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The expert climber in my family would deem the soil too smooth, too uniform to ascend, lacking sockets or rocky brackets for leverage. That’s why she taught me and Cove a supplementary method.

At last, the bartering trinkets in my pack will count for something. Among the items I’d brought, I thank the Fables for a twilled spool of ribbon. Its length is short but sufficient for this particular branch. Withdrawing the spool from my bag, I affix the cord to the end of a bolt, then load my crossbow. I focus on the bough and fire. The projectile shoots through the gap, hooks over the ledge, and plunges back down.

The tip stabs the ground between Puck and me. I untie the bolt and drop it into my quiver, then knot the ends of the ribbon together. Once secure, I harness my weapon, grip the twill, and haul myself off the floor while planting my feet against the wall.

Of course, Lark had made this look easy when we were growing up. My arms shriek, and my knees crack. I rope-walk myself up the vertical face, praying the fabric won’t rip and feeling Puck’s smirk plastered to my backside.

I stop. “Puck.”

“What?” he queries, innocent. “I’m just standing here.”

My heel lodges into the dirt wall, releases a chunk, and kicks it in his direction. A thunk and his muffled curse pulls a smile across my mouth. I keep going and drag myself over the rim, where I plop and catch my breath. Fresh air floods my nostrils with a crisp, herbal zest.

Crawling on all fours to the rim, I speak into the cavity, “You were saying something about human limbs?”

“Oh, but I say many things,” a voice coos in my ear.

Yelping, I whip around so fast, my rear smacks onto the grass. Puck crouches beside me, his longbow affixed to his spine. A constellation of freckles dances across his nose.

I gape. “How did you—”

“I said it’s a feat for mortals. Not for satyrs.” He holds up the ribbon and flashes a grin. “I’m a fast climber.”

My gawk scrunches into a glower. “Show-off.”

He chuckles. I shake my head, but the chortle comes out anyway.

Then we stop laughing. Something snips our humor in half, cutting it off like shears: the sound of an incoming blade slicing through the air.

16

It’s not that I had forgotten I was being hunted by Faeries, or that he was supposed to be hunting me alongside them. It’s not that I’d forgotten he was a Fae, or that we were supposed to be fighting on opposite sides. It’s not that I’d forgotten we were enemies, or that I was here because of him.

It’s not that I’d forgotten the game. It’s not that I’d forgotten anything about our present circumstances.

It’s that I’d remembered our past.

We had slipped off track, stumbling into the margins of this land. Briefly, we had gotten lost together. This detour had reminded me of who we used to be: a human and Fae who debated and argued yet managed to laugh and listen, to discover more about each other before everything flaked apart, and the real world surged back in.

A blade flips through the leaves, shooting toward the place where we hunker side by side. Time slows. In those fleeting seconds, my eyes cast to Puck, who glances back at me. All the riddling mischief drains from his features, so that only one emotion wraps around his face, as if nothing else fits there. It’s an impulse I can’t place, except that I reside at the nexus of it.

Puck’s hackles rise, the fur along his calves bristling. His fingers brace atop the soil, about to spring—but not toward me. He’s preparing to act, to make an unforeseen choice, his defensive stance fixed on the intrusion.

With that, I see a breach in the rules. I see an impending complication, an amendment to the game.

But I need to use prudence, to be logical. Whatever the satyr’s planning on my behalf, I don’t give him the chance. I take the initiative and hurl myself out of the blade’s path. On the way down, I hook my ankle around Puck’s hoof—the one attached to his scarred leg—and sideswipe him. Once he crashes and drops the ribbon, I release my hold and tumble across the soil through flower stalks and walnut shells. Scraping to a halt, I lurch onto all fours. Puck rotates off the ground and braces himself, mirroring my position.

The attack weapon vibrates against the neck of a tree trunk, its blade lodged into the wrinkled bark. It’s an axe with a wooden handle. A shower of other weapons propels from various sectors, punctuated by the sounds of charging footfalls, galloping thumps, and woodland hollers.

They materialize as a single silhouette, a mass of horns, tufted ears, and flowing hair. Homing in on us, the mass splits into multiple assailants. They attack in a spectrum of colors, from their tinted skin to their painted markings, from their cloaks, to their leaf-strewn clothing, to their jewels, to the weapons fisted in their grips.

Puck’s head swings between me and his kin. Again, he catches my gaze. Again, I see him about to take action.

Again, I rob him of that opportunity. I snatch my pack, grip my crossbow, and pop to my feet. Puck does the same. Our limbs carry us backward, the schism between us growing. We watch one another, suspended in a moment that shouldn’t exist.

Then we come to an agreement. He nods, albeit his lagging pace doesn’t match the gesture.

Nevertheless, I nod back, because this is how it’s meant to be. This was always how our detour would end. A momentary truce and temporary partnership—scarcely longer than a Fable—was never going to last. Consult the appropriate tales, and they will confirm this moral.