upon us, shift to its larger form, and snatch us from this den. Wherefore, I scramble away from Puck.

Perhaps neither of us are in our right minds. For my part, I must be caught up in the residue of those dreams, the vignettes of youth, friendship, and betrayal. To this day, Puck thinks I led those villagers to him and Sylvan. I’ve debated whether to defend myself, but he won’t believe me. He’ll denounce it as subterfuge, a ploy for lenience during the game.

I stand and resume searching for a way out, helping myself as the roots had prompted. I consult their arrangement while stepping nearer to the opposite side of this pit. One of the patterns veers into an arc and dives into a pair of vertical lines on either side, like a threshold or a door.

In actuality, it’s merely the likeness of a partition, yet I feel a ripe sense of discovery, an exploratory thrill. I hustle to the dirt wall and run my palm along the veins, sketching their architecture. “Puck.”

He rises beside me, evaluates the movements of my hands, and makes a noise of comprehension. “Huh. That’ll do,” he says.

We glance at each other, hopeful, boastful. He sees what I see, cracks breaching the wall, parallel to the roots. They indicate a weak spot, an area that isn’t load-bearing, one that’s penetrable with the right amount of force.

Which means there’s something on the other side.

Puck and I retrieve our archery. In unison, we take several steps back, load our weapons, and aim.

The satyr focuses down the length of his arrow. “Care to do the honors, luv?”

Standing beside him, I count, “One. Two. Three.”

Together, we let them fly. The arrow and bolt fire into the facade. Hunks of soil, stones, and several worms crumble to the ground, landing at the toes of our boots.

“Again,” I say. “One. Two. Three.”